Free Murder Unleashed by Elaine Viets Page B

tactful to mention the word “murder”—“but your Yorkie, Prince, is staying with us. We can keep him until you’re back home. The delivery will be free of charge and we won’t bill you for the boarding, but Prince needs to go home. He’s very distressed. We hope he’ll be less upset when he’s back in familiar surroundings. When would you like Helen to bring him home?”
    “Never,” Kent said. “That thing’s not mine. It’s hers. I hate it. It’s nothing but a long-haired rat.”
    “But, sir, what am I going to do with—”
    Kent cut him off. “You can put it to sleep for all I care. I never want to see that useless little bastard again. All it ever did was bark and piss.”
    “But—” Jeff said.
    “Don’t try to bring that nasty yapper here. I’ll wring its neck right in front of you. Got that?”
    Kent slammed down the phone.
    Helen’s ears rang from Kent’s phone slam. She shook her head to clear it. That was a bad idea. Her head clanged and wobbled. She was still rocky from last night’s wine, but her anger at Kent’s cruelty was burning away her hangover.
    “That creep,” she said. “I can’t believe Kent would do that. Prince is a terrific dog. He’s loyal and smart—everything Kent isn’t. I’d love to beat some sense into that gym-sculpted hunk of lard.”
    “You’ll never get any sense into Kent’s rock head,” Jeff said. His long spaniel face was paler than usual. He was shaken by Kent’s threats to kill Prince.
    “How can he threaten that harmless little animal?” Helen said. “Prince is the only living reminder of his murdered wife.”
    “I think you just answered your question,” Jeff said.
    “Does he hate Tammie that much?” Helen said. “Do you think he hated his wife enough to kill her?”
    “He certainly doesn’t sound like a grieving husband,” Jeff said. “Prince is more upset over Tammie’s death than he is.”
    “How are we going to make Kent take care of that dog?” Helen said.
    “We aren’t,” Jeff said. “I won’t turn Prince over to that heartless maniac. I’ll find him a decent home.”
    Jeff had an amazing ability to find homes for stray kittens, lost dogs, and other abandoned animals. He knew whose dog or cat had died and when his customers were ready to adopt another pet.
    “If you could find a home for that Jack Russell, you should be able to place a two-year-old Yorkie,” Helen said.
    “Gizmo was my greatest triumph,” Jeff said.
    The old, white-muzzled Jack Russell terrier was brought in by a weeping blonde who hobbled in on needle-nosed Prada slingbacks. “We’re moving to a condo that won’t allow animals, and my husband says I have to get rid of Gizmo,” she said. “My husband says Gizmo’s too old and I should put him to sleep. But I can’t. There’s nothing wrong with him. I’ve had him for ten years. You have to help me.
    “Here.” She’d handed Jeff the dignified old dog, who studied him with trusting eyes. The woman’s tears stained Jeff’s counter. She wasn’t a regular customer, but Jeff promised to find Gizmo a home.
    “Personally, I’d get rid of the husband,” Helen said when the weeping woman left.
    “Gizmo won’t keep her in Prada,” Jeff said. “She’s made her choice and she has to live with it—and herself.”
    At ten years old, Gizmo was hardly an ideal age for adoption. But thirty phone calls later, Jeff found the dog a home. A man was looking for a four-legged fishing buddy, and he enjoyed older dogs. Like most Jack Russells, Gizmo loved the water. The man and his old dog now spent many hours fishing together, eating ham sandwiches, and drinking beer.
    A mournful yowl reminded Jeff of his current duty.
    “I hope I do half as well finding a home for Prince.” Jeff flexed his dialing finger and said, “Now the magic begins.”
    While Jeff made his calls, Helen waited on customers and Todd gave Lulu a bath, a massage, and a manicure. Wish I could have a day of beauty, Helen thought.