Murder Unleashed
groomers.
    “Listen, Jeff, I was embarrassed when Tammie made those remarks about rainbow ribbons,” Helen said. “I’m really sorry. You shouldn’t have to listen to that.”
    “And you shouldn’t feel you have to apologize for rude straights—if that’s what she is,” Jeff said.
    “What do you mean?”
    “People who make nasty remarks about me being gay usually have problems trying to figure out which way they swing,” Jeff said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d had a lesbian episode. Or maybe she and her husband are into threesomes.”
    Helen remembered Tammie’s bare chest and her husband’s wobbling Speedo. “That’s what Betty told me. Tammie and her husband are swingers.” The swingers scene was bigger, or at least more open, than in Helen’s hometown of St. Louis. Swingers clubs took out bold ads in the alternative papers. One even promised a free salad bar, although Helen never found naked people and fat-free dressing a tantalizing mix.
    “In Fort Lauderdale, anything is possible,” Helen said. “But it’s getting late. I’d better deliver Prince to Miss No Stress.”
    “How was Tammie at home?”
    “Drunk and naked,” Helen said.
    Jeff raised one eyebrow. But before he could say more, the shop was invaded by an enormous shaggy brown dog.
    “I need to guard the stock,” he said. “It’s Willis.”
    Willis was a lovable old bear of a dog who slyly helped himself to treats and toys. He knew how to nose open the bins to sneak bacon-and-cheese treats. He took toys from the rack and hid them in his neck fur. The shaggy shoplifter had to be watched every minute.
    Helen went back to the grooming room to collect Prince, the party animal. Jonathon had done wonders with the Yorkie’s thin, flyaway hair. Now Prince had a regal coat. He was crowned with a jaunty blue bow.
    “Looking good, big boy,” Helen said.
    She put Prince in the soft-sided carrier with more turkey jerky. The Yorkie settled happily on the seat of the hot-pink Pupmobile. He was a sensible little animal. He deserved a better owner. Helen hoped she’d find the stressed-out Tammie sober and dressed. Or better yet, soberly dressed.
    As they approached the country club, Helen looked down at her black pants. They seemed different. More like a tweed blend. She was covered in dog hair. Terrific. Well, if Helen had to look at Tammie’s hide, Tammie could put up with Helen’s hair.
    At the country club, the somnolent security guard woke up long enough to wave Helen through. Helen thought she saw Betty the animal lover leaving, golf clubs in her car. But when Helen waved, the woman looked right through her. Helen decided she must be wrong. A lot of women in Florida looked like Betty.
    Helen rang the doorbell to the Grimsby mansion. No one answered. She knocked on the front door. It swung open.
    “Hello?” Helen said.
    Silence.
    The little dog whimpered.
    Enough, Helen thought. I am not going through this again.
    She stood in the vast foyer and yelled, “Tammie, are you home?” The sound echoed off the marble.
    That should be loud enough to get Tammie out of a drunken stupor, Helen thought. She waited five minutes, but there was no answer. The room was cold and dark as a mausoleum. Prince shivered. It felt like sun-warmed leaves moving in the breeze. The little dog seemed frightened. Helen wondered if he didn’t want to go home to his drunken owner.
    Well, she couldn’t stay here all afternoon. She gave Prince a reassuring pat. Then Helen marched through the living room and straight down the hall to the master bedroom. She stopped in the bath and took the terry robe off the hook. She was not going to deal with a naked Tammie twice in one day.
    On the pool deck, Helen blinked in the bright afternoon sun.
    “Hello? Tammie?”
    No answer. The naked legs with the bloody toes were again roasting in the sun. More flies crawled on the waxed limbs, but Tammie still didn’t shoo them away. She must be out cold, Helen
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