Desert Shadows (9781615952250) by Betty Webb Page A

then you can take him home.” She looked down at the grinning dog, who took that as a cue to chase his tail. “Would you like that, Boz? Would you like that?”
    Boz paused in his tail-chasing to bark an affirmative.
    Yes, a very cute dog, but not for me. This big dog hunted alone. “Look, ma’am, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” I said. “I’m not here about Boz.”
    Beauty scrunched her face, which didn’t even begin to mar her astonishing looks. “Then you’re not Mrs. Howell?”
    â€œNo, but it looks like Mrs. Howell is getting a great little dog.”
    Upon hearing the word dog, Boz made a beeline for my ankle, which he then proceeded to lick as if it had been slathered in liver. A ratty-looking white cat hissed at him from the corner.
    â€œBad dog, Boz. Bad cat, Andrew,” Beauty said, obviously not meaning it. Then she leaned over—with difficulty, due to her prominent belly—and tugged the dog away from me by his collar. “Don’t lick her, Boz.”
    I dug into my carry-all and handed her a card. “Lena Jones, Desert Investigations.”
    She released the dog’s collar and her friendly face closed down. “I told you. It’s being taken care of.”
    Interesting. Beauty had confused me with someone else yet again, even after I’d identified myself as a private detective.
    Boz, sensing that something had upset his mistress, began to growl. A few other dogs joined the hostile chorus, making the room sound like the tuba section of the Scottsdale Symphony.
    â€œBad dogs!” This time she meant it. Boz and friends shut up, but Beauty’s own voice turned to a growl when she said, “You’d better leave, Ms. Jones. And you can tell the people who hired you that this is getting ridiculous. Tell them to mind their own business and I’ll mind mine.”
    People who hired me? “Look, Mrs. Alden-Taylor, if that’s who you are, I don’t know who you think I am, but I’ve been retained by Owen Sisiwan’s family to investigate Gloriana Alden-Taylor’s murder.”
    The frown left her face. “Oh. I thought.…” She gave me a shame-faced smile. “The neighbors have been getting pretty irritated about my beasties, and.…Never mind. That problem’s about to disappear. As to Owen, the very idea that he would hurt a hair on Gloriana’s head is ludicrous. Zach and I have such faith in his innocence that we’re in the process of hiring an attorney for him right now. Here, take a seat. And yeah, I’m Mrs. Alden-Taylor, but call me Megan. Not even Gloriana used that pretentious double-barreled name.”
    I looked around at the various mounds of fur dozing on the sofa and chairs. “Er.…”
    â€œJust move somebody.”
    My eyes now accustomed to the dim light, I picked my way through the swarming mass of dogs and cats to the dingy La-Z-Boy recliner near a sofa which the cats had obviously been using for a claw-sharpening post. I leaned over the chair and picked up the fat black Persian whose hair, I hoped, wouldn’t look too grungy against my black jeans and T-shirt. Then I sat down, lifting the “beastie” onto my lap. Through all this, the cat never moved, other than to increase the volume of his purrs.
    Megan nestled herself on the ragged sofa between two stacks of books, whereupon two elderly cats, arthritic bones poking through beautifully groomed coats, immediately draped themselves over her thighs. She appeared not to notice the clumps of white and gray fur adhering to her denim maternity jeans. “All settled in now?” she asked them.
    After they purred their assent, she addressed herself to my own lap-warmer. “Poor Black Bart, does Mama need to blow your nose?” Then, to me, “Pig-faced Persians frequently have breathing difficulties. Oh. My manners. Would you like some iced tea? I’ve got