It all started when Topper died. Topper was Aunt Lottie’s black cocker spaniel. If you look up the term spoiled rotten in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of Topper right there beside the definition. I suppose having no husband and no children would make a woman love her pets more than most people did. And from childhood, Aunt Lottie had been a dog person and Aunt Dottie a cat person. When I was a child, Skippy had ruled the roost. He was Aunt Lottie’s feisty little half feist, half Chihuahua. He went to puppy-dog heaven when I was eighteen and my father, the younger of the twins’ two brothers, had promptly purchased Topper as a Christmas gift for his grieving sister. Within days, Topper had become top dog in every way, and until his dying day, he lived a life most humans would envy. Even Daddy often said that when he died, he wanted to come back as one of Lottie’s dogs. And truth be told, on more than one occasion, I’ve wondered if maybe at least part of Daddy’s spirit hasn’t returned in Lucky. I’ve never told a living soul about that. We Paines are considered the town eccentrics as is. No need to add fuel to the flames.
I know. I know. I’m digressing again.
When Topper died, Aunt Lottie was inconsolable. She hadn’t carried on half as bad when Daddy had died two years before, and he was her favorite brother. She loved Uncle Douglas well enough, but she’d said it herself, “Percy can be counted on. Douglas can’t be.”
One of my favorite charities is Animal Haven. It’s Alabaster Creek, Alabama’s equivalent to the dog pound, I suppose. Although Animal Haven shelters all sorts of animals, cats and dogs make up the bulk of their residents. I volunteer one afternoon a week at the shelter and back about four years ago, this precious little puppy, who had been abused by his previous owner, was dropped on the doorstep, the pitiful thing half-dead. The minute I told Aunt Lottie about the mongrel pup, she not only paid the vet’s bills, but after taking one look at the puppy, she adopted him that very day.
After Doc Stone had given him a clean bill of health, Aunt Lottie had lifted the puppy into her arms, stroked his little head and said, “Well, mutt, you’re one lucky dog. I’m taking you home with me.” And that’s how Lucky got his name.
Now, I’m not saying that Aunt Lottie loved Lucky more than any of her previous dogs, but there’s something special about Lucky. He’s not just smart, he’s super-smart. And he’s gentle and loving. Real friendly. And he adored Aunt Lottie. Actually the only flaw Lucky has is his intolerance of Puff, Aunt Dottie’s cat. But then again, nobody likes that darn cat except Aunt Dottie.
Now, this brings me back to when Uncle Willie read Aunt Lottie’s last will and testament, two months ago. I can still see Aunt Dottie swooning over in a dead faint. And Uncle Douglas’s face turning beet-red as he struggled for words. I’m not sure who whined the loudest or the longest, but I think it was probably Cousin Valerie. She and her hubby, Dylan Redley, were counting on inheriting a sizable chunk of Aunt Lottie’s fortune. They and their demon child, Dylan III—whom they call Trey—even moved home to Alabaster Creek two years ago so they could suck up to Aunt Lottie.
One little thing you should know about Dylan Redley. He was my high-school sweetheart and my fiancé. Yes, he’s the one who ran off with the preacher’s wife right before our wedding. And yes, my second cousin, Valerie, was the preacher’s wife.
I know, I know. I’m digressing again. I can almost hear Aunt Lottie saying, “Stop rattling and get to the point, Penny Sue.”
Well, the point is that Aunt Lottie left her entire twenty-three million dollars to Lucky. That’s what I said. My aunt left her very sizable fortune to her dog. I was surprised. The other family members were shocked. Some were outraged. And the whole town of Alabaster Creek found the turn of events quite amusing. Most folks are still laughing—behind our backs—about nutty old Lottie Paine leaving millions to a dog-pound pooch.
Now you understand, I don’t need Aunt Lottie’s money. My father, God rest him, left me well off. I’m not a multi-millionaire, not rich enough to have men beating a path to my door, but if I chose never to work another day in my life, I’ll still be financially secure. Percy Paine, like his sister, Lottie, had not squandered his inheritance. So, I suppose that was one reason Aunt Lottie made me executor of her will and Lucky’s legal guardian. That and the fact she knew I loved Lucky, that I love animals in general and dogs in particular. That’s one trait I did inherit from her.
The other heirs complained—loud and long. They shouted that they would protest the will, to which Uncle Willie immediately replied, “No point wasting your time. At Lottie’s request, I saw to it that her will is iron-clad. No judge in the country would overturn it.”
Now, you’d have thought that would be that, right? Oh, no. To a person, they—even Aunt Dottie—hired lawyers. Didn’t do them a darn bit of good. They should have listened to Uncle Willie and saved themselves the time and the money. All the heirs would inherit someday, of course—but only after Lucky died.
Like I said, I love my family, at least nearly all of them. I can’t say I’ve entirely forgiven Valerie for running off with Dylan. But I don’t hate her. And seeing what a good-for-nothing Dylan turned out to be, I suppose I should be grateful to her. Every family has its faults, its idiosyncrasies, its skeletons in the closet, etc., etc., and the Paine clan is no different. But all in all, we’re good people. God-fearing, flag-waving, all-American Southerners. So just imagine how totally traumatized I was when a member of my family tried to kill Lucky. I don’t know who did it, but I’m convinced it was a disgruntled, disappointed heir who is willing to kill a poor little innocent dog for money. And in retrospect, I realize that this latest attempt might not have been the first, just the closest to successful.
After being shot, Lucky is recovering nicely over at Doc Stone’s veterinary clinic and he’s due to be released tomorrow. Since I have been unable to convince the police that Lucky is in danger, that he needs protection—when I’m elected mayor, I’ll definitely be looking into local law-enforcement practices—I was left with only one choice. It’s what Aunt Lottie would have wanted, what she would have done herself.
I hired a bodyguard for Lucky.
Chapter 1
Vic Noble got off the elevator on the sixth floor of the downtown Atlanta building. He had finished his most recent assignment for the Dundee Private Security and Investigation agency two days ago and had hoped for a bit more downtime before being reassigned. No such luck. Daisy Holbrook, the office manager, had phoned him this morning to tell him that the CEO, Sawyer McNamara, had contacted her from his vacation home in Hilton Head, South Carolina, with the details of Vic’s new job.
As he approached Daisy’s desk in the heart of the Dundee agency office complex, she apparently sensed his presence. Glancing up, she offered him her usual pleasant smile. Daisy was a sweetheart. A cute, plump little brunette the staff referred to as Ms. Efficiency. Every agent thought of her as a kid sister. Even he did, and there weren’t that many people Vic took a shine to, especially women in general. Oh, women had their place in his life, but only on a temporary, mutually satisfying yet non-emotional basis. Having been a loner since childhood, he liked his solitary, uncomplicated life. He’d been involved once, maybe even in love, but the experience had been bittersweet, to stay the least.
“Good morning, Vic,” Daisy greeted him when he stopped at her desk. “Sorry to cut your down-time short, but you’re the only available agent. We’ve been working shorthanded for quite some time, ever since Frank, Kate and J.J. all left us this past year. Mr. McNamara told me to thank you for taking this assignment.”
“No problem,” Vic said, but a peculiar glint in Daisy’s eyes warned him that something wasn’t quite right. “Or is there a problem?”
“Not that I know of.”
Her smile widened, going from warm and friendly to forced and phony. Not a good sign. Vic smelled trouble with a capital