The Girl With The Dachshund Tattoo Part 11

I pointed the Jeep toward the dog park. Traffic was light for a Sunday afternoon, which was unusual. Maybe the possibility of rain had kept people home. I pulled into the parking lot and was lucky enough to find s.p.a.ce to park near the entrance.

I noticed Lenny's car was no longer parked along the street. I wondered if he was off searching for a shower or a decent meal. Noting the size of his muscles, he didn't strike me as the kind of guy who'd happily eat fast food three meals a day and be content.

The park was quiet, basking in the calm before the energetic crowd trampled the lawn for the second day in a row. I carried the totes across the damp gra.s.s to my booth, greeting my fellow vendors along the way. I also kept an eye open for Betty.

I shoved the unpacked totes under the table, next to the cooler I'd left behind last night, with the intention of setting up later. My first priority was to find the girl with the dachshund tattoo and locate Betty's gun. I slid my backpack over my shoulder then slipped my hands in my jean pockets. My fingers brushed against the money Sven had given me earlier in the morning. I also needed to find where to place the bet for Sven.

I wandered toward the food area. Food trucks and canopy tents coexisted in an area not much larger than the parking lot. The aroma of BBQ, along with ethnic and typical fair food filled the air. My stomach growled in appreciation. The trucks came in all sizes and colors, some newer than others, while a handful looked like they had been pulled straight out of the junkyard and abandoned at the park.

Sven had made it sound as if the betting was a known fact. But I had a strong feeling that wasn't the case. The Red Hot Chili truck was easy to find. The words "Chill at the Chili House" were stenciled in green on the side. The huge serving window was locked down, so I knocked loudly on the side of the truck.

"h.e.l.lo," I called out.

"Rodney isn't here," Lenny spoke from behind me.

I turned around. So he was here. I wondered where he'd parked his car today. He looked much better than the last time I'd seen him. His body-hugging T-s.h.i.+rt and khaki shorts, although stained and slightly wrinkled, didn't smell like he'd pulled them out of a dirty clothes hamper or, in his case, off the floorboard of his car.

"Do you know when he'll be back?" I asked.

Pickles lay at Lenny's feet looking rather subdued. Or bored. He was a dog so it was hard to tell what he might be feeling.

"You here for the chili?" Lenny slurped his coffee out of a to-go cup.

"Sure."

He watched me with bloodshot eyes over the rim of his cup. "Rodney's making change."

I wasn't sure if that was gambling slang for something nefarious or if he was literally making change. "Okay. Thanks, I'll check back later." I pivoted on my heel and started to walk back to the vendor booths.

"If you don't get back before the race, he can't help you."

"Good to know."

"You've never bet on a race before have you?" he called out.

I stopped mid-step. Clearly he had something to say. Curious by nature, I couldn't help but turn back around and close the distance between us. "Is it that obvious?"

An amused smile hung on his normally angry mouth. "Yeah. You working with the cops?"

Lordy, don't let Malone hear him say that. He'd think I was sticking my nose in places he'd specifically told me to stay out of. I admit, sometimes I didn't always follow directions well, but this wasn't one of those times. "Regarding Richard?"

"In any way." Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

Was he sick? It certainly wasn't hot enough for him to be sweating. I'd wager he had a hangover. "Nope, I'm here as a favor for a friend."

"Where's your dog?"

"She was exhausted from all the back-and-forth yesterday. She chose her bed over another day being shown up by wiener dogs."

He finished the last of his drink then tossed his empty container in a yellow trash can. "d.a.m.n straight. Who you bettin' on?"

Ah. His interest in my wager was purely personal. I pointed at the long wire-haired guy resting in the gra.s.s. "I was told to bet on Pickles. To win."

Lenny rubbed the back of his head, his expression grave. "Good. Good. This is our time. It's now or never."

His comment struck me as odd. "Why do you say that?"

"Look at him. It kills him to race and never win. He can only take defeat for so long. Eventually he'll give up."

"That's tough. I'm sorry." Gia had taunted Lenny that his dog was a depressed loser. From Lenny's comments, it seemed she was right.

Pickles did look down in the dumps. Did dogs take antidepressants? Did they see dog therapists . . . like Caro? If we were talking, I'd ask her. But we're not, so I made a different type of suggestion.

"Maybe he just needs a treat." Missy always seems to perk up at the mention of the "T" word.

Right on cue, Pickles lifted his head. After a thump of his tail, he let out a small bark.

"He looks happier already," I said with an encouraging smile.

Lenny, on the other hand, looked like he was about to cry. He squatted next to the love of his life and stroked him adoringly. "I'll do everything in my power to keep him that way."

Everything? That was such a subjective word. I'm guessing "everything" probably didn't mean the same to me as it did to Lenny. And since we're now keeping score, did that mean Lenny would kill Richard Eriksen in order to keep Pickles happy? Where was Lenny when Richard was killed?

I kept my questions to myself because I was not sticking my nose into Malone's investigation. But I have to tell you-it was killing me to keep my curiosity to myself.

Lenny stood. "Hey, have you seen that filmmaker lady around?"

"No. I've been looking for her myself, but I haven't seen her yet."

He looked concerned. "She better be here. She's supposed to film our race. She promised."

Interesting. Why would she make that promise? "When was that?"

"Yesterday, when she interviewed us."

"Was that before or after Richard's body was found?" I know, I know. I just said I wasn't going to ask those types of questions.

"I thought you said you weren't working with the police?" He twisted his head side to side, popping his neck. He crossed his humongous arms across his chest, flexing every muscle I could see. And probably flexing those I couldn't. I noticed a brightly colored tattoo of the word "Marine."

It would take more than a military tattoo, some neck-cracking, and bulging muscles to intimidate me. "I'm curious. I haven't met the filmmaker yet. Do you know if she interviewed Richard?"

He snorted. "Of course."

"You really hated the guy."

"He was a cheat and a phony."

Interestingly enough, according to Gia, Richard had felt the same about him. "Did Richard tell you about the interview?"

"No. She followed him to the waiting area. It was disgusting the way she fell all over him. Zippy's not special. G.o.d, I hope she filmed Richard's stupid rituals. He was such a fool."

"Rituals?"

"About six months ago, in San Diego, I overheard him and Gia arguing about Richard's superst.i.tions. Get this-he carried a lucky rabbit's foot like a freakin' kid. He brought a special water dish to every event. The fool even made Zippy walk in six large circles, backwards, two hours before each race. He was a nut job."

That could have been what Betty had witnessed, except she'd thought he'd hurt Zippy. "Was that all they argued about?"

"Heck no. What do all married couples argue about?" He rubbed his thumb against his sausage fingers. "Money. His therapy sucked up all their funds. Can you believe it?" An evil laugh rumbled up from deep inside him, causing Pickles to bark.

I could. I also believed Lenny knew an awful lot about a person he hated. What was that saying, "Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer?"

I added Lenny to my suspect list.

Chapter Fourteen.

AFTER I LEFT LENNY and Pickles, I dashed toward the veterinarian tent to talk to Daniel who, according to Gia, might know where I could find the girl with the dachshund tattoo, aka Stephanie, the mysterious filmmaker. I found it rather suspect so many others, except for me, had talked to her. Plus, I suddenly had a number of questions to ask my favorite vet about depressed dogs.

The tent, which was really a portable clinic, was nestled in between the Doxie Lovers of OC and The Pet Palace-the finest five-star doghouses money could buy. The clinic's doors were propped open, which I took as an invitation to enter.

Amazing. It was a fully functioning clinic stocked with general supplies and all the necessary equipment-including an x-ray machine-to care for a sick or injured animal.

I found Daniel crouched in front of a rolling cabinet at the back of the tent.

"Knock, knock," I called out lightly, not wanting to startle him.

He stood and brushed off his khakis. His welcoming smile spread to his warm brown eyes when he realized it was me. "Hi, Mel. Come on in."

Daniel was ripe with boyish charm and sharp intellect. Somehow he'd dodged the broken-down-hockey-player look after he'd busted his nose three years ago in a freak surfing accident.

"Hey, Daniel. How are you?"

"I'm good. How about yourself? How's Missy's new toothbrush working out?"

I grimaced. "She hates it. To be honest, so do I. The triple headed brush is difficult to get into her mouth. I'm going back to the regular toothbrush I had."

"Whatever works. Dental care is equally important for canines as for us humans. Although, I'm sure you didn't stop by for a lecture about dental care. What can I do for you?"

"Do you have time for a couple of questions?"

"Sure. Have a seat." He pointed at three plastic chairs that looked uncomfortable and not conducive to long-term sitting.

I glanced around for another option, but unless I was willing to sit on an exam table, an unforgiving chair was it. "Trying to keep the line short, huh?"

He chuckled. "Definitely not the most comfortable, are they?"

We dragged a couple of chairs to face each other, the metal legs chewing up the gra.s.s then spitting up dirt. I dropped my backpack on the ground and sat.

He rolled the sleeves of his gingham-checked blue sport s.h.i.+rt to mid-forearm. "So, what's going on?"

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "I was curious; how would you treat a depressed dog?"

His eyebrows knitted in concern. "Are you worried about Missy?"

"No. I was talking to Lenny Santucci a few minutes ago. His dog Pickles is racing today. He was telling me how depressed Pickles has been lately."

He nodded. "Pickles could be picking up on Lenny's anxiety."

That was a definite possibility. From what I had seen, Lenny was not only high-strung but he also had a lot to be anxious about. "Do you medicate for that? Or, you know, do dogs go to therapy?"

Daniel smiled knowingly. "Caro could talk to you about therapy."

I leaned back in my chair and rolled my eyes. He knew my cousin and I weren't on speaking terms. He'd heard both sides of our whole muddled history. As a true friend to both of us, he refused to pick a side. "I see you haven't lost your sense of humor."

Daniel popped up. "I have something for you." He walked across the tent to the rolling cabinet and dug through the top drawer. He pulled out a pamphlet and brought it over to me. Behavioral Medications for Your Dog. The front page was a photo of an adorable Corgi barking at his owner.

"Treatment depends on the animal. It doesn't have to be one or the other. They can be medicated and attend therapy. Either one can be costly. Without insurance, the medication can cost as much as seventy dollars a month."

I flipped through the brochure. "If Pickles was on antidepressants, would he have an unfair advantage?"

He shot me a half smile. "Pickles might experience an increased heart rate, but an antidepressant could actually slow him down."

Could Pickles be on medication, and that's why he continued to lose? I tapped the pamphlet, debating what I should do next. Lenny didn't seem like the kind of guy who'd appreciate unsolicited help. I shoved the information in my backpack.

Daniel checked his watch. "The race starts in about ninety minutes. Did I answer all your questions?"

I grabbed my backpack and stood. I needed to make this fast; I still had to set up the booth. "I ran into Judd Malone yesterday and he mentioned you examined Zippy. How was he?"

He raised an eyebrow in amused skepticism. "You just happened to run into a homicide detective?"

I grinned. "Well, you know."

He leaned against the exam table. "No, I don't know. I'm not sure I want to. But to answer your question, yes, I examined Zippy Eriksen. Other than acting a little skittish after being handled by a couple of strangers, he seemed fine."

I wasn't a specialist, but in my humble opinion, I also thought he seemed fine when he was at the boutique this morning. "So you cleared him to race today?"

He shrugged. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Even after all the doping rumors?"

He blinked in surprised. "What have you heard?"

"Mostly Lenny spouting off about the Eriksens juicing their dog. But it was Gia's reaction that got me curious. If she has nothing to hide, why not volunteer Zippy for a urine test?"