The Dogfather Read online

  That was good news. Wasn’t it?

  Chapter Ten

  I WOKE UP THE next morning to wet, sloppy kisses.

  Missy shoved her cold nose in my face and snorted, demanding I take her outside.

  “I’m up. I’m up.” I dragged myself out of bed, yanked on my sweats, and pulled my hair into a messy ponytail. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and winced. I looked like a complete train wreck. I’d slept hard, exhausted from worrying about Grey and his connection to Mason, and I looked like it.

  I rolled my head side to side working out the kinks. “Just once, couldn’t you sleep past six?”

  Missy wagged her tail and spun in a circle.

  Woof. Woof.

  Her bright round eyes watched me expectantly as if to say, “When a girl has to go, a girl has to go.”

  I slogged to the bathroom to wash and moisturize my face. I’d brush my teeth later.

  “All right, Girlfriend. Let’s go for a walk.”

  I clipped the lead onto her collar with a loud snap, and we stumbled out the front door. Nose to the damp cement, Missy led the way to the perfect location for her to do her business. I tucked my cold hands inside the sleeves of my sweatshirt. It had rained at some point during the night. The crisp early morning air promptly cleared away my brain fog. Now that I was wide awake, I was immersed in theorizing about Mason’s death.

  Was Grey the only suspect? Everyone knew the spouse was always suspicious until proven otherwise. I automatically added Quinn to my mental potential suspect list. What about the last person to see Mason alive? Amazon Barbie. Definitely shady.

  Since I knew next to nothing about Mason, I couldn’t think of a single other name. I started to grasp at straws. Maybe the bookkeeper? What motive would Evan have? I needed to talk to him again. And then there was Leo, the family friend. But I was left with the same frustrating question: why would he want Mason dead? I needed more information.

  I’d have to tread carefully. The second Malone figured out I was back to my nosey ways, he’d land on my doorstep. As for Betty, she was already jonesing to grill anyone who had a connection to Mason. She clearly needed to be kept in the dark.

  After ten minutes of Missy’s intense exploration of the identical three blocks we walked daily, we were home. She raced into the kitchen, her wet paws sliding across the hardwood floor and into her water bowl. She lapped up enough water that we’d be back outside in an hour. The joys of owning a dog. I gulped my small glass of pulp-free orange juice while considering a short run on the beach. Instead, I opted for a twenty-minute home yoga workout. I had a feeling I’d need all the Zen I could get today.

  After only fifteen minutes, my face pressed in to a spongy yoga mat while turning myself into a human pretzel, including a handful of minutes in the corpse pose, I wasn’t finding my inner peace. I gave up searching for a clear head and decided to get ready for the day.

  I ate a spinach omelet full of gooey mozzarella cheese, took a quick shower, and then pulled on a fresh pair of crop jeans and screen t-shirt that read, “Crazy dog lady.” Barefoot, I meandered to the kitchen to brew a pot of blackberry tea. I still had a couple of hours before I needed to head to Bow Wow. It was ten o’clock in Dallas. I put on my big-girl shorts and called Mama to confirm Missy and I would arrive in a little over a week. It was a rare occurrence for my mama to be at a loss for words. For a second I worried she’d fainted. My concern was unnecessary. Her silence was short lived. Once she’d regained her words, she instantly launched into a monologue to convince me to fly home on my daddy’s jet. Mama wasn’t happy unless she was running my life. Heck, even then I’m not sure that would be enough for her.

  I ended the call, worn out from standing my ground. I poured a mug of tea and sat down on the couch. I texted Ella Johns making sure she had found the donation check I’d dropped off last night. I’d just hit send when there was a loud rap at the door.

  Missy hopped up and let out a couple of loud non-threatening barks before she returned to lie at my feet. I set my phone on the couch and went to see who was at my door before nine a.m. I peered through the peephole. My heart dropped to my bare feet.

  Detective Malone.

  Either he’d learned about my conversations yesterday with MacAvoy and Quinn and was here to lecture me about butting into his investigation, or he wanted to question me about Mason’s death. Or he had learned Grey had lied to him and wanted to question me about Grey. All bad options.

  I inhaled deeply, pulled my shoulders back, and opened the door. “Good morning, Detective.” I tried for chipper, but sounded strained. I cleared my throat. “Come on in. I just made a fresh pot of tea. Would you like a cup?” Even in the least desirable circumstances, I was raised to be hospitable. Darn my mama.

  “No, thanks. I just came from the Koffee Klatch.” No dark circles under his eyes, he smelled freshly showered, and he’d had his morning coffee. Maybe this visit wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  He eyed my “Crazy dog lady” shirt, then looked back at me. “Nice.”

  Malone wore dark jeans and a t-shirt, his normal attire. “I see you didn’t dress up for me either. Are you here because you’re avoiding Betty?”

  “I wanted a private conversation.” He looked around my cozy living room filled with low furniture pieces and an area rug. “Is this a good time for a few questions?”

  I closed the door behind him. “If I said no, would it make a difference?”

  “I’d come back.”

  That was the problem. He’d keep coming back until he got what he wanted. Better to get the interrogation over with, like ripping off a generic Band-Aid that had been stuck to my arm for a week.

  I blew my bangs out of my face. “You’re not here to give me good news, are you?”

  “I’m not here to give you any news. Like I said, I have questions.” He was rather serious, even for Malone.

  I swallowed my unease. Other than me, Malone was the only other person in town who knew Grey was FBI. He had learned the truth because the FBI had taken custody of Grandma Tillie’s brooch during a local murder investigation that Malone had been conducting. When the case had been solved, Malone had tried to return the pin to Caro. I had used Grey’s contacts, unbeknownst to him, to retrieve it. Of course Malone had gone digging and learned about Grey.

  My little stunt was the beginning of the unraveling of my relationship with Grey. An ugly story with an unhappy ending.

  I motioned for Malone to have a seat on the couch. He stretched his long legs in front of him. Missy, unimpressed with our visitor, waddled to her dog bed and lay down. I perched myself on the wooden coffee table across from Malone, careful not to brush his leg.

  The detective possessed an excellent poker face. Even if he was here to give me news, I doubted it would have been happy news. I decided offense was the best defense.

  “I have a few questions of my own. Quinn isn’t exactly the grieving widow. Did you know she and Mason had been fighting right before his death?”

  He listened, unimpressed. “No.”

  “I don’t know the details,” I continued, “but I’d suggest questioning Quinn about her relationship with her husband. It wasn’t as wonderful as she led us to believe.” I kept my tone light and upbeat, a stark contrast from the dark cloud that had settled over Malone’s attractive face.

  “Are you investigating?”

  I crossed my fingers behind my back. “No. Quinn’s bookkeeper is the one who told me they were fighting. He just offered it up. I didn’t have to ask.”

  “Why were you talking with . . .”

  “Evan,” I supplied quickly. His wooden expression made me nervous.

  “Evan, in the first place?”

  “Betty had talked Mason into sponsoring the Mobster Film Festival next month. With Mason’s death, Evan del
ivered the check.”

  “I see.”

  He was a smart guy. I was sure he did see—right through my nervous explanation. I thought I had succeeded in sidetracking Malone to the point he’d forgotten why he’d stopped by, but that wasn’t the case.

  “Donovan left before I could get his phone number. You mind giving it to me?” he asked.

  The question was innocent enough, had it been anyone other than Malone asking. The detective wasn’t the type of guy to forget anything or to let someone leave before he was good and ready. He had an agenda.

  “I’d be happy to give him a message for you,” I offered.

  “I’ll take his number.” It wasn’t a request.

  I sighed. “I don’t want to give it to you.”

  My straightforward response caught him off guard. He almost smiled. “I don’t suppose you do.”

  I leaned forward, propping my elbows on my knees. “We both know you have connections and could get it yourself without my help.”

  He remained stubbornly silent.

  “Can I ask why you want it?”

  He raised his brows.

  “Besides the obvious,” I said.

  “The obvious reason suffices.”

  For him, maybe. I couldn’t come up with a single argument as to why I shouldn’t hand it over. I hoped I wasn’t inadvertently contributing to Grey getting deeper into trouble. I warily walked into the kitchen. Malone followed.

  I grabbed one of the many notepads from the junk drawer, tore off a piece of paper, and jotted down Grey’s number. Reluctantly, I handed it to him.

  He frowned as he studied the paper. “Is this his cell or landline?”

  An uncomfortable laugh escaped. “Grey doesn’t have a landline. Not even at the gallery. Just his cell.” Technically, that wasn’t the whole truth. He also had a number of burner phones at his disposal. But I didn’t have access to those numbers so I believed that covered me on the partial truth.

  He held out the paper. “This is the only number he has?”

  “No offense, but are you losing your hearing? It’s the only number I have for him.”

  His brows furrowed. “You gave me the right number, correct?”

  I was feeling itchy. Something was up. His persistent questions trigged warning bells. “Of course I did. Okay, what’s going on? Why do you keep asking me about his phone number?”

  He shoved the small piece of paper in his back pocket. “Thanks.”

  I stepped in front of him, blocking him from leaving. “No, no, no. You cannot make a big deal about this and then walk off, leaving my imagination to fill in the awful blanks. How much trouble is Grey in?”

  Malone must have heard the quiver in my voice. His face softened. Or at least he wasn’t as stone faced. “I can’t answer that.”

  “Is he an official suspect? That can’t happen. You know what that would mean to his career.”

  “I’m following the information where it leads.” He took a breath and focused his intense dark eyes on me. “How well do you really know Grey Donovan?”

  I stared back, equally intense. “I’d trust him with my life. I know he’s not responsible for Mason’s murder.”

  “Are you providing him with an alibi?”

  I slowly shook my head, a lock of hair falling in my face. “I wish I could, but no. He didn’t have anything to do with Mason’s death any more than you did.”

  He nodded. “For your sake, I hope you’re right.”

  I brushed the hair from my eyes, tucking it behind my ear. “Do you have any idea what really happened to Mason? Did he fall or was he pushed?”

  “We’re still working on that.”

  “But you’re leaning toward pushed. Otherwise, why would you be here?”

  His silence unnerved me. “What are you waiting on before you determine it was murder?” I asked.

  “Official autopsy. We should hear by tomorrow.”

  We both already knew Mason had been pushed. I suddenly realized it was possible that by stalling, he was potentially protecting Grey. Giving him time to get off the suspect list. I wanted to give Malone a big ole kiss. Instead I pulled a glass from the cupboard and filled it with filtered water.

  “What can you tell me about Bree Young?” he asked.

  I handed him the glass. “Who?”

  “The woman with Betty when Mason Reed’s body was discovered.”

  “Oh, the tall blond? Betty called her Amazon Barbie.”

  His lips twitched. “Had you met her previously?

  “Never.” I committed the name Bree Young to memory, adding her to my mental list of people whom I wanted to talk to. Not that I had any idea how to track her down.

  “Have you talked to her?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And?” I prompted.

  He handed the untouched glass back to me. “For a minute, I thought you were sticking your nose into my investigation.”

  I sighed. “We can take this one of two ways. We can play our little game where you tell me to stay out of it, I’ll tell you I am, but once you walk out the door, somehow I find myself smack dab in the middle, sifting through a ton of gossip and information, doing everything I can to clear Grey’s name.” I took a deep breath and plowed on. “Or we can skip the game and acknowledge I’m already involved.”

  Malone wasn’t happy. The clenched jaw was a dead giveaway.

  I tried a new tactic. “Look, I’ve known you long enough to know you’re going to follow the information—”

  “Facts.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Right. You’re going to follow the facts and come to conclusions that seem right at the time. No offense, but sometimes those ‘facts’ don’t lead to the truth. Especially, if the guilty party wants to make the other party a scapegoat. Or worse, a murder suspect.”

  “The fact is, Donovan was seen leaving the scene.”

  So he knew Grey had lied. “Eyewitness testimony is the worst type of testimony. Did this person actually talk to Grey or just see someone who looked like him?”

  Malone remained silent.

  “You might as well tell me. The minute you walk out that door, I’m going to find Grey.”

  Not that he’d talk. He’d stare at me with the same blank expression Malone wore at the moment. Did all law enforcement learn to make that face during training? Required course: Blank Expression 101.

  “She recognized Donovan,” he bit out.

  She? Well, well, well. I scowled in an effort to hide my enthusiasm at Malone’s uncharacteristic slip of the tongue. “We both know that just because he was seen at the scene doesn’t prove he had any part of Mason’s death. There’s no proof Grey and Mason spoke.”

  “How do you know what proof I have or don’t have?”

  I twisted my lips. “Point made.” I decided to ask for the moon. “Any chance you’ll share information?”

  “Zero.”

  It was worth a try. “I know it’s not your department, but any word on the break-ins?”

  “We’re following a couple of leads, but nothing solid. Have you heard anything new?”

  “Other than MacAvoy’s claim that the police have a sketch of a possible suspect? No.”

  “He said that?”

  “Made a special trip to the boutique. He couldn’t wait to share that little tidbit of info. He’s hoping the break-ins are connected with Mason’s death.”

  “Huh.”

  That was it? He wasn’t going to confirm or deny the sketch? “No comment?”

  “No. Keep your eyes open and doors locked.” He looked concerned. “Betty doesn’t still carry a gun, does she?”

  “No. Her son-in-law took it back from her after all the craziness at the Dachshund races.”

/>   “Good. She’s not serious about becoming an investigator, is she?”

  “Absolutely.” I almost told him about her investigation notebook, but I decided against it. He had enough on his mind.

  “Keep her on a tight leash.” He turned to leave. I followed him to the door.

  “Where are you headed to next?” I asked in a last ditch effort to pry information from him

  He actually chuckled. “Do you ever give up?”

  “Never.”

  “Take care of yourself, Melinda.”

  I sighed. Can’t blame a girl for trying.

  Chapter Eleven

  I CALLED GREY to warn him about my unexpected visit from Malone. He didn’t answer, and I didn’t leave a message. It didn’t seem prudent knowing he was currently under the microscope of Laguna Beach’s finest.

  I said good-bye to Missy, leaving her curled up on her dog bed, knowing Colin would stop by in a few hours to take her for a play date at the Bark Park. I jumped into the sun-warmed Jeep and headed straight for the boutique. Ten minutes later, I pulled up and parked just as a jovial Lenny and his chubby dachshund, Barney, were walking past the shop. Lenny, wearing cargo shorts, t-shirt, and flip-flops, turned and waved. As usual, Barney was in full costume. Today he was a dressed like a white rabbit with fairy wings.

  I locked up the Jeep and swept into the boutique. I ditched my shoulder bag under the counter and immediately pitched in to help Betty with the small crowd. We had a good run of customers for a couple of hours. A number of regulars stopped by to pick up special orders, and a handful of tourists poked around checking out our merchandise.

  Betty, dressed in a lively Hawaiian-print ensemble with matching icy-pink eyebrows, held up her end of our agreement, pushing the porcelain treat jars to anyone who could fog a mirror. Surprisingly, the jars ended up being a popular item. So much so, Betty suggested we raise the price. I nixed that idea. Instead, I pitched the possibility of throwing in a free dog sweater, but Betty was certain that would slow the “chi” of her sales. I couldn’t deny it any longer; the time had come to donate the sweaters to a dog shelter in northern California.