The only thing I had under control was my wardrobe.
I’d left Mona a third voicemail. Still no callback. I’d called Darby, asking her to drop by my place to let Missy out while I dealt with Fluffy. You guessed it-I got her voicemail, too. I left a message and crossed my fingers that she’d hear it sooner rather than later.
I could have picked up Missy myself, but I didn’t want to subject her to a Mona tirade for drooling on the marble foyer. There were some hygiene problems a girl just couldn’t help.
Getting Fluffy into the Jeep was easier in theory than action. She’s one stubborn dog, but we finally came to an understanding.
I pointed the Jeep south on Pacific Coast Highway (PCH to the locals). With the top off, every once in a while I could hear the crashing waves. I lowered the visor, blocking the glare of blushing pink swirls and the blaze of brilliant orange streaking the sky. I sighed in contentment. Another spectacular evening in paradise.
I made my way to the prestigious gated community, Sapphire Bay. Being rich wasn’t enough to live on the other side of the iron gate. You had to be vetted, sponsored and have more money than God.
I rolled to a stop next to the security shack. Mr. Rent-A-Cop stuck his head out the window. He was on the downhill side of middle-aged with a bushy gray mustache. Faded green eyes scrutinized us through his bifocals. He recognized Fluffy right away. I, on the other hand, got a complete once over, including a raised unibrow.
“Name,” he asked, completely unimpressed I had Mona’s dog.
“Melinda Langston.”
He reviewed the clipboard in his hand. Non-residents didn’t just waltz thought the hallowed entrance. Someone had to authorize your visit. I was ninety-nine percent sure I wasn’t on “the list.”
I slid him a beauty queen smile and fibbed like a five-year-old. “Mona had an unexpected emergency and asked me to bring Fluffy home. She assured me she’d let someone know I was coming.”
He tucked his clipboard under his arm. “Sorry.”
I eyed him, considering my next move. “I guess you’re right. I certainly wouldn’t want you to do anything that might get you into trouble.” I put the Jeep in neutral and pulled up the emergency brake. “I’ll just leave Fluffy with you. I’ll let Mona know where to pick her up.”
He grunted. Looking past his skepticism and the community rules, he let us through the gate.
I followed the smattering of wispy palm trees to Mona’s oceanfront mansion. I pulled into the circular drive and parked next to the fountain.
“Let me refresh your memory on the Mel-Rules. I’m the human. No gloating. No dragging. Got it?”
Fluffy pawed at the door and whined.
“Good grief. Let me grab my bag and cell.”
Unlike the dog, I wasn’t in a big hurry. The last person I wanted to see was Mona. If I was lucky, the housekeeper, Camilla, would open the door and take Fluffy off my hands.
I went around to the passenger side and opened the door. I attached the leash to Fluffy’s diamond-studded collar and released her from the safety belt. The second I stepped back, the crazy dog jumped out and dragged me toward the multi-story Mediterranean-style home.
So much for the rules. Fluffy could use a visit from a pet therapist I knew. Once we reached the front door, Fluffy stopped and looked at me expectantly.
“Hello? I’m the human. I thought we had an agreement?” I could tell from her expression she didn’t care about what I was saying. She wanted in. I wanted to go home. I rang the bell.
Cathedral-style bells filled the inside of the house. Okay, it wasn’t really church bells, but it could have been. I looked down at Fluffy, who didn’t seem at all bothered by the flamboyance.
“Really? This is what you come home to every day?”
We waited. No one came.
I rang the bell again.
Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong.
Just shoot me now. Please.
We continued to wait.
Fluffy grew more restless with each passing second, which made me equally antsy. Having the dog was a perfectly legitimate reason to walk inside, but my southern manners dictated I wait for someone to invite me in. Well, that and the security system.
I pounded on the door. Fluffy continued to whine and paw. Still, no one came. Forget manners. Forget the alarm. I tried the door.
Unbelievably, it swung open. And there was no screeching alarm.
“Wow.” I glanced behind me before I took a couple of steps. As soon as my foot hit the marble entryway, Fluffy lunged forward, taking me for another drag. She stopped in the middle of an ornate foyer bigger than my entire living room and kitchen combined.
“Hello? Anyone home?” My voice echoed in the empty silence.
I expected the housekeeper to appear any second. “Camilla? Mona?”
Fluffy strained against the leash as she edged her way toward the stairs. The moment I unhooked her, she charged up the curved oak staircase leading to what I assumed was her wing of the house. I waited for Mona to make her trademark entrance, descending the staircase like a classic Hollywood actress ready for her close-up, but she was a no-show.
Then it hit me, Mona was probably at Bow Wow. Her Jag wasn’t in the drive, although it could be in the garage. It would be just like Mona to come when it was convenient for her.
I quickly pulled my cell from my purse and punched in her number. Within seconds a cell phone rang behind me. I spun around. Mona’s phone was on the hall table.
I grabbed it. “That’s not good.”
I ended the call, absently dumping the phones in my purse, and then dropping it on the hall table.
“Mona,” I called out louder. Where the heck was she? I couldn’t leave Fluffy behind until I knew Mona was home. Good grief, she better not have taken a spontaneous trip to the Caymans.
I climbed the stairs two at a time. “Mona. I’ve delivered your dog.”
Fluffy poked her head around the corner and barked as I reached the top of the stairs.
I jumped back. It was the first time I’d heard her bark without a cue. Or a camera.
“What’s gotten into you?”
Fluffy planted her feet and barked again.
“I’m not allowed up here?”
Her dark eyes bored into mine, then she quickly turned and trotted down the hallway.
“Oh, now I speak dog,” I muttered.
I bought her Lassie act and followed. We zigged through hallways, zagged past a half dozen rooms, and I wondered if I should’ve left a trail of bread crumbs. Finally Fluffy stopped in front of a closed door, looking more exasperated than usual.
I rolled my eyes. Lord, she was demanding. “All that barking because you can’t get to your throne?”
I opened the door. She pushed past me and sniffed around. I took a quick peek and realized it was Mona’s bedroom.
Being more than a little curious, I left my southern manners in the hallway and allowed myself a quick look. I was immediately drawn to the beautiful oil canvas of an Italian river sunset hanging at the head of her king sized bed. The blush colored duvet cost more than my brand new Jeep.
Way too much white, gold and fringe for my taste, but it fit Mona perfectly. A beautiful tall armless chair was precisely positioned in the corner. I could easily imagine Mona lounging aristocratically, Fluffy at her feet. It was all very old Hollywood.
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.