The Dogfather Page 9

  I pointed at Darby’s plate. “Do you want me to ask for a to-go box?”

  She glanced at her barely touched lunch. “Oh. I should stop rattling on about my life and eat.”

  I smiled. “You’re happy. That’s not a crime. You were right. He has a strong connection to animals. I appreciated how he interacted with Missy, letting her come to him on her terms. He has a great deal of patience.” But there was still something about him that had me unsettled.

  I waited until she’d swallowed the bite she’d taken before I asked, “How serious are you two?”

  Darby picked at the multigrain crust. “He asked me out for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

  I blinked, not expecting that answer. “Oh?”

  Darby blushed. “No. No. We are nowhere near that type of relationship. We both have late appointments the next few days. He’s obviously busy in the afternoons, so . . . ah, he suggested a breakfast date.”

  “Everyone loves eggs and bacon. You can learn a lot about someone by what they eat for breakfast.”

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely. A breakfast burrito means he’s a multitasker, avocado toast means he’s too trendy for us. Sugar cereal, still a kid at heart and may have commitment issues. Omelet with dry wheat toast, he’s got health issues he doesn’t want you to know about. Bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, he knows what he likes and isn’t afraid for you to know.”

  Amused by my breakfast personality quiz, she asked lightheartedly, “What does Grey have for breakfast?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Greek yogurt, scrambled eggs, and a bowl of fresh fruit. He’s health conscious and extremely disciplined.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “Your breakfast of choice is eggs, bacon, and pancakes. Let me guess, that means you’re the all-American girl next door.”

  I laughed. “I’ll take that. And your favorite breakfast is oatmeal with fresh organic blueberries—you’re an old-fashioned girl with a giving heart.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I guess that’s a compliment.”

  “Of course it is.”

  I relaxed under the warmth of the sun, glad Darby was taking her time finishing her lunch.

  “Did I tell you I met with Ella Johns about the film festival next month? She asked if I’d be the official photographer,” Darby said between bites of her sandwich.

  “That’s great. Please tell me you said yes.”

  She nodded. “Red carpet events can be a little stressful, but they are fun. Did you hear they’re trying to get A-list starts Sal Poochino and Dina Sweetin to attend as special guests?” She bit into her dill pickle with a loud crunch.

  “Ella had mentioned it. I’d read that Dina Sweetin is a big advocate for pet adoption. Ella’s mother, Anastasia, and Dina were good friends back in the day. Knowing that, it could happen.”

  Anastasia Johns was the founder of Angels with Paws. She had worked in the costume and wardrobe department on the film, The Godfather, which is where she’d met the famous actors. Like a large segment of Laguna residents, Anastasia was an avid animal rescue activist.

  When her daughter, Ella, started to have seizures at the age of ten, Anastasia had purchased a seizure alert dog, Checkers, who helped Ella regain her confidence and live a normal childhood. Anastasia was determined every child who wanted a Checkers of their own should have one. That’s when she founded Angels with Paws to help families that couldn’t afford a response dog. After Anastasia passed away, Ella took over and started awarding college scholarships.

  “Do we tell Betty?”

  Betty had been very vocal about inviting celebrities to the main event. “We’ll have to at some point. Speaking of Betty, do you have any idea what she’s been up to?”

  Darby shook her head. “I’m afraid to ask, but too curious not to. What’s going on?”

  “Normal Betty shenanigans. She disappears for a minimum of an hour almost every day, doesn’t tell me where she’s going or what she’s doing. You remember the last time that happened?”

  “Raider.”

  “Exactly. She rescued a Saint Bernard larger than she is. There’s no telling what she could be hiding.”

  Darby leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. “Maybe she’ll tell Grey what she’s up to while you’re gone.”

  “Maybe.” I started thinking about our possible special guests next month. “If Ella manages to book a couple of Hollywood stars, that no-good MacAvoy will do his best to get an exclusive interview.”

  “That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Darby hedged, always willing to play the role of Pollyanna. “News coverage is good publicity. Free publicity.”

  My eyes widened, surprised she would defend Mr. TV. “There’s no guarantee he’ll provide positive coverage. I don’t trust him to represent the event in a favorable light. He’s always looking for an unflattering angle to drum up unnecessary drama. Case in point, last night’s segment where he insinuated Grey is involved in Mason’s death.”

  Darby placed her empty plate on top of mine. “You saw that, huh?”

  “It was awful. He better not show his face at the boutique any time soon.”

  “Do you think Grey has seen it?”

  I shrugged. “Probably. That’s his default TV station. It would be hard not to.”

  “Have you heard from him?”

  I shook my head, releasing a heavy sigh. “He was at the shop earlier today while I was out. Betty rearranged my desk to make room for him.”

  Darby made a face. “I take it you didn’t handle either very well.”

  “Not at all. Let’s talk about something less entertaining than my earlier overreaction. I got the check from Quinn and Mason’s bookkeeper, Evan. Seems like a decent enough guy.”

  “Now, that is great news.”

  “I thought I’d stop by Hot Handbags once it’s reopened this afternoon to thank Quinn for the donation and to pay my respects.”

  Darby pulled her sunglasses down and eyed me. “I believed you until you said, ‘pay your respects’.”

  I tilted my head and asked, “Was it my delivery? I can work on that.”

  “It was the word ‘respect’,” she deadpanned. “What are you up to? Does this have something to do with Grey?”

  Whoa. She sounded like Betty with all the questions. I was starting to sweat, and it wasn’t because of the heat. I took a drink of my water. “I thought that while I’m there, I might just ask a few questions about Mason’s death.”

  She tapped her fingers on the Formica table. “I’d tell you to stay out of it, but I know it would fall on deaf ears, so I’m going to tell you to make sure Grey and Malone don’t find out.”

  I held up crossed fingers. “Wish me luck. Or you could join me? Be my lookout.”

  She readjusted her shades. “As much fun as that sounds, I’ll have to pass.”

  “That leaves me with Betty as my last option for a backup.”

  “I don’t see you doing that to yourself.”

  I laughed. “True. So, what’s more exciting than ruffling Quinn’s feathers?”

  “Nina Fernandez loves the costume you sold her for Dash so much she booked a photo session of the two of them in their Dogfather outfits. She plans to use one of those photos for her Christmas card this year.”

  “Oh, what a lovely idea. I want to do something like that, too, for the shop’s customers. Would you take some candid photos of Betty and Raider, and Missy and me at the boutique when I get back from Dallas?”

  Darby smiled excitedly. “Yes!”

  We pulled out our phones and checked our calendars. We agreed on a couple of dates. I promised to talk with Betty to see if either of the days worked for her. We cleared off our table, and after a quick hug good-bye, we parted ways. I hopped in the Jeep and raced toward th
e flower shop, brimming with the spirit of adventure.

  Chapter Eight

  I ROAMED VIOLET’S Buds ‘n Blossoms, undecided on what to buy. Although the florist shop was on the smaller side, they had an expansive variety, which was why they had been voted number-one local florist for three years running.

  As much as I appreciated Evan’s suggestion to reach out to Quinn, his recommendation of white roses was never a possibility. I’d changed my mind about my original idea of wild flowers. Now, I vacillated between an arrangement of lilies and another of orchids. I settled on a completely different choice—a potted Easter lily plant. Obvious, but in this situation I was okay with it.

  As I drove to Hot Handbags with my sympathy offering safely seat-belted in the passenger seat next to me, I thought about how Quinn had managed to lie low and stay out of the news since Mason’s death. I couldn’t recall a single interview or photo of her in the paper or on television. At first blush, hiding from the press seemed like a good idea. But if Mason had been murdered, wouldn’t she make at least one public plea for information leading to an arrest?

  I reached the shop but had to circle the block a couple of times before I snagged a parking spot. I slipped inside the busy store unnoticed. Hard to believe since I was carrying a three-foot plant. I took in the activity and quickly concluded most people weren’t there to purchase designer accessories, but to shop for gossip. Lordy, could I relate. I recognized a number of Bow Wow customers who were known to seek scuttlebutt on the latest scandal rather than buy high-end pet products. Possessing my own nosey nature, I didn’t hold it against them.

  I spotted Quinn near a display of Dolce & Gabbana square bags that most women would consider luxurious arm candy. (I counted myself in that group.) I expected her to have red-rimmed eyes and exhibiting distraught behavior . . . the bereaved widow act played to the hilt. But that wasn’t the case.

  Instead, Quinn was holding court in her skinny white jeans, white linen blouse, and gold flats. A reasonable choice of footwear after her almost fall down the stairs and her husband’s undetermined cause of death. That she was wearing white and not traditional mourning black wasn’t lost on me. Not that she had to wear black. I watched her for a few minutes as she charmed her customers and ordered her staff around. For the first time since I’d known her, she had an authentic smile that reached her eyes. Thinking badly about the wife of a dead guy was easy when she doesn’t look devastated or suffering over the loss of her husband, but instead looked . . . energized.

  I shifted the Easter lily plant from one arm to the other and pushed past a small group of women huddled around the beach totes. Their whispered concerns about my presence at the shop trailed behind me. I didn’t recognize them as Bow Wow customers, but from their hushed tones, I could tell they knew me. Or should I say knew about my relationship with Grey? Damn MacAvoy.

  My gaze followed Quinn as she flittered from a couple of L.A.-type fashionistas worshiping at the Coach bags to a short, mug-faced man with gray slicked-back hair and dark slashes for eyebrows. Judging by Quinn’s suddenly stiff shoulders and hardened face, he wasn’t someone she wanted to see. Interesting.

  Mid-conversation, Quinn caught my eye and immediately stopped talking, her lips set in an irritated line. The man turned to see what had distracted her, and slowly smiled in my direction as I approached them. His polished flamboyance in his all-black outfit shouted mobster or bad actor. We were close to L.A, so I settled on actor.

  “Mel, congratulations on the new side job,” she drawled. “Deliveries suit you.”

  Everyone wants to be a comedian. I viewed my new knowledge that she didn’t like me as a challenge. I smiled brightly. “I wasn’t sure if there’d be a service or not. I hope you like lilies.”

  I shoved the potted plant in her direction, which Quinn reluctantly accepted. I held back a satisfied grin as a soft bloom annoyingly rubbed her cheek.

  She brushed the offending lily away. “A plant. How . . . practical.”

  Practical had never been a personality trait used to describe me. Ever.

  An uncomfortable silence settled between us. I guess that was the extent of the thank-you she’d extend in my direction. I tried to keep in mind she had just lost her husband, but I didn’t think that loss had affected her current attitude toward me.

  “I’m glad you like it. My Texas mama hammered into me that grieving widows always appreciate gifts that remind them of their loved one. A plant does that much better than flowers or roses, don’t you think? Those can be so . . . pretentious.”

  The short man snickered. Quinn ignored him. She narrowed her eyes, pinning me with warranted irritation. “Why are you here? Evan said he already met with you. Didn’t you get what you wanted?”

  Wow, tough crowd. I swallowed a sarcastic comment climbing its way out of my mouth. “I did. Along with expressing my condolences”—I pointed at the plant—“I wanted to personally thank you on behalf of Angels with Paws for the sponsor—”

  “I’ll go put this upstairs with the others,” she interrupted. With a sharp turn and a loud putout sigh, she trudged toward the back of the store effectively rebuffing me.

  “Was it something I said?”

  The strange man held out his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure, Mel.”

  He smelled like . . . egg rolls? My intuition said he wasn’t someone I should be on friendly terms with. And it wasn’t because he smelled like Chinese takeout. I always trusted my gut. “Melinda,” I corrected.

  He let loose a deep chuckle. “My apologies for assuming familiarity. Leo Montana, import-export. It’s clear you’re not a friend of Quinn’s. You must have been a friend of Mason.”

  I was curious what he meant by import-export. After dating Grey for so many years, I’d learned there was a wide range of import services, from travel to computer, and export products, from car parts to wine. The way Leo Montana had slipped in that piece of information so easily, it made me think he had his own agenda and—forgive the expression—was priming the pump.

  “We weren’t exactly friendly.” I waited for him to offer an explanation of his relationship with Quinn, but he didn’t. So I asked, “What about you? Are you a friend of Quinn or Mason?”

  “Both. A long-time family friend.”

  This would have been when he twirled his moustache or adjusted his lapel carnation if he’d had one.

  “Really? They’ve only been here for about a year. You must have known them when they lived in . . . I just realized I didn’t know where they’re from.”

  He shrugged square shoulders. “Here and there. Judging by Quinn’s treatment, you’re either a business rival or you had a thing for her dead husband.”

  I recognized a non-answer when I heard one. And then he deflected with a goading question disguised as a statement. Obviously, we were both seeking information. What was he hiding? And was it about him or Quinn?

  I remained on guard. “Neither. I own Bow Wow Boutique down the street.”

  “Ah, yes. Bugsy, my dog, and I have walked by there a number of times. We’ll have to pop in. You can say hello to my little friend.”

  I couldn’t help myself; I laughed. “That’s a great name. What kind of dog?”

  “Oh, a little of this, a little of that. A street-smart rescue.” His eyes twinkled as he talked about his pup.

  I understood the emotion behind the words. Friend or enemy, we all loved our four-legged best friends. “Those are best kind.”

  Maybe I was judging him too harshly. I immediately squelched that line of thinking. I narrowed my eyes. He had quickly assessed how to get me to drop my guard. He was clever.

  “Don’t know where I’d be without him,” he continued. “He’s getting his weekly massage right now. Maybe we’ll stop by later today. You can show me your top sellers. I’m always interested in what’s sellin
g these days.”

  Was he looking for something new to export? Perhaps he was also an investor of some type. Whatever his interest in our best sellers, I’d have to keep him away from Betty, knowing her recent penchant for purchasing a large quantity of new merchandise. And she’d also find him strangely attractive.

  “Trust me, I’ll keep an eye out for both of you,” I promised.

  He looked around the shop. “Looks like Quinn ditched us.”

  “Or she got sidetracked with a customer,” I countered.

  “Hmm. Possibly. Tell me, do you think she has a steady flow of traffic?”

  I shrugged as I looked around the busy store. People weren’t truly shopping, but mingling around the merchandise holding intense gossip sessions. “I suppose.” You can have great traffic, but if you don’t have buyers it doesn’t matter how many people walk through the front door. “What does Quinn say?”

  He ignored my question, asking one of his own. “You look like someone who knows a good handbag. What do you think of her merchandise?”

  I eyed him suspiciously, uncertain how to take the statement about me recognizing a “good” handbag. The whole line of questioning was curious, but I played along willing to see what he had up his sleeve.

  “From what I’ve seen, she has a decent high-end selection of purses that appeal to tourists and locals. It appears she’s turning over items at a steady clip as there’s frequently new inventory. But again, I’m not around very often. What I think is new inventory could simply be rotating stock so it looks like she has new inventory.”

  He nodded. “You’re smart. What else can you tell me?”

  He definitely had an angle, but for the life of me, I couldn’t put my finger on it. Suddenly it dawned on me that he could be interested in opening a competing business. “Why are you so interested in Quinn’s store?”

  Quinn appeared out of nowhere, with freshly applied lip gloss, so I’d never know if he would have actually answered my question or continued to deflect with his own.

  “Leo, I thought you had a meeting to get to. I’m sure Mel doesn’t want to hear you blabber on. Your stories are tiresome.”