Mystic Mistletoe Murder Page 20

  Caroline sighed and looked at me. I suspected the shine in her eyes was unshed tears. "That night at Smugglers' Tavern his words were like honey."

  Even now the look in her eyes said that his sweet talk had been more like wine than honey.

  She shook her head. "Looking back on it, I never stood a chance against him."

  "You overindulged," I said. "Drunk on love. And he's got those biceps that keep popping up like inflatable beach balls. Lots of women would have fallen for him." And probably did, but I didn't say that.

  They'd gotten married in Las Vegas four weeks later just before Brodie's competition circuit season began. Caroline had quit school, moved out of our eight-hundred-square-foot two-bedroom and into his fabulous place in Danger Cove's exclusive gated community to play house with her big Scotsman. Brodie had hit the competition trail the very next week and in December had returned to the town of Danger Cove, and his blushing bride, with his third Mr. Jupiter title.

  "He cheated on me," she said sadly.

  Gosh, it looked like the honeymoon was over for real and Mr. Jupiter turned out to be a major bonehead.

  "Oh no." Poor Caroline. I resisted the urge to lash out at him. It wasn't the time. "Are you sure?"

  "Oh yes. He told me. I've tried really hard to get him back. Victoria's Secret. Kinky toys. Nothing has worked. Thought I could ignore it and he'd get over it. Play himself out. But that didn't happen either. I don't even know how many women he has, but I bet more than one." She shrugged. "That's what you get when you marry a testosterone production plant."

  I reached across the table to pat her hand, the one sporting the four-carat yellow diamond he put there when he swore to love and honor her. How dare he hurt my friend. "Oh, Caroline. I'm so sorry. He doesn't deserve you."

  "And now he's serious about someone else. He won't say who. He's divorcing me, Lizzie." She defiantly swiped at the tears spilling over onto her cheeks.

  "Tell me what to do. Is there anything I can do to help? You know I'm here for you, Caroline. Whatever you need."

  She wiped away the last tear, and it was like watching an angry cobra rise up. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. "There is something you can do. He's leaving tomorrow to visit his parents in Scotland before the competition circuit starts again in June. He wants to tell them about the divorce in person, and they don't even know yet that he's coming. When he comes back in ten days, he's filing. I don't have much time left, but while he's gone I plan to use what I have to full advantage. Day after tomorrow I'm flying to LA, Beverly Hills, Rodeo Drive. I'm giving his black Amex a good going over." Green flame burned in her eyes, and I knew she was talking epic shopping, maybe six figures or more, whatever she could manage in a week's time.

  "I'm on board," I said. "You need a wing-woman? That's me." That man needed to be taught a lesson, and from the look of it, Caroline was just the woman to teach it. "He can't treat you this way and just skate free. Hitting him in the wallet sounds like as good a plan as any."

  "Do you have any pet-sitting gigs lined up for the week?"

  To fund my college education and pay my rent, I had become an entrepreneur. Lizzie Jones, Full-Service Pet Sitter and Sometimes Dog Groomer Extraordinaire. Covians—from the rich and famous, the movers and shakers, to the nine-to-fivers and seniors—they all loved their pets. The people in Danger Cove who made the rules, made the money, and made things happen. When they worked, they worked hard. When they partied, they partied hard. When they traveled, they hired a pet sitter—and that was where I came in.

  Caroline's admission that she was going to California on a credit-wrecking shopping spree, followed up with the pet-sitting question, gave me an idea of what she had in mind. "No," I said. "I don't have a pet-sitting job lined up for a few weeks."

  "Good. Come stay at the house. Keep an eye on Fabio and Gil while I'm in Beverly Hills. I'll pay you from my and Brodie's joint account." She smiled. Utter glee. "How does four thousand dollars sound? Will that help cover your class fees? Or is that enough?"

  "Holy…!" It was hard not to jump up with glee, but… "I can't let you do that. It's too much."

  She laid her hand on mine. Her eyes never wavered. "Oh, sweetie, it won't be me paying you. It'll be Mr. Jupiter."

  No fury like…

  It was obvious she was trying to turn something unfortunate into something productive. And I was the benefactress of her planned vengeance against Brodie. She wanted to make sure her misfortune could be spun to help me out big time for my next semester.

  "Caroline, I'm available." And for my best friend, if I hadn't been, I would have cancelled everything to do what she asked.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Caroline and Brodie lived in his seven-thousand-square-foot spread in ritzy Craggy Hill Estates, a gated community high up on a forest-level plateau, only a hop, skip, and jump from the Pacific Ocean, where the unpredictable currents and the wicked surf crashing against the treacherous rocks allowed Danger Cove to live up to its name.

  House McDougal was on one of the bigger lots in the neighborhood. A lot of the older, more staid residents of Danger Cove looked down on the new-money denizens in the McMansions on top of the hill, but I had several good customers in the gated community—and anyway, who was I to look down on anybody? I kind of liked the area. The grounds were lush and cultivated, the streets wide and quiet, the residences reserved.

  Caroline and Brodie's house had an indoor Endless Pool, tennis court, and an enormous stand-alone gym that took up a large part of the area behind the house enclosed by a six-foot stone and wrought iron wall.

  It was Sunday night after my Thursday lunch, during which Caroline had laid out her clandestine plan to seek her revenge on Brodie's finances.

  The big Scot himself had left for Edinburgh on Friday, and Caroline had gone to Seattle the day before and caught a flight to LAX.

  I was busy checking out my dance moves to the groove of "Uptown Funk" in front of the full-length mirrored wall in Brodie and Caroline's impressive closet and dressing room.

  You'd heard of "…moves like Jagger"? Well, I had them—not Mick. Isaac Jagger, the octogenarian in my apartment complex, upstairs in number 3G.

  My Mr. Jagger was a nice guy—when he wasn't leering at me and shaking his hips, although that was probably not a fair assessment of my neighbor. The leering? More like squinting, really—his eyeglass prescription needed updating. And Isaac's hips shook on their own just like the rest of him. I couldn't tell you how many times the poor guy had been forced to come all the way downstairs just to ask someone to help him hold his key steady so he could unlock his door.

  With that picture firmly in mind, maybe it would be easy to understand about my natural rhythm. That was to say, I had none.

  I hardly ever went out with my girlfriends because I lived in mortal terror some hot dude would walk up and ask me to dance. Of course I'd have to say yes. After a few times saying "No thank you," a girl got a reputation that she was practicing to be a bitch. A few more times, and she graduated to full-on professional. But if I accepted and actually danced, I'd be laughed out of the club when everyone got a look at my gyrations. Yes. That bad. Of course Mick Jagger had better moves than I did, but if I were being honest, so did Isaac Jagger.

  Watching myself in the mirror, I was sad to see my dancing hadn't improved. My mother had hopefully chosen Grace as my middle name. It may have jinxed me.

  My amazing baby, Vader, a funny-faced teeny-tiny pug I'd rescued last year, sat on a nearby vanity bench watching me, his head tilted, expression skeptical. Everyone was a critic.

  Cute and lovable, the handsome little guy had curled up beside me from the first night I'd brought him home. He'd proceeded to snore, whistle, and rattle the night away while I spent hours trying to block out the racket. What else could I have called him but Vader?

  He took one last look at my pathetic attempts to boogie, sniffed loudly, jumped down, and went back into the bedroom.

  I took the buds
out of my ears and gave up.

  It was around seven thirty on Sunday evening. With Brodie having left for Scotland and Caroline for California, it was just me, Vader, and the McDougals' boxers. My Vespa was back in working order and sitting in the McDougals' garage in the classy company of Caroline's Mercedes and Brodie's sleek Porsche.

  And there I was, at leisure in a gorgeous house with enough bells and whistles to keep me entertained for months.

  With no commitments other than hanging with the dogs, I was looking forward to a quiet evening. I poured Bailey's over ice, changed into my nightshirt, and curled up in bed with my tablet, anxious to start reading a new novel. I had a proclivity for those mysteries where the Siamese felines helped solve the case. What could I say? I was an animal lover. Fiction was my vice, and tonight was the night.

  I was only twelve pages in when Fabio and Gil, those two extremely handsome and exquisitely pampered boxers, came bounding into the bedroom, leapt onto the bench at the foot of the bed, and sat staring at me. Caroline probably loved them more than she did Brodie. But they were his before they were hers, and I was willing to bet the boys were listed that way in the tight pre-nup she'd signed. She would cry for them when the split came.

  "Hello, fellas. You need a break?"

  I swung my feet out from under the cushy covers and padded downstairs, followed closely by two big anxious dogs and one small curious one. I opened the great room French doors and let them out onto the enormous rear grounds.

  The dogs bolted out into the night, and I pushed the door partially shut behind them to keep out the night air—crisp, clean, pleasantly misty, and cold.

  The ocean was only a few blocks to the west then about seventy feet or so straight down to the beach at the bottom of the cliffs at Craggy Hill.

  Within minutes, the howling began. Again. They'd been doing it off and on ever since I'd arrived Saturday morning. Ideally, the ebb and flow sounds of the ocean would lull me to sleep, but it probably wouldn't be in the cards. Not tonight anyway.

  Damn. Every time those two went out, they got straight to it, sounding like a pair of fire trucks pulling into the backyard. Vader made a disgusted noise and crawled under a chair.

  I opened the door wider and stuck my head out.

  "Fabio! Gil! Knock it off!"

  They ignored me. "Guys, guys, cookie? Want a cookie? Come inside. Come on." Either they didn't respect my pack leadership or they couldn't hear me over the ungodly howling.

  I grabbed the clicker training device. Caroline had assured me they'd been trained to come running when it was used. After several clicks it had worked before. Maybe it would work again—I stood in the open doorway. Clicking and snapping.

  But this time it didn't work. If I had my guess, they had no intention of coming back inside.

  The door chimes sounded. How did Caroline stand that obnoxious thing? The doorbell rang—it was Freddy Mercury singing "We Are the Champions." Ugh.

  "Seriously?" I said to Vader. "What now?"

  I slipped a short, lightweight robe over my nightshirt that proclaimed Sleeps with Dogs, made my way to the front of the house, and looked out the peephole.

  I had a feeling I knew who it would be.

  And I was right.

  The uniform was a solid clue.

  The area was patrolled by a private security company with the unfortunate name of BS 24-Hour.

  I cracked open the front door but didn't take the chain off.

  "Is Mrs. McDougal home?" His voice was rich in timbre, sort of musical. Nice. But then it always had been.

  "She's out of town, Tino. I'm pet sitting for her."

  "Is that Lizzie Jones? Mrs. McDougal notified us she was going out of town. We just weren't sure when she planned to leave or who she'd have dog sitting." He smiled. Even in the dim lighting, his teeth were dazzling.

  As a pet sitter I'd been in and out of many residences in this well-to-do neighborhood, keeping watch over the pooches and kitties of traveling clients. I'd encountered security patrolmen a few other times—older guys like retired cops maybe. But not this BS man. This was Augustine "Tino" Morales, ex-captain of the Danger Cove High School soccer team and the object of my unrequited teenage passion.

  Tino was still a sexy Latino, still gorgeous, and still really built, if the way he stretched out the uniform was any indication. My type of built. Lean and cut, not muscle bound like Brodie.

  I resisted the urge to smooth my hair. I'd been laying in bed reading and was thinking I probably looked a little helter-skelter. It figured it would be him.

  "We've had several complaints about barking dogs." His tone was apologetic.

  "I know. I'm sorry. I'm having trouble keeping them in check," I whined. Unattractive? Sure. But what difference did it make anyway? He'd already rejected me once. And I'd honestly never had a problem with dogs like this before, so I could use his help. I was generally simpatico with most domesticated animals—it was part of what made me good at my job as well as what boded well for my intended profession as veterinarian.

  "Every time I let them out they scream and carry on. Now they won't even come when I call them. Guess it's time to get serious."

  "If you would allow me…" His accent was slightly lilting. It was one of the things I'd been so crazy about as a teenager. "…I'd be happy to see if I could help."

  Now I did smooth my hand over my hair. How frustrating was it that the first time we'd spoken in years, I probably looked like an escapee from a mental hospital. "That would be wonderful. The neighbors are obviously tired of their howling."

  I opened the front door wider, and he followed me through the house to the rear door. Was he checking me out? While my best wasn't exactly Sofia Vergara, it was a far cry from my scraggly hair and short robe, which was a hand-me-down from my mother and had seen its heyday back when Clinton was President.

  I turned to glance at him.

  His eyes lifted, and his head came up. My legs. He'd been looking at my bare legs. All righty then. One of my best features. Eat your heart out, buddy. See what you missed out on?

  "So how are you, Lizzie?" One corner of his mouth turned up in a shy smile.

  Still too cute.

  Stop it. He already broke your heart once. Don't give him another shot at it.

  But he went on. "We haven't had a chance to catch up in, oh, maybe nine or ten years?"

  "Right." He wasn't getting off that easy. "Not since the Sadie Hawkins Day fiasco."

  "Oh," he said softly. "Right."

  Yep, Lizzie Jones—the girl most likely to dwell in the past. That was me. I'd been a sophomore. He was a year ahead of me in school, and I was wild and crazy about him—my first crush. He obviously hadn't even known I existed. After practicing my dance moves for months so I wouldn't embarrass either him or myself, I'd finally thought maybe I wouldn't be laughed out of the place and got up the nerve to ask him to go with me to the Sadie Hawkins Day Dance. I'd been nervous. So very nervous. He'd said, "No." Not that he'd already been asked. Not that he couldn't go. Nothing else. Just, "No." I'd felt like a fool and never got up the nerve to speak to him again.

  Now he didn't speak for a minute, and when I turned and looked back, he'd stopped a ways behind me.

  "I've thought about it a lot, Lizzie, and I really wish I'd said yes. I didn't—"

  I interrupted him. "Let's just forget it. Okay?"

  I switched on the floodlights, and we stepped out onto the bricked patio area.

  The rear grounds stretched out before us. The dogs were still howling to beat the band. A breeze tugged at the hem of my short robe, and I wrapped my arms around me, suddenly chilled.

  Tino looked at me. I shrugged. He shrugged. Together we maneuvered the brick pathway leading past the lawn and skirting the tennis court. Vader, trotting along behind us, kept growling low and harrumphing, clearly under the impression he was in charge of this investigation. We stopped near the building that housed Brodie's gym where the boxers paced in front of the door.
<
br />   "Shh. Come on, guys. Seriously? Give me a break here." I tried pleading first, then engaged my leader-of-the-pack voice. "Fabio. Gil. Quiet."

  Black-and-white Fabio, the bigger boxer with the kind eyes, bounded over and circled us a few times before making a beeline back to where Gil, his smaller solid brown counterpart, stood on his hind legs, scratching the heck out of the door.

  "What's wrong, amigos?" Tino moved in for a closer look.

  Now the howling finally stopped, and they both scratched at the door. Vader waddled closer to supervise, yipping instructions here and there.

  "What's in here?" Tino asked.

  "It's Brodie McDougal's gym. He's a professional bodybuilder. Mr. Jupiter."

  Tino nodded. Of course he'd know who lived here.

  But maybe he didn't know… "He's out of the country, and there shouldn't be anything going on in there."

  "Maybe we should check inside," Tino said.

  The dogs seemed to understand and began to prance.

  "Yes," I agreed. "Let's. Ever since I arrived, every time I've let them out of the house, they run out here howling up a storm. Maybe there's a cat trapped inside or something."

  He pulled a Taser from its holster.

  I stared. "Why would you need that?"

  "It's procedure," he said simply. "We don't know who or what might be in there. Could be an intruder."

  An intruder? I held my breath as he turned the knob and opened the door. Fluorescent lights came on automatically.

  Fabio and Gil ran straight in, while Tino, Vader, and I hung back.

  There didn't seem to be anyone inside, not at first glance anyway. A powerful odor came at us—hard to pinpoint, but it smelled like chlorine and dinner at the same time, with an undertone of something heavy and unpleasant.

  Mostly I was awed by the elaborate interior. I hadn't been inside Brodie's man cave before and had to say I'd never seen such a place. The floor was terrazzo polished to a high gleam. It looked clean enough that you could safely sit on it wearing white pants. The walls were covered with various framed poses of Brodie in full competition pump—muscles bulging and glistening, reddish Thor-like hair flowing back off his face in waves, wearing only a skimpy little silver Mylar posing brief that revealed far more than I ever wanted to know about my best friend's husband. An inviting seating area was at the far end of the big open space—a plush U-shaped sectional, snacks and wet bar, big flat-screen TV. Between the door and the seating area was every kind of bodybuilding machine and workout gear imaginable—from free weights and medicine balls to Nautilus machines and cardio equipment.