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

  "That's not the point. You need to focus, Fran. You can't let her take Doogie, not yet. She said she was planning to leave town, but we've got to talk to her first, ask if it was she who found the collar, and if it was, what did she see that night. She could be in terrible danger. And I'm thinking she's scared that if she talks to anyone about this, she'll have to give the money back."

  "Money?"

  "I think she sold the diamond collar for over $7,000."

  "Whoa Nellie," Fran exclaimed. "But that wasn't hers to sell to begin with. She should give the money back."

  "I'm on my way to you now. Until we find out what's going on, it would be a good idea if you could hang on to her until I get there, so we can figure all this out. And if she's in danger, we have to let her know."

  Fran was quiet for a few beats, then said, "Okay, sweetie. I'll think of something. Don't you worry."

  "I'll be there as quick as I can. If she arrives before I do, do your best to keep her there."

  Outside now, I ran back to the spot in the parking area where I kept my little red Vespa chained to a light pole, unlocked it, got on, and started it up.

  * * *

  Fran was standing in the open front door of her house when I pulled up on Jasper. She must have been bathing and grooming dogs earlier in the evening as she wore one of the smocks she always put on when doing those chores and hadn't had a chance to change.

  "Oh, thank the Lord you're here, Lizzie." She was breathless and frantic.

  I threw my leg back off Jasper and went straight up onto the porch to stand beside her. "Dottie?"

  Fran wrung her hands. "She's been here and gone already."

  "Gone where?"

  "Down to Sabrina's RV, dontcha know."

  I squinted at her. "RV? Sure, but why would she go down there?"

  Fran hung her head. "I was stupid. I told her Doogie wasn't here because Sabrina adopted him. Then Dottie, she goes and gets real mad and heads off down there. Says she's gonna get her dog back if she has to wrestle Sabrina, and then she says she's leaving. Says when she gets him back, she's heading outta this damn town. Her words, not mine."

  "Oh." I was at a loss for words.

  "I'm real sorry, Lizzie. I didn't know what else to say to stall her like you said, and I never would've figured Dottie to go running off down there for crying out loud."

  "Where is Doogie really?"

  "Ah, he's in the back room, kenneled for now to keep him safe. Little fella likes it here. He's a real sweetie and deserves someone who doesn't turn him in for adoption every few months. Lots of folks who live on the street or are in bad circumstances manage to find the help they need to take care of their animals without just leaving them when things get dicey, ya know. I mean, you wouldn't do that to your kid now, would ya? Not when—Doc Whitaker, me, and you—we all help out as much as we can, and others also help to keep those precious dogs fed and healthy. Dottie has poor little Doogie so confused he don't know if he's coming or going. It's a crying shame."

  "I get what you're saying, but why did you tell her Sabrina took him? I know you don't like Sabrina much but…"

  Fran nodded and looked down at her feet. "That's God's truth. I don't like her. But I didn't tell Dottie that so she'd take off and go down there. I mean, for the love of Pete, who knew?" She looked up. "Oh, geez, Lizzie, here she comes. And this time she's got company."

  I looked in the direction of her gaze. Here came Dottie, trudging back up the rise from where Sabrina's motor coach had been parked for the last five days since Saturday morning. But she wasn't alone. She had Sabrina by the arm and was pulling her along.

  "Great," I said. "Just great."

  "Oh, geez." Fran threw up her hands, opened the screen door, and held it for the two women. "What next?"

  Sabrina began to screech at us. "Would one of you get this crazy person away from me?"

  "Shut up," Dottie said. "Just shut up, or I'll shut you up. We're going to get this straightened out one way or another."

  Dottie stomped up the porch steps, pulling Sabrina along, then swung Sabrina around and shoved her into Fran's living room.

  I sighed and followed them. What a mess.

  Once inside, Dottie pushed Sabrina down onto the sofa so hard a cloud of animal hair floated up around her. Sabrina sneezed. Evidently Fran wasn't expecting sit-down company because she hadn't pulled up the throws on the well-worn sofa and chairs she kept there to manage dog and cat hair. The black velvet caftan Sabrina wore would definitely need a good de-fuzzing when she went back to her motor coach.

  Dottie turned on Fran, advancing like a predatory animal. "This bitch says she doesn't have my dog. And you say she does. Which is it, Frannie? She lyin' or are you?"

  Fran caught her breath. I did too. This Dottie wasn't one we'd seen before. This Dottie was fierce and intense, her features dark and angry. She yelled at Fran. "Tell me. Where's my friggin' dog? I want him back, and I want him now."

  Fran turned her eyes to me, pleading silently.

  Swell. It was going to be the Lizzie Jones magic act that kept things from falling apart tonight. I sighed. Time to raise the curtain and let the show begin. Good thing I'd rehearsed.

  "Dottie," I said as softly and soothingly as I could, "we have to talk to you."

  Dottie turned around. "What?"

  "You look very nice," I began.

  Dottie looked surprised that this was the turn the conversation had taken. "Why, that's darn nice of you to say. Thanks."

  "New clothes. And when I saw you earlier, I noticed you're back in your old apartment building."

  I could almost see the cogs and wheels turning in her head as she tried to figure out what I was getting at.

  I went on. "You must have come into some money recently. Congratulations."

  She nodded slowly. "Yeah. Well. I did. Sure. My cousin died and left it to me."

  "Your cousin?"

  "Benjy. That's right. Benjy. Lived over in—ah—Olympia."

  "I see," I said. "Sorry for your loss."

  She didn't acknowledge me this time but turned her focus back to Fran. "Where's my dog? Tell me."

  I hadn't finished. "Dottie, we know about the diamond collar."

  That got her attention—and Sabrina's too.

  Sabrina gasped. "Collar? Rosie's collar?"

  I tried to pretend as if Sabrina wasn't even in the room. Her screeching would only make it harder to talk to Dottie. "The man at the pawnshop identified a woman who sounded a lot like you."

  Dottie narrowed her eyes. "You don't have anything on me. You're fishing."

  I shook my head. "We saw it—the collar. How'd you come by it, Dottie? Did you find it on the beach and decide to keep it to sell?"

  What happened next, I wouldn't have predicted under any circumstances.

  Dottie fell back a couple of steps, swung her backpack off, unzipped it, and pulled out—holy crap—a handgun.

  "That's a gun!" Fran cried out.

  Sabrina's four-letter oath came out without the benefit of her faux-Castilian accent, which would have softened it.

  Dottie pointed the gun at Fran. "Well, aren't you the smart one, Frannie?" Dottie's tone had turned snide. "Yes, it is a gun."

  It wasn't a very big gun, but its bullets would still be lethal at this close range.

  "Dottie, hold on," I spread my fingers and raised my hands.

  "Give me my dog," Dottie repeated. "I want him now."

  Fran looked at me, and I shook my head.

  "Move!" Dottie said. "Or your friend won't like it much." She swung the barrel of the gun my way.

  I gulped. "What is this, Dottie? Why do you have a gun?"

  "Figured I might need it after what happened. Looks like maybe I was right. How'd you figure it out?"

  I just stared at her. Figure what out? "I told you, the clerk from the pawnshop identified you. So we knew you were on the beach that night, knew you took the collar."

  Sabrina's voice came from over my shoulder. "Yo
u horrible woman! You stole Rosie?"

  "No," Dottie said. "I didn't take the pig. I found the collar."

  It was as if Sabrina hadn't heard her denial. "And then you killed poor Carlos."

  "It started out as an accident!" Dottie yelled.

  Fran stopped moving. I think I stopped breathing. Even Sabrina went quiet. I didn't know about the other two women, but that was the last thing I'd expected to hear.

  "You killed Carlos Ramirez?" I said softly. "It was you?"

  She was shaking. "Yes. But I don't understand. You said you knew."

  I shook my head. "I knew you had the collar. That was all." Even though the Doc Martens bootprints had put her at the scene, I hadn't originally thought her capable of violence.

  Dottie's face went from red flush to white ash as she realized she'd just confessed to murder. "It was an accident. It really was. I didn't mean to kill him." Words began to spill out of her. "After the jerks kicked me out of my nice little place on account of I set it on fire, I was stuck living in an Army surplus tent out on Two Mile Beach. That night I saw that man sneak into the lighthouse with the little pig. He's the one who took her, not me. I figured this one here"—she waved the barrel of the gun in Sabrina's direction—"would pay some big money to get her little porker back. So when the guy left without her, I snuck into the lighthouse and took her. I was gonna bring her back, honest." She seemed suddenly tired. "This guy showed back up and saw me. Chased me out onto the beach. Tried to pull the pig away. We fought. He fell and hit his head."

  No one spoke. We were all too stunned. While I'd only thought her guilty of finding the collar and selling it, she'd just implicated herself in the death of another human being. My stomach rolled.

  "So it was an accident," I said. "You can explain that to the police."

  Dottie's features twisted. "I was going to just walk away and leave him there in the sand. The fool kept trying to get up but couldn't. He kept screaming at me to put down the pig. So I put her down, all right, then I picked up a piece of driftwood and slammed it down on his head. Then I hit him again, finished him off while I could."

  She looked from one of us to the next with a look of confusion at seeing our own horrified expressions.

  "It was self-defense," she said as if we were all idiots for not being able to see it. "I had to. I deserve to get my life straight, be like other people. The pig's diamonds were my one chance. I couldn't let that man take away my one chance. Could I?"

  She stood there, aiming the gun at each of us in turn, like it was a pointing stick and she was a teacher driving home the lesson.

  Sabrina recovered first. "You crazy bitch. Carlos wasn't a very nice man, but he didn't deserve to die."

  As if it were the most reasonable thing in the world, Dottie said, "I said it was self-defense, didn't I?"

  "He hadn't hurt you," Sabrina went on miserably.

  I kept watching the gun, trying to figure out how to get it away from her. I looked at Fran, whose expression evolved from shock to anger then determination.

  "Dottie, in my book, a killer's a killer," Fran said. "And you're one for sure, no matter how much you try to justify it. You'll go to jail for this, and if I have anything to do with it, Doogie will be going to live with someone else."

  "You got no right to keep my dog." Dottie roared, swung the gun back around to Fran, and fired.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Looking back on that night, the fine details had stood out to me more than the broad strokes.

  At the sound of the shot, every dog in the house began barking. Sabrina's piercing scream warbled and gurgled like the screech of some freaky exotic bird.

  Fran spun and went down more awkwardly than a celebrity on Dancing with the Stars, tripping on her own feet. The bright red spot that bloomed on the right side of her smock was much brighter and redder than I would have thought.

  My own unexpected croak, leaping heart, and hot spurt of pure adrenaline was like nothing I'd ever experienced.

  "Fran, oh my God." I dropped to my knees beside her, my gaze locked on her writhing form, the spreading blood.

  "I shot her. Oh my God, I really shot her." And she dropped the gun. She stood by the open front door, her hands to her mouth, looking wildly around the room.

  I called her name again. "Fran. Fran. How are…can you hear me?"

  Fran's face was twisted and tight with pain. Her moan was low as I took hold of her left hand and brought it to my lips, my words muffled against it. "Stay with me. Don't die. Oh, dear Lord, Fran, don't die."

  Behind me, Dottie said, "That's Doogie. I can hear him. That's my Doogie." I was aware of her moving, rushing toward the rear of the house.

  Sabrina had quit screaming and crossed the room to kneel at Fran's right side.

  There was so much blood.

  I looked up at Sabrina, using my free hand to point in the general direction of the bathroom. "We need towels to stop the bleeding."

  Sabrina nodded mutely, rose to her feet, and headed toward the bathroom.

  Fran pulled her hand from mine and peeled back the bloody smock. "Is it bad?" Her voice shook.

  I peered down at it, barely able to see the wound itself for all the oozing blood. "I don't think so, but a people doctor will be able to tell for sure. We need to get you to the hospital stat."

  A jangle caused me to look up as Dottie snagged Fran's keys off the hook on the wall and bolted out the door. In her arms she held a squirming, scared Jack Russell terrier.

  Doogie.

  Sabrina rushed back into the room, several towels in her arms, pausing to pick up Dottie's discarded gun. "What should I do?" She dropped down beside Fran, laying the firearm on the rug.

  "Press against the wound," I said to Sabrina. "Try to stem the bleeding."

  "Okay." Sabrina's eyes took in the bloody area.

  "She shot me," Fran said as if she couldn't quite believe it.

  Sabrina let go all the towels but one, using it to press against the outside of Fran's upper right arm.

  Wincing at the pressure, Fran turned her gaze back to me. "That Dottie. She took my friggin' car keys. Hell," she said, the wound temporarily forgotten. "That darn van isn't paid off yet."

  Just like Fran to worry about things like that. "It'll be okay." I tried to redirect her focus. "How are you feeling?" I put my hand on her shoulder to keep her down.

  Even though she lay back, Fran was anything but quiet. "And she took Doogie, Lizzie. Poor little Doogie."

  I turned to Sabrina. "Call an ambulance and the police. Tell them what's happened."

  Sabrina looked up, surprising me with her calm demeanor. "Me? What about you?"

  "I'm going after that witch to get Doogie back."

  "Oh, Lizzie, no. Don't…" Fran flinched.

  "I'll be fine. She left the gun here. I'm going."

  And I did—out into the night. Out under the beautiful starry sky. Out after a crazy person who'd killed once and tried for a second. What the hell was I thinking?

  Behind me, I heard Sabrina say, "Fran, put your hand on the towel and hold it while I call 9-1-1."

  Dottie had already reached the van Fran used for the shelter, jumped in, and turned it over. She pulled away. I followed, snatching my keys from my pocket, hopping onto Jasper, and praying he'd start with one try.

  The scooter's engine buzzed to life with all the menace of a power mower, but, by George, it did start, which hadn't always been the case. I shoved it into gear and rolled out as the taillights of Fran's minivan pulled steadily away.

  The upside about Jasper was that he was paid for and only used about a teaspoon of gas even on a long trek. The downside was that most of the time he was slower than Isaac Jagger tackling the stairs to his apartment—and that's pretty darn slow.

  Even if Dottie in Fran's minivan was like the Enterprise at warp speed in comparison, the old Vespa scooter was all I had, and I just hoped we could manage not to lose her.

  Second Chance Animal Rescue sat on three
acres in a wooded area a couple of miles inland from Two Mile Beach. The side road that led to the shelter was curvy and dippy, and on Jasper it was hard to keep track of a vehicle traveling ahead at faster speed. Every once in a while, as I rounded a curve, I caught sight of taillights. At least I hadn't lost her yet, but every minute took her closer to the main road where she could pick up speed, and chances were that I'd lose her there.

  I was pushing Jasper as hard as I dared, but it still took about five minutes just to travel the couple of miles to Cliffside Drive. I pulled up to the stop sign there and looked left toward town. Nothing. Then right, toward Two Mile Beach and the lighthouse, where a pair of taillights was quickly disappearing into the darkness.

  That had to be her, but why would she go out there? As I sat there, I tried to get inside the head of a woman deranged enough to have killed someone over a diamond collar then shot someone else because she couldn't get her dog back. But then I understood why she'd take a dead-end road out to nowhere—the police. She'd left Second Chance in a panic, not sure if Fran was dead or alive, but knowing that Sabrina and I would probably call the police right away. In her chaotic state of mind, going back into town would likely have meant meeting several dispatched squad cars on the road.

  I turned right.

  Cliffside Drive came to a dead end at the lighthouse. Only one vehicle sat in the parking area—Fran's minivan.

  The moon was nearly full. The door was open. She must have gone in there. I stopped Jasper, got off, and stood staring at the lighthouse. Did she know I'd followed her? What was she doing in there? What should I do next? No one even knew where we were. I thought of my phone in my bag back at Fran's, wishing I'd grabbed it.

  The Memorial Walkway leading to the lighthouse, still under construction, stretched out before me, and I couldn't resist. I broke into a run, skirting the sawhorse barricades and the No Entry—Danger sign, heading straight for the lighthouse door where the crime scene tape had been yanked off and tossed aside.

  It was dark inside except for the moonlight slanting in through the open door and windows above. The decrepit circular staircase wound above me, and the clatter of someone ascending echoed in the hollow space. And then there was the barking, high-pitched and frantic. Dottie's flight was scaring the little Jack Russell. And I didn't blame him.