Hounds Abound by Linda O. Johnston

looked—as she did that morning. She wore her traditional black T-shirt that read SECURITY STAFF over matching black jeans. Her brown hair, highlighted and gleaming, framed a face that had once been pale and gaunt but now looked healthy and attractive.
    The first connection Brooke had had with HotRescues was when she had attempted to relinquish her sweet golden retriever Cheyenne so we could find the dog a new home.Brooke had been let go from her job as a private investigator and was about to lose her house. And her life. She had a heart condition, no insurance, and no way to pay for medical treatment to save herself.
    She hadn’t wanted her dear pup to suffer as she did.
    That turned out to be one of the infinite number of times I was grateful that our benefactor, Dante, cared about both animals and people. He had donated enough for Brooke to get medical treatment and save her house. Then, when she was well enough, he’d authorized our hiring her as the security director of HotRescues, a smart move since EverySecurity, the pricey independent security company he liked to use for his HotPets chain, had badly flubbed its job here and we needed someone to ensure that didn’t happen again.
    Brooke did a superb job with that and more around here.
    Now Cheyenne and Zoey sniffed each other, then walked into the kitchen together to jointly beg for treats. I smelled the coffee Brooke had promised to brew.
    “So what’s on your mind?” Brooke asked as we settled down at the compact kitchen table. “Is it about the Miles Frankovick murder?”
    I nodded, then sighed. “Bella asked me to get involved and help figure out who killed him, and the way she did it I couldn’t say no.”
    Her grin was much too amused. “I know you better than that, Lauren. You never agree to anything you don’t want to do. Besides, you were already involved. You know, though, don’t you, that private investigators need licenses?”
    I sat up straighter, practically banging my coffee mug on the table. “I’m not a P.I. And I certainly don’t want to become one.”
    “Are you insulting P.I.s?”
    “Do you still have your license?” I countered.
    “If I say yes, does that mean you’re insulting me?”
    I laughed. This was turning into a ridiculous conversation, and I was sure that Brooke had started it to help lighten my mood.
    She had succeeded.
    “Since you’re a P.I., I definitely think highly of the breed,” I said. “But you wouldn’t want me as your competition, if you ever go back to actively being one.”
    Her turn to laugh. “You’re right about that.” Her mouth segued into a grim line. “Can I talk you out of it?”
    I shook my head.
    “I figured. I don’t like it, Lauren. You—All right. You already asked me to get whatever insight I could from Antonio. So far he hasn’t been very helpful. I may be able to fix that, though.” Her raised eyebrows suggested that she would find a way to get what she asked for by seduction, and I grinned.
    But then I grew more serious, too. “When I asked you that, I was at the crime scene, and I was curious. I really hadn’t planned to get involved. But now …”
    “You were already involved,” she countered. “How do you plan to go about your investigation?”
    “The same as before. Lots of interviews and questions and notes.”
    She nodded. “So what do you plan to do next?” I told her, and she shook her head as she uttered a laugh as wry as a frustrated dog trainer. “Good thing no one at those doctors’ offices know you, Lauren. For one thing, you look damned good for a forty-something woman.”
    I opened my mouth to protest. She’d spoken in a tone that suggested she referred to a senior citizen, someone twice my age. She was only about ten years younger than me, so it wasn’t like she was a teen who looked at anyone over twenty-five as antique.
    “For another thing,” she continued, “anyone who knows you would be certain you won’t do anything beyond maybe dressing