Paw and Order. V.M. Burns

Jefferson, Dixie to her friends, was just about to take a sip of champagne from a beautiful fluted glass. However, after one glance at my face, she handed her glass to her husband, Beau, who was standing nearby.

      I gave my date, Dennis Olson, although everyone called him Red, a look that I hope said, I’m really sorry.

      It must have worked because he mouthed the words, “You owe me.” Then he tugged again at the collar of his tuxedo.

      I grabbed Dixie by the arm and pulled her away.

      The Chattanooga Museum was packed with guests for the Eastern Tennessee Poodle Rescue Association’s fundraiser, but as a museum employee I knew about several secret alcoves in areas the general public were unlikely to stumble across, and I headed for the nearest one. When we got to a dimly lit area that featured glass sculptures, I stopped.

      Dixie stared. “Now, what’s so important?”

      “There’s a man—”

      “You look stunning, by the way.” She glanced from my head to my feet.

      We had gone together to the hair salon, and she’d been with me when I bought the peacock blue sequined mid-length sheath dress, so I knew the compliment was related to the entire package.

      “Thanks.” Dixie was a stunning beauty who turned heads everywhere she went. At nearly six-feet tall, without the heels she was wearing tonight, she was thin with excellent skin and big Dolly Parton hair. I was a Midwestern transplant from Northwestern Indiana to Chattanooga, Tennessee, and often felt like a country hick compared to the beautifully made up and well-coifed women I saw walking the aisles of the local Publix grocery store. Dixie was a true Southern Belle, so a compliment from her went a long way to boost my confidence.

      “Sorry for interrupting.” She looked serious. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

      “There’s a man at the front entrance making a scene.” I leaned forward. “He looks homeless, but he brought his poodle.”

      Dixie shook her head. “Archibald Lowry.”

      I looked at my friend. “What?”

      “Archibald Lowry. He never goes anywhere without his dog.” She shook her head. “Remember, you went with me to his house a few weeks ago?”

      I shook my head.

      “No matter. I meant to warn you about him, but it totally slipped my mind with all of the preparations.”

      Dixie was the most organized person I knew, but she had been working like a maniac on this weekend fundraiser, so forgetting to mention a homeless man with a poodle would be attending the fundraiser was minuscule, all things considered.

      “You’ve worked so hard organizing everything. I’m sure it will be great.”

      Dixie looked stricken. “Don’t jinx me.” She looked around.

      I laughed. “Stop worrying. Everything has turned out beautifully. You should be so proud of yourself.” I hugged her. “I know I am.”

      Dixie gave me a quick squeeze. “Thank you, but I won’t be able to relax until this weekend is over.”

      We pulled apart. “Now, back to the homeless man.”

      Dixie chuckled. “He’s far from homeless.”

      “Can you please talk to him? Linda Kay had to practically beg the board of directors to allow the fundraiser at the last minute and I don’t want to get my boss in trouble.”

      When the ballroom for the Scenic City Hotel was flooded, and it looked as though the Poodle Rescue Association’s annual fundraiser would have to be cancelled, I thought it would be a win-win to offer the Chattanooga Museum as an alternative location. The event would garner publicity and much needed funds for the museum and the poodle rescue would get to have the event that Dixie had spent so much time planning.

      “Of course, I’ll talk to Archibald.” She marched toward the entrance with me by her side. “He’s a cranky old windbag, but he’s richer than Midas, so no one ever tells him ‘no’ about anything.”

      I stopped walking and Dixie turned to stare at me.

      “Rich? I’m not sure we’re talking about the same person.”

      Dixie laughed. “I’m sure we are. Let me guess, he’s probably dressed in a tattered Scottish kilt that’s too short and frayed on the bottom with socks that keep sliding down, a dingy white-ish shirt and black jacket that’s probably older than I am with a scruffy beard and wild hair that looks like he hasn’t combed it in the past decade.”

      “That’s him.” I stared at her in disbelief. “Is he Scottish?”

      She chuckled. “A few years ago, Archibald Lowry paid someone to trace his family tree. That’s when he learned about his Scottish roots. He claimed he was a descendant of some famous Scottish knight and started wearing a kilt to social functions.”

      “You don’t mean Sir William Wallace, from the movie with Mel Gibson? Braveheart?”

      Dixie nodded. “That’s the one. He even went over to Scotland and bought a derelict castle, and had it renovated. He used to be just plain, Archie Lowry, but after his Scottish rebirth, he said his name was actually Archibald Leamhanach or something like that. He claims his ancestors’ names were changed when they immigrated.”

      I gaped at her a few moments longer until she grabbed me by the arm. “He’s a recluse who rarely comes out in public. That’s why I went to his house to talk to him. He’s a huge poodle fanatic and if you think my dogs are spoiled, you should see how he treats his dogs.”

      I paused for a moment as recognition dawned on me. “Is he the guy that lives out in the middle of the wilderness.

      Dixie nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one. He wanted to talk to me about including the poodle rescue in his will, but he had to interview me first.” She used air quotes around interview. “It felt more like an interrogation, and I wasn’t sure he intended to leave us anything. In fact, after a while I would have paid him money just to get out of there.” She sighed. “I forgot I even invited him to the fundraiser. In fact, I think I promised him he’d be the guest of honor this weekend or something.” She sighed. “I didn’t think he’d really come. He rarely goes anywhere.” She shrugged. “Oh well, come on. Let’s get this over with before he blows a gasket.”

      When we got close to the lobby, we followed the raised voices to the area where a security guard who worked for the museum and Jacob Flemings, Linda Kay’s assistant, were trying to quiet Archibald Lowry.

      Jacob was in his early twenties and stylishly dressed, as usual, in a slim fitting tuxedo that reminded me of James Bond. His curly hair was slicked down and pulled back into a bun and his bright red rectangular glasses provided a touch of artistic flare. The only flaw in his meticulous look was the compression boot which he was forced to wear ever since he broke his ankle a month ago. To Jacob’s credit, despite Archibald Lowry’s blustering, he maintained his composure and kept a pleasant smile plastered on his face. But when he caught sight of me out of the corner of his eye, I noticed the strain on his face. His eyes pleaded with me for help.

      Dixie turned on the southern charm and marched over to the kilted man. “Archibald, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to greet you.” She leaned in, kissed his cheek and picked up the small silver poodle from the floor. “What an adorable poodle.” She stared at it closely as I’d seen her do when judging dog shows. “This isn’t Constantine.”

      Archibald Lowry stopped snarling at Jacob long enough to say, “Of course not.” He swallowed hard. “Constantine died.” He paused for a moment, sniffed and pulled a dirty handkerchief from his breast pocket. He blew his nose, wiped his eyes and then returned the piece of fabric to his breast pocket.

      Jacob’s eyes enlarged and he turned and limped away mumbling, “It looks like you have this under control, so I’ll just