The Girl With the Dachshund Tattoo Read Online Free

that could belong to anyone. I didn’t have a good feeling about this woman.
    “If you see her again, let me know.” In the meantime, I’d dig around on my own to find out if this was a legit operation. I pulled out my smartphone and launched the Internet.
    “I’m checking on Zippy and Pickles,” Betty said.
    “I’m sure they’re fine,” I muttered, distracted by what I’d found online. Or more accurately, the lack of what I’d found.
    “I’ll be back.”
    My head snapped up. “What are you up to?”
    “Ricky-Dicky mistreats Zippy. I’m going to make sure someone’s there to protect that pup.” The determination in her voice rang in my ears.
    Could this really be the same woman who’d walked into my shop last December and declared she didn’t want a canine and only barely tolerated cats? Something had turned her into a pet activist. Or at least a dachshund activist.
    “Look, I’m not sure what you think you saw, but if he had truly hurt Zippy, his nightmarish wife would have taken him down.”
    Betty stared at me, her gray eyes unblinking. “I know what I saw. I’m not blind. I don’t even wear glasses. He dragged that poor helpless dog around by his leash.”
    Now that she pointed out her lack of eyeglasses, I wondered when she’d had her eyes checked last. Sidetracked by Betty’s eyesight, I missed what she’d said.
    “What’d you say?”
    “I’ll be back,” she announced.
    I sighed. She was like a dog with a bone. “Do I need to come?”
    Betty huffed, offended. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
    I held up my hand. “I was just asking. Do us all a favor and keep a low profile.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “You know exactly what it means. Stay out of trouble.”
    I don’t know what I was thinking, but I should have known better. Betty Foxx and trouble were joined at the geriatric hip.
    IT WAS ONE O’CLOCK, and Missy and I had been alone for over an hour. As much as I didn’t want to act like the overly concerned employer, I was troubled that Betty hadn’t returned. The miniature and lightweight races had wrapped up, and the emcee had recently announced over the loud speaker that the heavyweight races would start in an hour.
    “Do you want to go for a walk, girl?”
    Missy lifted her head and grunted. She stood up, stretched, then shook off her boredom.
    Bark. Lick, lick.
    Missy-speak for “Let’s hit the road.”
    I snapped on her leash with a loud click. We ambled around the park. Missy relieved herself, and I people-watched. It was a great turnout. The warmth of the sun was like a promise of good things to come. The energy in the air, palpable. I grabbed a gyro, eating lunch as we threaded ourselves through the crowd.
    “Hey, there’s Zippy,” a young boy yelled out in excitement.
    I looked in the direction he pointed and caught a glimpse of what looked like Betty jumping around like a toad on hot Texas pavement. The concentration on her face suggested there was more to her determination to see Zippy than fandom.
    Zippy and his human, Richard Eriksen, were immediately surrounded by demanding fans. They were far enough away that I could only hear bits and pieces of the conversations over the chatter of the crowd. The longer they stayed, the more people appeared. Missy and I moved closer.
    Richard, or as Betty liked to call him, Ricky-Dicky, was a tall lanky man with a forced smile and a rigid stance.
    “Get back,” he shouted.
    “Don’t be an ass. They want his autograph.” Gia’s bossy voice sliced through the commotion.
    The crowd parted enough for me to see a young boy, no more than ten years old, reach out to pet Zippy. Richard yanked on the leash, dragging Zippy backwards. The dog’s feet slipped on the grass, dropping him to a sit position.
    “They can stop by the winner’s circle after the race. Right now, we have to get to the waiting area,” Richard argued.
    “It’s bad luck to celebrate before a win.” I heard Betty’s reedy voice drift through the