Free Fifty Shades of Greyhound (The Pampered Pets Mystery Series) by Sparkle Abbey Page A

didn’t care.
    “Yep.” Malone leaned forward in his chair. “The Feds have your grandma’s brooch and my murder investigation.”
    He didn’t shriek, but from the thunderclouds behind his eyes, I could tell he would have if it wouldn’t ruin his tough cop image.
    “Who do I need to talk to?” I would call them up and let them know I’d be expecting my property returned right away.
    “That was FBI field agent John Milner.” Malone pointed at the phone. “I believe you two have met. Would you like Agent Milner’s number?” He jotted the info on a scrap of paper and extended it to me.
    I snatched the note and rose to leave. “Agent Milner will be hearing from me.”
    “I’m sure he will.” I got the impression he thought Milner deserved the grief.
    I hurried from the office before Malone could think to mention how I was dressed the last time he’d seen me.
    I TRIED THE number Detective Malone had given me before I headed to my first appointment of the day.
    Voicemail. Great. I left a message.
    My message was no-nonsense, but my face burned as I realized he’d undoubtedly connect the name I’d left with the crazy jet-haired chick in the skimpy outfit from the other night.
    I could not believe Grandma Tillie’s brooch was now out of reach in Federal evidence. It was one thing when it was locked up a few blocks away and in the possession of Detective Malone. But now in federal evidence?
    Bizarre. Ridiculous. Unacceptable.
    Turning the Mercedes onto Laurel Canyon Road, I took some deep breaths. It was just a piece of jewelry. True, it was a family heirloom and important to me, but, seriously, no one had died.
    It was safe where it was, and I would get it back. It was simply going to take a little longer.
    The good news was even though I didn’t have the brooch, neither did my cousin, Mel.

Chapter Eleven
     
    YOU’VE PROBABLY heard the adage about people looking like their pets.
    I have to say, in all the years I’ve been involved in pet therapy, while there are cases where that may be true, there are just as many where you wonder at some of the more incongruent pairings.
    Take my cousin, Melinda. Tall, elegant, and gorgeous. Yet Mel’s canine, Missy, is a crown-wearing, title-carrying, Ugliest Bulldog.
    No offense, Missy-girl, it’s just a fact.
    And take my friend, Diana. She’s nothing if not glamorous perfection. But her puggle, Mr. Wiggles, is far from perfection. The rescue pug-beagle mix was the sweetest dog ever, but a non-regulation ear and an underbite did not make for a glam dog.
    And then there’s my next client, Matt Bjarni, the big russet-haired bodybuilder guy from our self-defense class. He’d called after learning from some other attendees that I worked with problem pets.
    Matt was the owner of the tiniest foo-foo puppy you’ve ever seen. Chachi is a teacup Maltese that tips the cuteness scale at way beyond cute. On the weight scale—well, let’s just say soaking wet, Chachi might be all of two pounds.
    Matt had called me about Chachi, and we’d decided to meet at the dog park today, because the little pooch was having problems with—get this—being aggressive with other dogs. The Laguna Beach dog park is separated into two distinct areas with a large running area for big dogs and a smaller area for the medium to small to tiniest dogs. The small-dog side even had a bit of shade which was welcome on this blue-sky, warmer-than-normal Southern California day.
    Matt was already there with Chachi protectively cradled in his arms. I sat down beside them on the bench. Chachi was so adorable and so incredibly tiny. Matt’s massive forearms were bigger around than she was, and little bits of white fur stuck out between the fingers of his big beefy hands.
    “Let’s put her down and see how she does, okay?” I’d intervene if there was a problem, but I needed to see her in action to understand the problem.
    Matt reluctantly placed Chachi on the ground.
    The little white ball of fluff