Divas, Diamonds & Death: a Danger Cove Pet Sitter Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 15) Read online

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  DIVAS, DIAMONDS & DEATH

  A DANGER COVE

  PET SITTER MYSTERY

  by

  ELIZABETH ASHBY, SALLY J. SMITH

  & JEAN STEFFENS

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  Copyright © 2017 by Sally J. Smith & Jean Steffens

  Cover design by Janet Holmes

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owners and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. The authors acknowledge the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

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  DANGER COVE BOOKS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORs

  BOOKS BY SALLY J. SMITH & JEAN STEFFENS

  SNEAK PEEK

  To Barbara, Diane, Kitty, and Mary for their loving support and encouragement.

  —Jean

  To Maria, devoted friend and free spirit. Grazie mille, bella, for all you do and are.

  —Sally

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The authors wish to thank publisher Gemma Halliday for her accessibility and advice. You're as much a collaborator on our books as we are. Also, thanks to editors Susie Halliday and Lindsey Reiker for correcting our typos and comma splices, letting us down so kindly when something doesn't work, and adding those smiley faces when things (thankfully) do. Also thanks to cover artist Janet Holmes, a mind reader who always seems to intuit exactly what we envisioned for our cover.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  "It's gonna be a great day at Second Chance Animal Rescue, little gal. Don't you know it?"

  At the sound of my granddad's voice I turned from where I'd been setting up a dog wash station to find him standing behind me, grinning like his numbers just came up on a lottery ticket.

  "Yep," he went on. "A trophy-winning, five-star, red-letter, blue-sky, glorious day if there ever was. In Jimmy John's Rulebook: Good weather makes for good feelings. And when folks feel good, they open their wallets."

  "So that's your prediction, is it, oh, swami?" I teased. "Jimmy John Jones, world-famous chronicler and bringer of all things newsworthy, predicts a favorable day for the fund raiser at Danger Cove's animal rescue center." I put my arm around his neck and reached up to give him a peck on his whiskery cheek. "Heads up, people! Jimmy John Jones has an announcement to make. Stop the presses."

  He rubbed his cheek where I'd kissed him. "Now look here, Miss Lizzie Jones. Just because you're a four-point-o genius veterinary science grad student, don't go thinking you've got something on this old man. I've tramped hither and yon—"

  I joined my voice with his, and we said in unison, "—through swamps and jungles, across desert sands, and up snow-capped peaks. I've seen a lot of things, and I've done a lot of things, and I've learned a little bit about a lot of things."

  When we were done with our recitation, he cupped my face gently with both hands. "Mark my words, Lizzie. It's gonna be a fine day. I feel good."

  He made a snazzy slide sideways and shimmied a James Brown move.

  I laughed. "So good?"

  He snapped his heels together. "So good."

  We sang the last line together.

  Vader, the world's most brilliant pug, yipped his approval of our performance from where I'd put his kennel in the shade—stocked with his favorite squeaky toys, a chew bone, and water bowl. He was as much a part of the Second Chance family as any of us. Adoption was how he and I had found each other to begin with.

  Today I'd already had to shoo several families away from him, telling them he was already spoken for and not up for adoption. It was just one of the side effects of his being exceptional, handsome, and charming all at once. Everyone wanted to take Vader home. But he was bonded to me and I to him—I was his forever mom.

  Jimmy John's good mood was even more contagious and uplifting than that soundtrack from Footloose that he used to play nonstop until the cassette player in his '86 Chevy pickup died. "No question about it, Jimmy John. I'm betting you're right."

  It was still early, but my granddad's forecast was dead-on accurate—a perfect summer day in Danger Cove. And why wouldn't it be? The sky was clear. The air was fresh and clean. And so far everything was lining up for the annual fund raiser at Second Chance Animal Rescue to be exactly what Fran Upton, my granddad's girlfriend and my friend who ran the shelter, was hoping for.

  If it was a good day for Fran and a good day for the shelter, it'd be a great one for me too.

  Jimmy John Jones, my somewhat famous grandfather in the vein of famous newsman Ed Bradley, had been hard at work most of the morning setting up individual kennels to hold pets waiting to meet their forever families.

  We both looked up at the sound of a calliope playing familiar segments of "Entry of the Gladiators," bringing with it mental images of a circus parade complete with frolicking clowns and lumbering elephants. But as I'd suspected, it was just a purple panel van with teeth for a grill and a big red clown's nose for a hood ornament that motored up the approach to Fran's place.

  The Dooney brothers, Jesse and James, had driven their game truck, pulling the trailer packed with their inflatables.

  "Well," Jimmy John said. "Looks like the Dooney boys are here. Better go see if I can help 'em unload and set up."

  From their side business of handling children's parties, Jessie and James Dooney would be providing tables, chairs, canopies, a bouncy house or two, and maybe even a water slide for the all-day fund raiser.

  It had been like chipping away at granite to get the frugal brothers to agree to participate in the fund raiser. In the end, Jimmy John had to promise them he wou
ld at least consider a prepaid funeral service and would talk to all his friends whom the Dooneys probably thought already had one foot in the grave. The Dooneys' mortuary was their main gig and earned them considerably more than their children's party services.

  Jesse and James had finally agreed to donate the use of their equipment, anticipating a lucrative sale for their more morbid services sometime in the future. They had no way of knowing Jimmy John had already asked me, when that sad time came, to fly to Tahiti and scatter his ashes in the turquoise waters. It was what he'd done with my grandmother's ashes when she passed away decades ago, and was something I prayed I wouldn't be faced with for many, many years. At least the Dooneys would still be able to charge for cremation, but I figured Jesse and James thought the funeral of a famous ex-TV network field correspondent would be quite elaborate and would put them on the map, so to speak.

  I pushed thoughts of such a thing from my mind. My granddad had been my guardian throughout my teen years when my parents had taken their philanthropy to Kathmandu where they'd opened a school for Sherpas. While I hadn't understood their decision, and it had been a long, slow process coming to terms with it, I had learned something from the recent death of my best friend's husband about love and forgiveness that had opened my eyes and my heart to a fuller understanding. I'd recently added a new item to my own rulebook: Never let the all-about-me factor come between you and the ones you love. In fact, I'd mentally posted it to the inside front cover.

  Jimmy John turned and walked back up the rise to meet the Dooney brothers. On the way he passed Fran, who was heading down from her home, which doubled as the main building for the rescue. He stopped her, threw his arm around her neck, and gave her a peck on the cheek. Fran hugged him back then came the rest of the way to the dog wash station. "You gonna have some help with the dog baths there, Lizzie?" Her Fargo accent was as prevalent as ever.

  "Help's on the way," I said.

  Fran's blue eyes sparkled with good humor as she looked down at her dirty jeans and sweaty T-shirt. "I betcha I smell like three-day-old roadkill after cleaning out those cat boxes. Better go change before our celebrity guest arrives. Wouldn't want the Critter Communicator to see me looking like something the cat dragged in, dontcha know." She paused. "Cat dragged in. Get it?"

  "Yes, I get it." I had to smile. "When's the TV star arriving?"

  "Far as I know, around one thirty—after folks have had a chance to sample some of the fare that Hope was so generous to donate from Smugglers' Tavern."

  "Hope's always been a strong supporter of Second Chance," I said.

  "That she has."

  "But the donated catering came via Lilly. She's been key in running the tavern."

  "Well, whoever saw to it gets my thanks," Fran said.

  I was just about finished setting up the dog wash station. My boyfriend, Tino, was scheduled to arrive shortly and give me a hand with it. My plan was to assembly-line those fuzzy guys, just like a Ford production line—only with canines. I was experienced with pet grooming. Pet sitting and pet grooming were the main ways I earned money for school.

  "Looks like you're good to go there, aren'tcha?" Fran ran a critical eye over what I'd done. "Say, you ever watch this lady's show?"

  "Yes." It wasn't really something I was proud to admit.

  The Critter Communicator Show was on the Animal Planet channel on Tuesday nights with reruns on Saturday mornings. Sabrina Ramirez, the star of the one-hour show, claimed to be able to converse with animals. People came and asked her to communicate psychically with their pets. Some brought the pets. Some brought photos. Some even brought a deceased pet's ashes, which pretty much put her in the same league as those TV mediums.

  "You think she can really do it?" Fran asked. "Read animals' minds?"

  "I don't buy it, really. Not one bit. But there are obviously thousands upon thousands of people who do. Her program's one of the highest rated on the channel. What do you think?"

  She shrugged. "All I know is it was a real coup getting her to come to little old Danger Cove for our rescue center."

  "I wondered about that," I said.

  "It was pretty much a shot in the dark, y'know. We've got Jimmy John to thank for it. He went back into TV correspondent mode and made a video showing Sabrina's booking agent what we're trying to do here. No one was more surprised than me or Jimmy when she agreed to come all the way up from Beverly Hills to make an appearance."

  "I'm excited she's coming. So's Jimmy John. We think her presence will bring good will and donations to Second Chance," I said.

  "I think so too, but none of it would be happening if you and Jimmy hadn't stepped up to help with all this." She reached up to compensate for the four-inch difference in our height and pulled me into a hug.

  From the view over her shoulder, I saw a bright blue Hyundai coupe pull up beside the main house.

  Augustine Morales.

  Hubba. Hubba.

  The car pulled to a stop, the driver's side door opened, and Tino stepped out. He was dressed in a navy blue tank top, and even from where I stood quite a ways from him, the sculpture of muscle in his torso and arms was impressive. The sun hit his dark hair as he turned, looking around. When he saw me, he waved and started toward me.

  Tino. My heart fluttered.

  A few long hairs glinting golden brown in the sun had escaped the ponytail I'd put my hair up in, and I smoothed them back before tugging at the baggy smock I'd put on earlier to keep my T-shirt clean and dry. Too bad the smock wasn't less faded and worn and more form-fitting, but that would only have emphasized my meager bosom and overall lack of curves. It didn't really matter to me. I wasn't competition for Sofia Vergara because Tino always said he loved the way I looked whether I was dressed up or dressed down.

  But I did always try to be pretty for Tino, and had taken a few extra minutes that morning with a little taupey eye shadow that complimented the blue of my eyes—eye shadow, which, by the way, had long since slid away with the perspiration from my brow.

  I was still caught up in Fran's hug, and she spoke next to my ear. "Thank you, Lizzie, and not just for this. For everything. Second Chance would probably fall apart without your support. I don't know what I'm gonna do when you finish vet school and move away from Danger Cove to set up your own practice."

  I watched Tino coming toward us with that confident athletic gait I'd come to know so well, and Fran's innocent remark resonated like a kind of warning. Tino had already brought up his concerns over that very same subject more than once.

  "I know," I said softly, hating the thought of leaving the town I'd grown up in and the people I loved here, both those I'd known all my life and those whom I'd just recently grown to love. "I don't know what I'm going to do about that either."

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was shortly after one in the afternoon, and the fund raiser was in full swing.

  The ladies of the Danger Cove Quilt Guild were doing a bang-up job of dishing out hot dogs, brats, and burgers straight off the grill.

  Emma Quinn and Dee Madison reigned over the sale of the food from deck chairs beneath one of the striped canopies that the Dooney brothers had brought with them.

  Keely Fairchild, looking more casual and relaxed than usual in a T-shirt that read Adopt Don't Shop with a picture of a dachshund and a calico kitten on the front, manned the potato salad and condiments station with Matt Viera, the good-looking arts and entertainment reporter from the Cove Chronicles. They looked great together, made a terrific couple, and everyone in town had been saying they were a perfect match.

  Tino and I were in the middle of spiffing up a big old hairy sheepdog, who kept trying to shake off water every minute or so and wound up soaking us both, when we were distracted by a commotion up by the main house.

  A big black SUV and an enormous motor coach had pulled up. The motor coach had the words The Critter Communicator Show splashed across the side and was painted with a portrait of Sabrina Ramirez and several different animals ra
nging from dogs to iguanas.

  The vehicles were like enormous magnets drawing the crowd to them.

  Tino and I spent a couple more minutes blow-drying the sheepdog before tying a red bow on top of his collar and herding him back into the kennel for his new mom to pick up later. We changed out of our soapy smocks, I took Vader from his kennel and put a leash on him, and the three of us walked up to the house. Tino held hands with me, swinging them between us like we were still the teenagers we'd been when we first met. That hadn't worked out, and it had taken us twelve years to find each other again. And boy, was I glad we had. He was even more desirable as a man than he'd been as a boy—and teenage Lizzie would never have thought that was even possible.

  By the time we got back to where the action was, things were already in motion. A couple of video guys had set up with a camera, boom mike, and some lights by one of the Dooneys' tents. Someone had put down a plush Turkish carpet, several big satin pillows, and what I could only describe as a throne beneath the canopy. A red carpet led from the motor coach steps to the tent.

  Carlos Santana's "Black Magic Woman" suddenly began to blare from loudspeakers on the motor coach. Smoke began to pour out from under it and was blown along the ground toward the tent.

  "Whoa," Tino said. "Pretty exciting stuff."

  I sighed. This was similar to the opening credits of Sabrina's TV show. "Yep. Pretty exciting all right."

  A young man in a black suit, black shirt, and black tie came around the motor coach to the door and opened it with a flourish. He looked like a riverboat gambler. Over the speakers, a deep male voice announced, "And now, ladies and gentlemen, here she is, Sabrina Ramirez, the Critter Communicator."

  The woman I'd seen on TV dozens of times stepped into the open doorway of the motor coach. She wore a gauzy getup with a fringed shawl, lots of bangles, chains, and necklaces—a la Stevie Nicks. Her blonde hair was mid-length and cut in a smooth pageboy that swung around her face like in a shampoo commercial as she turned her head side to side. I wasn't close enough to see her features in great detail, but I knew from camera close-ups her face had that stretched-to-the-max look of a woman who's had multiple facelifts. Tight around her neck was her signature diamond choker. As far as I knew, she was never seen without it.