Sparkle Abbey - Get Fluffy

My eye was drawn to the dozens of framed photos of Fluffy. On the beach, at a dog show, on the set of The Guiding Lighthouse , Fluffy with Julia Roberts. (Okay, I had to do a double take on that one. I swear to the Lord Almighty, Fluffy’s hair was styled exactly like Julia’s. They were twins. )

I turned to leave and stopped in my tracks. Right above the fireplace hung a life-sized gilded-framed painting of the dynamic duo-side-by-side, matching hair color and aristocratic expressions, with Mona’s arm draped over Fluffy’s back. The adoration on Mona’s face was obvious. The painting was beautiful and, at the same time, a little creepy.

Mona loved Fluffy. No, Mona worshipped Fluffy. She’d never abandon her dog.

Something was wrong. Why would Mona leave her front door unlocked, the alarm off and her cell phone behind?

Fluffy shoved me out of her way and trotted down the hallway to the next room. Once again, I followed. Certainly, whatever was behind door number two would be equally draped in luxurious excess and might give a clue to Mona’s whereabouts.

I’d barely turned the knob when Fluffy barged past me, head-butting the door against the wall with a loud bang.

I stumbled through the doorway. It wasn’t a room. It was a mini-palace fit for a movie star. Fluffy’s palace. A white sheepskin rug in front of her personal fireplace, a king-sized sleigh bed and a dressing screen (why a dog needed a dressing screen was beyond me). Fresh filtered water dripped into her Wedgewood doggie bowl.

It was also a disaster.

Fluffy’s wardrobe was strewn throughout the room, draped precariously on the bed, and hanging out of open drawers. While Mona had an obscene amount of photos, Fluffy had her own slew of trophies and ribbons. All of them haphazardly tossed about.

The room looked like it had been ransacked.

Fluffy disappeared behind the disheveled bed. Her tail stopped wagging and she whined softly.

That’s when I saw her.

At first, I wasn’t certain what I was looking at. Then it became clear. Mona was sprawled on the floor as if posing for a men’s magazine. It was almost picture perfect, except for the blood matting her five hundred dollar haircut and the gold statue stuck in her head.

I hesitantly moved closer. Fluffy nuzzled Mona’s cheek. When she didn’t move, Fluffy pawed her shoulder, still whining.

“I don’t think she’s getting up, girl,” I said softly.

Mona was dead. Deader than a stuffed Poodle.

Right after I’d dialed 9-1-1, I called the one person I trusted to tell me what to do next.

“Someone whacked Mona with Fluffy’s Emmy.” The words tumbled out of my mouth the second Grey had said hello.

“Are you injured?” he asked, voice thick with concern.

“No, just wigged out.”

“Where are you?”

I paced the length of the hallway between Fluffy and Mona’s room. “I’m still at Mona’s. This is my first dead body, and I have to tell you, it’s not like what you see on TV. I think I’m going to puke.”

“Hold on, I’m on my way.” He was in his secret FBI mode. Gone was the art dealer persona he carried for cover. His normal teasing tone had transformed into solid, calm and controlled.

“Mona would die if she knew people were going to see her like this.” I cringed at my bad choice of words, but it was true.

I could hear Mona’s bored monotone voice ordering me to pull the statue out of her head and clean up the mess before it stained her one-of-a-kind hardwood floor. Once the room had been cleaned to her satisfaction, she’d demand her hair and makeup touched-up before any crime scene photos were snapped.

It was the God’s honest truth. That was just Mona’s way.

And after what I’d seen, I can’t say I’d blame her. Speaking of cleaning up, where was Camilla?

“Mona’s one bloody mess,” I said.

Papers rustled on the other end of the line as Grey cleared his desk. “Don’t touch her,” he said. His deep timber instilled a calmness I needed.

“I didn’t.” I poked my head into the room. I cupped the bottom of the phone and whispered, “The dog’s covered in blood and won’t leave Mona.”

“If you need help, call Caro.”

“I can handle Fluffy.” The sick smell of blood was a different matter. I breathed through my mouth and willed my stomach to stop churning. I heard a car door slam and an engine start over the phone. He was on his way.

“Don’t move. Better yet, wait outside for the police. Don’t touch anything. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

In that mess, I doubted the cops would notice if I touched anything. Outside sirens screamed through the dignified gated community.

“You’d better hurry. The cavalry’s almost here,” I said.

We ended our call, and I realized I was shaking so badly I looked like I’d downed a case of energy drinks.

I shook my head trying to erase the scene on the other side of the wall. But Mona’s image was branded in my mind.

I methodically inched through the hallway maze, really wishing for those bread crumbs. By the time I’d made it down the stairs, I’d stopped shaking and was once again a nose breather.

I opened the front door and inhaled the fresh air. The Pacific had never smelled so good. After a minute of gathering myself, I made my way back inside, leaving the door open, an invitation for the police. I sank to the bottom step of the staircase and waited for the troops.

They didn’t rush inside guns drawn like on the TV dramas, but they didn’t stroll in like it was a Saturday open house either. Brawny and carrying an air of authority that wouldn’t be overlooked, four uniformed officers entered. Two paused directly in front of me, while the other pair searched the downstairs.

Wasn’t four cops a little overkill? The police must have been on high alert after Kevin Blackstone’s murder.

“Are you injured?” Cop Number One asked.

Question of the day.

I shook my head. I was having a difficult time finding my voice. I wasn’t as together as I’d thought.

His blue eyes assessed me and our immediate surroundings. His short cropped brown hair reminded me of my cousin, Wyatt, on my daddy’s side. Wyatt didn’t think girls could do anything but cook, have babies, and look pretty. I didn’t like Wyatt.

I had no idea what Cop Number One thought as he processed my typical attire of motorcycle boots, faded jeans, and t-shirt.

He mumbled into the radio he wore like a tie. Someone squawked back something that only a fellow police officer, or a fast food employee, could decipher.

“Is there anyone else in the house?” Cop Number Two, who couldn’t be a day over twenty-one asked. I pegged him as the “good cop.” Dark hair, dark eyes, strong jaw line and plenty of who-gives-a-crap-what-you-think attitude. To say he was “nice” was an exaggeration, but he didn’t look at me as if I was already the prime suspect.

“No. She’s upstairs, to the right. I don’t remember which room but you can’t miss it. It’s a mess. I think I left the door open. Watch out for the dog. She’s standing guard.” Once I’d found my voice I rambled, offering random details.

With a nod of acknowledgment, the third and fourth cops walked past us and headed upstairs.

“What kind of dog?” Cop Number One was back.

He had to be kidding. There was someone in Laguna who didn’t know Mona and her four-legged sidekick? “I thought everyone knew Mona and Fluffy.”

“Which one’s the dog?” Cop Number One pulled out his black notebook.

It wasn’t a completely brainless question. There were many women named “Fluffy” in Orange County. But the fact that he didn’t know who Mona Michaels or Fluffy were made him Dumbo Cop.