Woof at the Door (17 page)

My cell rang. It was the driver letting me know he was waiting.

I told the dogs to be good and grabbed my purse. When I passed the hall mirror, I
jumped. Holy Cow! Skanky the Clown had broken into the condo! No wait . . . that was
just me.

Chuckling to myself all the way to the limo, it took all my restraint not to burst
out laughing when the driver opened the door and said, “Good evening, Ms. Wilde. You
look lovely.”

A short time later, we rolled to a stop in front of La Vida Loca. I climbed out of
the limo and the driver handed me a little plastic bracelet that had LVL VIP printed
on it. He helped snap it on my wrist, and I started for the door.

It was a Tuesday night, but the club was packed. I asked a beefy bouncer where the
VIP section was, and he pointed up a staircase to my right. I weaved through the crowd
and showed the second beefy bouncer at the bottom of the stairs my nifty bracelet
and was allowed to pass. At the top, the vibe was a bit different.

Fewer people, more cocktail waitresses, lots more bottles of champagne.

I spotted Wes. He was chatting up a guy who was so feminine I only knew he was a guy
because of his Adam’s apple. They were sitting at a round banquette, and I suddenly
felt doubly bad about crashing Wes’s night.

Wes saw me before I could bolt. He smiled and waved.

Crap
.

I made my way to them. Wes introduced me to his friend, Eric, who he’d just met. Well,
at least I wasn’t going to be a total third wheel.

“You look like a little hot tamale!” Wes said as he kissed my cheek.

“Thanks.”

“Love the lipstick,” he said with a grin. “Gives you that just-kissed look.”

“Like you been smooching in a dark corner,” Eric added.

A cocktail waitress set a margarita in front of me. I lifted it and took several gulps.
It was strong—plenty of tequila and orange liqueur. I felt a warmth settle in my belly
and took another sip.

Twenty minutes later, I was smiling and chatting. I even laughed a few times.

Wes leaned toward me. “Having fun?”

“I am, actually.” It was true. Thanks to my measly salad dinner, the tequila was giving
me a buzz. The music was upbeat but not so loud that I couldn’t hear.

“Eric seems nice,” I said in Wes’s ear.

“He’s got to go soon. Meeting some friends. But I think we might go out tomorrow.”
Wes wiggled his eyebrows.

I hoped they hit it off. Wes hadn’t had a boyfriend in a while. Eric had an exuberant
personality that might have been annoying in another setting. But he was quick witted
and funny.

Just as Wes predicted, Eric soon got a call on his cell and said his good-byes.

We watched him leave and Wes turned to me and smiled. “Now, why don’t you tell me
why you really wanted to come out and meet me?”

Leave it to Wes. He and my sister seemed to share the ability to see through my crap.

I sighed and decided to start with the less pressing question. Alexander Burke had
been arrested for aggravated assault. I needed to know what that meant.

Wes shot me an amused look when I asked. “Do I need to be worried about someone?”

I smiled. “No.” I told him about Burke’s record.

“Basically, assault is defined as a plausible, unlawful threat to do violence to another
person.
Aggravated
assault can be one of two things—assault with intent to commit a felony, or assault
with a deadly weapon.”

“Seriously?” And I had been banging on this guy’s door?

Wes lifted his finger. “But that doesn’t mean anyone was hurt.”

“What do you mean?”

“You could be arrested for aggravated assault if you threaten someone with a baseball
bat. Even if you don’t use it. Was he convicted?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll look into it. I should be able to get a hold of his file.”

The word
file
made me think of the real reason I’d hunted Wes down. But I’d thought of another
question. “LaBryce was supposed to be out today. Why would a judge hold off?”

“Pressure is high. I’ve heard some scuttlebutt that demands are being made . . . by
powerful people.”

Gardenia Richardson
. “People like the governor, you mean.”

He dipped his head in consent. “Among others. I’d be surprised if LaBryce’s lawyer
manages to get a bond hearing at all.”

“What can you tell me about the Richardson family? Under-the-rug-type stuff.”

“You want dirt?”

“I want muck.”

His brows shot up. “Ooooh, can I ask why?”

“Let’s just say I don’t really like the governor’s wife.”

“Hummmm, that’s some big guns, sweetie. The Clarke family. Old money.”

“Old money means old secrets. You know any?”

“A few.” Wes took a sip of his margarita and leaned against the back of the banquette.
“Grace, you know that woman is a snake. Poking at her will just piss her off.”

“Calling her a snake is inaccurate and insulting to ophidians everywhere.”

Wes leveled me with a look that said,
You know what I mean.

I did.

“I guess the most recent scandal is over Jennifer Weston.”

“What about her?”

“Well, according to a tenacious young reporter at the
Times Union
, she wasn’t always the nice girl. Recently, he did a story that revealed Miss Weston
grew up in Emerson.”

“Emerson? Like, Emerson Arms?”

Emerson Arms was the projects—the for-real, big-time projects. It was last place in
the world I pictured sweet, angel-faced Jennifer growing up.

Wes nodded. “Her mother was an addict who, rumor has it, recruited her daughter to
do everything from stealing to prostitution. Though her juvenile records are sealed,
of course. And the governor has been paying her college tuition. In fact, it seems
that he’s paid for everything, including her housing.”

“Why?”

“When the story leaked, they claimed that after dating their son for almost four years,
Jennifer had become like a member of the family. She had struggled out of the ghetto
and made it into college, so being the benevolent people they are, the Richardsons
decided to be sure she got a good education.”

“What’s the real story?”

“Who knows? Maybe Jennifer and Mark broke up because Jennifer set her sights higher
in the Richardson household.”

“You think she’s sleeping with the governor?”

“That’s one of the rumors.” Wes took a sip of margarita and his eyebrows wiggled in
a delighted gossip-fueled dance. “But that’s nothing compared to some of the stuff
the Clarkes have gotten away with. That family has more lawyers on retainer than the
Iditarod has huskies.” He leaned forward. “I heard from a friend who used to work
at one of the firms that, back in the fifties, the patriarch, Thurman Clarke, killed
his first wife.”

I tried to remember if I’d ever heard of Thurman Clarke; I came up empty. “What happened
to her?”

“Officially, she died in a car accident. Unofficially, the story is that Old Mr. Clarke
lost his temper and tossed her out of a limo while they were on 95.”

“Holy shit! How do you cover up something like that?”

“Money. Lawyers. And more money.”

“Jeez.” I sucked down the last sip of my margarita. “Did you ever work for them when
you lived here?”

He laughed. “Lord, no. I’m far too gay. No self-respecting, card-carrying bigot would
hire a gay lawyer.”

“So the Clarkes are murderous bigots, and the Richardsons are slimy philanderers?
Must make for an interesting Thanksgiving.”

Wes laughed. “Makes me glad all I have to endure is my Uncle Arty’s bad jokes.” He
grabbed my hand and tugged me to my feet. “Come on, let’s salsa.”

• • •

There were no nasty notes stuck to the door, so I assumed Moss had been quiet. It
was just shy of eleven o’clock, and Emma wasn’t home yet. The dogs greeted me and
I gave them both a quick hello pet before I staggered into my room and dropped into
bed. I was too tired to shower or even wash my face.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t too tired to wonder what to make of everything Wes had told
me. I thought about Jennifer Weston, who obviously was not as innocent as she seemed.
Had she kept ties with people from her old life? Were the bruises on her arm from
a run-in with some past contact? Or could they be from the governor? Or even Gardenia?

I wouldn’t put it past the woman. Though she probably had someone else do her dirty
work.

Jennifer was getting her tuition and expenses paid. After meeting Gardenia, I didn’t
believe the philanthropist shtick. Taking Jennifer’s past into consideration, there
was the possibility that she was blackmailing the family because she had something
on them.

I imagined her going to Gardenia Richardson with a manila envelope filled with damning
evidence. The scene in my head was just like in the movies—Jennifer demanding payment
and then saying the line, “If anything happens to me, copies will be mailed to the
press
and
the cops.”

I have to admit, I kind of liked that scenario.

But what about Mark? According to Wes—and my own astute observations—both sides of
the family bred hypocritical despots who believed they were above the law. So, did
the apple fall far from the tree?

Everyone had said Mark was a nice guy. Even though he hung out with LaBryce, who most
people thought was a thug. I knew LaBryce was nothing like his image. Maybe Mark wasn’t
either.

Believing the person who killed Mark was a friend of his could be a big mistake. Mark
could have opened the door for a drug dealer, a hooker, or a candlestick maker.

I squeezed my eyes shut. My head was overflowing with theories and ideas that circled
around and around but never went anywhere. Like a clogged toilet.

Maybe detective work wasn’t so great after all. I reached over and placed my hand
on Moss. He was dozing. No dreams, just a mind filled with peaceful, soothing white
noise. I locked onto his brain waves, wrapped them around me like a down blanket,
and was lulled to sleep.

• • •

Mind melding with a half wolf is not always the best idea.

I’d spent part of the night racing through snowy woods and calling out to my pack.
When I finally opened my eyes, Emma was looking down at me.

“Umm . . . good morning?” She was staring at me the way you look at a two-headed tortoise
at the interstate fair.

I tried to speak, but my throat was raw and my tongue felt cemented to the roof of
my mouth.

Emma handed me a glass of water. “I walked the dogs. Mr. Cavan-ass gave me the stink-eye
when he saw me.”

I guzzled the water. It took me a second, but I was finally able to force my lips
to work. “Was I howling?”

“Umm. . . . nooo. Why?” Her expression shifted from
freak
to
mental freak
.

I rubbed my fingers over my eyes. “Then why are you looking at me like I’m a carnie
reject?”

“Well . . . you look like you fell asleep eating a red Magic Marker.”

I pressed my lips together and glanced down at the pillowcase. It was smeared with
Diablo Red. “Your makeup sucks.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Margaritas suck, too.”

“Dare I ask?” Emma eyed me as I slowly dragged myself out of bed.

“Wes.”

“You went out last night! Why didn’t you call me?”

I grunted and shuffled toward the bathroom. I needed to brush the fur off my teeth.
And I still didn’t want to tell Emma about Miz Gardenia’s threats. She would find
out from Wes that I was asking questions about the family, but I would deal with that
later.

I began evasive maneuvers. “Wes met a cute guy last night.”

“Oh?”

I knew this would perk her up.

“Eric. He was funny and seemed—” I stopped as soon as I turned on the light in the
bath and saw my reflection.

“Oh. My. God.” Skanky the Clown had a bad night. “Get me a washcloth and a blowtorch.”

Emma hooted with laughter. I could hear her hysterics all the way to and from her
room. When she returned, she handed me a container of moist towelettes. I gave them
a dubious once-over. I mean how was a thin wet tissue supposed to combat napalm?

“They’ll take it off, I promise.” She patted me on the shoulder and sighed. “I’ll
go make you some coffee.”

Though vigorous scrubbing had left my lips pink and puffy, after a shower and a cup
of coffee, I felt ready to tackle the day. I had only one stand-by appointment: a
man who was introducing a new cat into his pride of five had me on speed-dial. If
the suggestions I gave him didn’t do the trick, I’d have to swing by and play kitty
ambassador. Not always easy, cats being cats.

Thinking of cats reminded me that I also needed to check on Charm. She shouldn’t be
hungry. The supersized meal I’d fed her would hold her over till later in the afternoon,
but it would also mean there would be supersized jaguar poo to contend with. LaBryce
was going to owe me big time for this one. Not only was I taking care of his pet,
I was trying to help the cops solve Mark’s murder. Well, in a roundabout way.

Honestly, I was hoping to get a call any minute from LaBryce telling me he had seen
the judge and was on his way home. But I had to consider Wes’s scuttlebutt and warning
that LaBryce wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

Left with a fairly free morning, I decided to make a run to Alexander Burke’s house.
Maybe I would find the truant handler and drag him back to work or, at the very least,
get Charm’s vitamin mix.

In a vain attempt to stem the flow of complaints and insulting sticky notes from Mr.
Cavan-ass, I’d promised Emma I’d take the dogs with me. Squinting, I shoved my sunglasses
on and ushered them out the door.

The morning sun beamed as we all climbed into Bluebell. It was half past eight, and
it was already hot enough to bake a turkey in the passenger seat.

Both dogs were panting loudly. I made sure their water container was full, gave them
both a quick pat, and cranked up the AC.