The Girl with the Dachshund Tattoo

By Sparkle Abbey

She has to stay low. Ears to the ground. Danger's nipping at her heels.

Mel's tracking a killer in the world of racing dachshunds.

Wiener takes all at the Laguna Beach Dachshund Dash. Melinda Langston, owner of Bow Wow Boutique, and her quirky assistant, Betty Foxx, are on hand to root for their favorite racers. But before the starting gun goes off, hated dachshund owner, Richard Eriksen, is found dead, and gun-toting Betty is suspect number one.

Determined to clear Betty's name, Mel quickly picks up the scent of the cutthroat world of Doxie racing. Cheating. Doping. Gambling. Controversy lies at every turn. It seems everyone has a secret--including Betty. The killer is hot on Mel's heels. Can Mel expose the truth before the killer catches her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BelleBooks
• Release date: Oct 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781611945393

Book preview

The Girl with the Dachshund Tattoo

A killer took aim, and now one disliked doxie owner is dead on the sidelines at Laguna Beach’s Dachshund Derby Races. Naturally, Mel is ankles-deep in dachshund drama.

I WAS LOOKING for a sweaty rock star with a dog tattoo and smeared eyeliner carrying Betty’s stolen gun and an oversized camera. You take the east side of the field and I’ll take the west. If either of us sees Darby, we fill her in. We need all the help we can get.

Betty hiked her handbag onto her shoulder. What about our booth? Who’s gonna sell our stuff? Who’s going to keep people from stealing it?

That’s the least of our problems.

I had no idea how true those words were. But I was about to find out.

The Pampered Pets Mysteries

from Bell Bridge Books

Desperate Housedogs

Get Fluffy

Kitty Kitty Bang Bang

Yip/Tuck

Fifty Shades of Greyhound

The Girl with the Dachshund Tattoo

The Girl with theDachshund Tattoo

by

Sparkle Abbey

Bell Bridge Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-539-3

Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-466-2

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2014 by Carter Woods, LLC

Excerpt (Fifty Shades of Greyhound) Copyright 2014 by Carter Woods, LLC

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

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Cover design: Debra Dixon

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

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:Edgt:01:

Dedication

For all the doxie lovers and the wiener racing fans

Chapter One

WE WERE ABOUT to experience more waving, cheering, and crying than a TV audience during the crowning of Miss America.

Doxie Dash. Wiener Race. The Great Dachshund Derby. The name wasn’t important. The crux of all the events was the same: running dogs, excited families, squeaky rubber toys, frantically waved treats, and a mega trophy for the winner. True, a trophy is not as glamorous as a tiara, but we can’t all be beauty queens.

Are you Team Zippy or Team Pickles? Betty Foxx raised her grape-colored eyebrows expectantly. I bet it’s going to be a real smackdown. Their bitter rivalry has been all over the news.

Yes, you heard that correctly. Grape eyebrows. My eighty-something assistant had yet to explain the occasional lipstick-painted eyebrows, and I’ve wisely refrained from questioning her makeup application process. I have my own hang-ups. Who am I to judge her eyebrows?

Our race, the Laguna Beach Dachshund Dash, was an outdoor event at the local dog park. With a smattering of food booths and a slew of pet-related vendors, playful contestants and pumped-up fans had plenty to do throughout the day. The aromas of funnel cake, chili, and deep-fried mac and cheese collided in the air. My stomach rumbled, craving for a sample of everything.

Betty had nagged me to donate the official doxie jersey, which is how Bow Wow Boutique ended up with a vendor booth for the first time since the race had arrived in Laguna three years ago. What can I say? I’m a sucker for an assistant in silk pajamas, pearls, and lipstick eyebrows.

She had insisted the event organizers promise to pitch our booth, a shelter canopy with three sidewalls to display merchandise, adjacent to the racing lanes. They weren’t as easily persuaded by Betty’s pleas as I was. We were nowhere near the track.

I stepped around my sleeping bulldog, Missy. She looked dead, stretched out on a small patch of grass, bathing in the morning sun. Don’t worry—she was alive and well, with a puddle of drool watering the grass. That dog could sleep through an earthquake.

I tossed a stack of lime canine jerseys on the display table and quickly separated them by size. The material felt a little thinner than I’d have liked, but, overall, the uniforms were darling.

You do realize the feud is all media hype? Their rivalry is about ticket sales and money. I tried to hide my amusement at her insistence that the two dogs were enemies.

Of all people, Betty understood the power of the almighty dollar. Her retail background and quirky personality had boosted sales for my pet boutique since I’d hired her last Christmas. The success had gone to her head. Now she was convinced she was the Rainmaker of pet accessories. She concocted outlandish plans almost weekly, guaranteed to generate more sales. I adored her, but she was a handful to manage.

Not true, she said. "The new reporter from Channel 5 News, Callum MacAvoy—Betty took a breath long enough to shoot me her hubba-hubba face before she continued—well, he’s been talking about the bad blood between them for weeks. At the last race, Pickles almost closed the gap, but Moby bumped Pickles out of bounds before they crossed the finish line. Pickles was disqualified, and Zippy was declared the winner." Betty danced in place, about to burst the seams of her tiger-print silk pajamas any second.

I laughed at her outdated dance moves. Are you done?

She snagged a stack of size-small jerseys and stacked them at the far end of the table. Who are you backing, Cookie?

My name wasn’t Cookie. I’m Melinda Langston. Mel, to my friends. For reasons only known to Betty, she refused to call me by my name.

Unlike my spry assistant, I’m not as well versed in the drama of wiener racing. What few rules I knew would fit on a sticky note.

No running alongside your dog.

No loud horns or laser pointers.

The dog must cross the finish line within the boundaries and without help.

If Betty had the story straight, Pickles had a difficult time staying in bounds. Sounded like someone else I knew. I eyed my assistant, who stood with a hand on her hip, white sneaker firmly planted in the freshly mowed grass, waiting for an answer.

Oh, I almost forgot the most important rule. You have to pick up after your racer. I’m amazed at the number of people who forget that last one.

If I have to choose, I guess I’m Team Pickles.

Betty wrinkled her nose in disapproval. You would pick the dog named after food. I’m Team Zippy. He’s the favorite. If I were a bettin’ gal, I’d put my money on him. A win today would be his fourth title in less than a year. Betty scurried behind me to rearrange the display rack of collars hanging on the sidewall.

What can I say—I love an underdog.

Wiener racing was a little different than, say, horse racing or even greyhound racing. Wiener enthusiasts adorn themselves in over-the-top doxie-themed outfits, with an occasional superhero cape for added dramatic flair. Winners break into victory dances, while geeked-out fans storm the grassy area to demand a photo op with their favorite racer. That’s the humans.

Then there are the dogs. Adorable low-riders with long, wiggly bodies, who race fifty yards toward their beloved human or favorite toy. As they sprint down the track, doggie tongues hang from their mouths, like Miley Cyrus mugging for the camera.

The majority of the pack has absolutely no idea what they’re doing and ends up plowing into one another, reenacting the Puppy Bowl. But there are a few true competitors who can concentrate on the finish line for more than eight seconds. They’re the ones who sprint down the field, all heart, for a photo finish.

That’s where my best friend, Darby Beckett, comes in. As the official Dachshund Dash photographer, her job was to document the winner of each race. The number of prima donnas who dispute the final results, certain their pup had won by a nose, would surprise you.

By the end of the day’s events, there will have been five heats, in three different weight classes, with one winner in each category: miniature, lightweight, and heavyweight.

Betty shoved an empty box under the table. It’s almost nine. The contestants will arrive any minute.

Great. We’re ready for them. I pushed a stack of extra-large jerseys to the front of the table.

Oh, make sure you’re here at ten o’clock.

I stared at the faux innocent expression on Betty’s face. Why?

We have an interview.

Unpleasant memories of my last year in the beauty pageant world sprang to mind. I shook my head. No. Not going to happen.

Her grape eyebrows shot upward. What do you mean ‘no’?

I don’t like reporters.

In my experience, reporters were neither balanced nor impartial. Their goal was to tell a titillating story. Facts and truth were not necessary. To be fair, Betty didn’t know that my mama had persuaded a male judge to vote for me during my Miss America run. Nor did she know about the wacky publicity that had resulted from my melodramatic disqualification. If she had, she’d understand my distrust of reporters.

She’s a filmmaker, Cookie. She’s shooting a movie. Besides, it’s free publicity.

Bless Betty’s naïve soul. Nothing’s free. We don’t even know what the film’s about.

"What’s there to know? It’s a dogumentary. A wiener racing biopic. The Long and the Short of It. Betty barked out a laugh and slapped her thin thigh in amusement. That’s the best title."

I groaned. That’s an awful title.

When she comes around, I’ll do the talking, Betty announced. And don’t stare at her.

Why in the world would I stare?

Betty tossed a sassy smile over her shoulder. She’s not sexy like us.

Is that so?

She’s a behind-the-camera kinda person. Smeared eyeliner, ratty short hair, ripped jeans. You know, I should offer the poor girl pointers on her eyeliner.

I ignored the comment about eyeliner. Sounds like any eighties glam band after a long concert.

Betty nodded excitedly as she moved the treat jars from the top shelf to a shelf at eye level. So you’ve seen her?

"How often have you talked to this filmmaker?" I resisted using air quotes, my skepticism obvious.

Betty patted my arm reassuringly. Don’t you worry, Cookie. I’ve got it all under control.

I’d experienced Betty’s version of control. Lord help us all. We were in trouble.

HEY, MEL. THE booth looks great. Darby’s blond curls brushed her shoulders. Her normally pale skin already sported a SoCal tan. We were dressed alike—jeans and the event T-shirt Betty and I had designed. The shirts had turned out great—a sunshine yellow material with the words Wiener Takes All in brown above a smooth-haired dachshund. All the vendors had agreed to sell the shirts, the profits to be donated to the rescue group, Doxie Lovers of OC.

As my best friend, Darby knew my drink of choice and handed me a chai tea latte from the Koffee Klatch.

You are a lifesaver. I inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma of cardamom, cinnamon, and vanilla. Where’s Fluffy? Fluffy was Darby’s Afghan hound who has a superiority complex. I imagine she thought a doxie race was beneath her.

Darby slipped the strap of her soft leather messenger bag over her head, then laid the bag on the table. I left her at home. This isn’t exactly her idea of a good time. Where’d Betty run off to?

She took Missy to check out the other vendors. Ensuring we can beat the competition. You know how she gets. The boutique never sells enough of anything.

Darby sipped her favorite drink, a white chocolate mocha latte. When are you going to tell her you don’t need the money?

She referred to my Texas money. Montgomery family money I rarely touched, much to my mama’s displeasure. Mama would prefer I attended charity balls and wasted my days stimulating the economy by buying junk I didn’t need nor want. I preferred to work for a living.

I shrugged. Not today. What have you been up to?

She pulled her camera from her messenger bag. Snapping candid photos. I got some great shots of the protesters. I found Zippy and Richard out front signing autographs. I thought I’d grab Betty and see if she’d like to join me.

Wait. Did you say ‘protesters’?

She nodded, brows furrowed. A dozen people with picket signs. One woman had a poster-sized photo of a dachshund racing in a wheelchair. To be honest, at first I found the idea inspirational, but the longer I looked at the picture, it became a little . . . disturbing.

This is the first I’ve heard about any opposition to the race.

They’re part of a local animal activist group concerned about the possibility of back injuries. As the popularity of racing grows, they think the dachshunds may have the same overbreeding issues as greyhounds.

We sipped our drinks in silence. Darby took a couple of random photos. I felt a little uncomfortable. I’d never given any of those concerns a second thought. Could that controversy be the impetus behind the dogumentary? I was about to ask Darby if she’d seen the filmmaker when I caught a glimpse of my trusted assistant.

Here comes Betty, I said.

We watched her stroll up the vendor aisle as she cast sly glances toward the other merchants. Missy waddled behind. With her short nose and bulky frame, she looked completely out of place around all the wiener dogs. The second Betty caught sight of Darby, she transformed into The Prancing Grandma.

Darby, you’re slacking, she announced. As the official photographer, you should be taking pictures of the booths. Start with ours. She shoved Missy’s leash in my hand, then scooted around the table. She struck a pose in front of a rack of merchandise. Make sure you get the sweaters. They’re on sale.

Darby snapped pictures as Betty acted out her interpretation of a supermodel photo shoot. I watched, amused, as I drank my breakfast.

I saw Zippy, Betty said. I don’t like his owner. He tugged on Zippy’s leash and made the poor dog walk in circles, backwards. I think Zippy hurt his leg. I saw him limping. Instead of Ricky-Dicky being concerned, he yelled at him to stop whining. He made me so mad. I’ve switched teams.

Ricky-Dicky? Since when had she started calling Richard Eriksen Ricky-Dicky? Betty suddenly struck an awkward wide-legged stance and threw a punch.

He’s lucky I didn’t show him my new moves. You girls should have seen me in that self-defense class I took a few months ago. I was a rock star. Betty acted out what could have been a scene from a Jackie Chan movie. Birdlike arms flailed in front of her face; her right knee jabbed the air.

Boom. Step. Boom, she shouted.

Settle down, girlfriend, before you attack the rack of dog collars. I guided her away from the merchandise.

You don’t get it. If anyone pulls a gun on us again, I’m ready for them. Betty struck a Charlie’s Angel stance, complete with clasped hands imitating a gun.

Last Christmas, Betty and I had been held at gunpoint, a life-changing moment for both of us. Apparently, she’d gone on the defensive, whereas I had decided to cross a line without thought about the repercussions. More on my poor decision later.

That was a fluke, I said.

You don’t know that, she insisted.

For everyone’s benefit, I’d better be right. Let’s finish the pictures.

Stand next to the sign, Darby ordered. I want the boutique’s name in a couple of shots.

Good idea. Cookie, get over here.

Betty’s previous kung-fu impersonation over, Missy and I reluctantly obeyed. I set my half-empty cup on the table.

Darby slowly lowered her camera. Mel, where’s your engagement ring?

Was the undertone of concern in her voice real, or had my own insecurities surrounding my personal life made me oversensitive? That line I’d just mentioned? Well it involved my fiancé, Grey Donovan, and he couldn’t seem to get past my impulsive decision. He had every reason to be angry. I’d messed up. But that wasn’t the real problem. The real issue was that, presented with the exact set of circumstances, I’m pretty sure I’d make the same decision. Yeah, not good.

By the look on their faces, you’d think a hairy wart had bloomed on my finger. I resisted the urge to cover my bare left hand so they’d stop staring at it. If I were an accomplished liar, I’d claim wearing a six-carat sapphire heirloom to a wiener race wasn’t practical. But Darby knew I didn’t possess one ounce of practicality.

I settled for a half truth and prayed she would drop the subject. I accidently left it on the bathroom counter this morning.

Darby placed her camera next to my chai. There’s only been one other time you’ve been without your ring. Last year when you two ‘took a break.’ Is everything okay?

I swallowed hard. There is nothing for you to worry about.

Where is that sexy man of yours? Betty yanked on the elastic waistband of her pants, hiking them higher up. I wore my new outfit for him. I got it off of that all-night shopping TV channel.

I rubbed my ringless finger. Grey flew to New York.

Grey’s secret life as an undercover FBI agent had, by default, become my secret life too. What my friends and family believed to be gallery business trips were a cover for his real job.

He was actually in DC, preparing for a new white-collar case involving counterfeit wine. By definition, white-collar crime (lying, cheating, and stealing) was considered nonviolent. In Grey’s case it was the undercover aspect that created the danger—raids, arrests, and, frankly, desperate criminals who didn’t want to go to prison, and who had a tendency to act out in violent ways.

He’d promised me the most dangerous situation he’d come across while in New York was a hangover. I was holding him to it.

He’ll miss the race. He sounded like he was looking forward to it, Darby said.

He had been, until my little stunt. After that he looked forward to time apart to clear his head.

Thank the good Lord, Luis and his long-haired doxie, Barney, walked up to our table, saving me from further discussion about Grey and my missing engagement ring. Barney’s tail wagged double time when he noticed Betty.

You’re the first to arrive. I blinded them with my brightest smile.

Betty grabbed her orange clipboard from under the table and checked them off our list. Darby snapped a photo, and I handed Luis a jersey for Barney—an extra-large.

Mel, the uniforms are great. Luis was your average guy. He wore an event T-shirt with a pair of cargo shorts and sneakers. Nice, unassuming, and he loved his dog. Bless his heart. He didn’t hold Betty’s nagging about Barney’s need to drop a few pounds against either of us.

Betty bent over and patted Barney’s head. You’re looking good. She straightened and eyed Luis. You still use too much of that dog cologne. He smells like a fifteen-year-old boy going out on his first date.

Luis face reddened. He likes it.

He stinks.

She was right. Barney’s cologne overpowered any smell within twenty yards. My eyes watered a bit. He looks like he’s lost a little weight. Has he been training?

Luis rubbed his chin as he studied his dog. A little. He has a lot of energy. He really likes to socialize with the other dogs. Running at the park seemed like a good idea.

Which heavyweight heat is Barney in? I asked.

The first one. We’re on our way there now. To check it out. Are you going to watch us race?

Absolutely, Betty and Darby said in unison.

Wouldn’t miss it, I said. Did you bring the fried chicken? He’s definitely motivated by food. A character trait I could relate to.

Luis nodded, a huge smile split his thick lips. He patted the fanny pack hidden under his belly. Right here. So, I guess we’ll see you there. After a quick wave, Luis ducked his head, and the two made their way toward the west end of the field.

Betty shook her head in pity. The minute Barney takes his eyes off that chicken he’ll forget all about the race and meander out of bounds.

I wanted to disagree, but she was right on the money. Barney possessed only one speed—distracted. The big guy wasn’t a natural competitor. He liked to roam, explore, and hang out with his pals. Fried chicken was his only chance at victory.

Within minutes, a line of contestants stood in front of our table. Happy chatter blended with excited barking as we processed the racers. Darby disappeared into the noisy crowd of humans and dogs to photograph the day. An hour quickly passed, and we’d handed out over half the jerseys. Presently, the line was only a half-dozen people deep.