Case of the
Fleet-Footed Mummy
By
J.M. Poole
www.AuthorJMPoole.com
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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This book is a work of fiction. All characters and locations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real locations, is purely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America
For a complete list of titles available by Jeffrey M. Poole, including the best-selling fantasy series Bakkian Chronicles and Tales of Lentari, and the cozy mystery series Corgi Case Files, please click here!
Case of the
Fleet-Footed Mummy
By
J.M. Poole
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Acknowledgments
I have several people to thank when it comes to publishing this book. Of course, I have to thank Giliane, my wife. Once more she worked closely with me to make sure I didn’t screw anything up in our fictional town. I also drew on her experiences with “Apple Hill”, a festival much like “Cider Fest”, located in Placerville, CA. If you happen to be in the area when it’s open then I would definitely recommend you check it out!
I’d also like to thank the members of my Posse. They sacrificed their time in order to help me make sure the book is as polished as I can get it. You guys & gals know who you are. :)
The cover illustration was done by a talented artist by the name of Felipe de Barros, from DeviantArt.com. It was his first time making a cover for me and I have to say that he hit it out of the park. Thank you so much, Felipe! The typography, if you can believe it, was done by yours truly. I think I’m getting better at it. I would like to point out that the ‘mummy’ effect on “Fleet-Footed Mummy” was provided by an artist by the name of Sonarpos. If you like to dabble with Photoshop and all the many things it can do, I encourage you to check out his work.
And – as always – I’d like to acknowledge you, the reader. Thank you for encouraging me to do what I enjoy doing most: writing. Happy reading!
J.
To Giliane –
I don’t think I can say it enough times in one day. Thank you for all that you do. You’ve helped me out in more ways than you can possibly imagine.
Love you always & forever!
ONE
“So how bad is it?”
The bearded man in the pressed white coat nervously cleared his throat. He removed the stethoscopic earpieces from his ears and regarded the patient with an unreadable expression. I literally felt my blood run cold. My skin broke out in goose bumps as a chill trickled down my spine. I got the distinct impression that the doctor was uncertain how to best phrase his answer. I vowed to whatever deities that existed if bad news came out of his mouth then I was gonna personally punch Harry in his. Lucky for me they were both one and the same person.
“I don’t know what to tell you, man,” Dr. Harrison Watt admitted.
He looked at me and gave an apologetic smile. He may be my best friend in town, and we may have been friends since high school, but I was ready to smack that smile right off his face. I scowled and tried to look as intimidating as possible.
“You have to do better than that, pal,” I crossly told him as I looked down at the small table in the examination room. “You need to tell me what’s wrong. I swear, if you’ve given me a dog with a terminal disease then I am personally going to drop kick your sorry ass into next week.”
We both looked down at the patient. Two soft, doleful eyes looked up into mine. My stomach sank. I wasn’t going to let anything happen to one of my dogs. I couldn’t. I’d spend every last cent in the bank if I had to, which – and I am still getting used to this – is considerable. I couldn’t let anything happen to her. I wouldn’t.
Harry laid a hand on my shoulder.
“Zack, what we have here is… how do I put this?”
“Just spit it out, pal,” I snapped, growing angrier and more scared by the second. “Just tell me what’s wrong with her, okay?”
“Your dog is suffering from gastrointestinal distress. That is what’s causing her to flatulate.”
“Gasintestro what?” I repeated. Medical doctors and their damn big-ass words. Whatever that was didn’t sound good at all. “And it’s causing her to do what?”
“Gastrointestinal distress,” Harry carefully repeated. “It means Watson has gas.”
A smile formed on my friend’s face as he gently stroked the patient’s fur. I stared at Harry, waiting for a punch line I was certain was forthcoming. When my friend didn’t volunteer anything else I scowled again.
“You’re telling me she has gas? And stop rolling your eyes every time you say her name. Her name is Watson. End of story.”
“Watson is not a proper name for a little girl. I don’t care what you say, she doesn’t deserve to be called that.”
“Let’s forget about her name for a moment,” I sputtered, jumping back to the bigger problem. “You said she has gas? It’s not fatal, is it?”
Harry’s smile grew even bigger.
“No, it’s not fatal, Zack.”
“Well, um, what causes it? Dude, they’re raunchy as hell. Every time she lets one rip I swear my eyes are gonna melt in my sockets.”
Harry’s smile quickly melted into a frown.
“Do you actually hear her pass gas?”
I shook my head, “No. You can’t hear them, pal. They’re silent bombs.”
Harry leaned back against the counter on the opposite wall, draped his stethoscope around his neck, and stroked his chin. I’m sure I cocked my head like an inquisitive dog as I stared at my friend. I’ve never seen him look so pensive and serious. It was very unbecoming of him and, I will admit, a little unsettling.
“What have you been feeding her?” he finally asked.
“Only the kibble you recommended,” I answered.
“No table scraps?”
“None.”
“Hmm. How does she eat?”
“Excuse me? How does she eat? What kind of a question is that? She doesn’t use a fork and knife, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Harry cracked a smile and shook his head.
“No, what I mean is, the cause of most cases of flatulence in dogs comes from swallowing air.”
“Why in the world would dogs willingly swallow air?” I asked, perplexed.
“Brachycephalic breeds, for example, are prone to swallowing extra air due to their short necks and the position of their noses.”
“Brachy…”
“Brachycephalic,” Harry slowly repeated.
I looked down at Watson just as she turned to look up at me.
“Are corgis braky… brachy… whatever you just said?”
“No.”
“No? Dude, why’d you bring it up?”
“I was giving you examples. You asked why a dog would swallow air. I was giving you an answer.”
“Well, what kind of dogs are?”
/>
“Are what?” Harry mischievously asked, clasping his hands behind his back.
“You know damn well what I mean. I’m not saying that word again.”
“You haven’t been able to say it yet,” Harry pointed out.
I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at Harry. This was a side of my friend that I did not like. The pompous ass was showing me up, proving he had more education than I did. Harry laughed and slapped me on the back.
“Pugs. Bulldogs. Boston Terriers. Pekingese. Are those enough examples for you?”
“So if Watson –”
“Pumpkin,” Harry interrupted, squeezing the word in between coughs. He had made no qualms about telling me what name he would have given my newest dog.
“If Watson,” I continued, glaring at Harry,” isn’t one of those breeds, then what’s causing the gas? Come on, Harry. She farts in my Jeep. She farts in Jillian’s store. Hell, she farts when she’s up on the bed with Sherlock and me. There’s gotta be a reason why.”
Harry was doubled over with laughter.
“You’re not helping,” I told him crossly.
“Look,” Harry said, trying valiantly to compose himself, “the reason I asked you how she eats is because the most likely reason, like I said, is that she’s swallowing air. She probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it. So, how does she eat? Does she gobble her food up the moment you put it in front of her?”
I had opened my mouth for an angry retort when I thought better of it. I thought back to all the feedings I had given my dogs. Sherlock was slow and methodical when it came to eating, selecting each piece of kibble as though he was the world’s foremost food critic. Watson, on the other hand, was a canine vacuum cleaner. She was always done in less than twenty seconds. I timed it once. The fastest I’ve seen her polish off her kibble was a record breaking eleven seconds. Was that the source of her gas? Was she simply eating too fast?
“Okay, if that’s her problem, how do I make her stop?”
Harry shrugged, “Get her a different bowl.”
“Huh?”
“They have special dog food bowls specifically designed to make it difficult for the dog to eat. They have these designs built in to the bowl, making it challenging for the dog to get to the kibble.”
I frowned, “Designs? Like what? Can you give me an example?’
Harry made a spinning motion with his finger.
“I’ve seen bowls that have a swirl in it with high ridges. The kibble falls into the ridges and forces the dog to work at it in order to get the kibble out. Therefore, it slows them down.”
“That sounds cruel. I don’t know if I could do that to Watson when all she wants to do is eat.”
“It’s perfectly safe, Zack. It won’t hurt her. It’ll just slow her down.”
“I just wish I knew why she was eating so fast.” I let out a sigh. “I still can’t get used to seeing you in that white coat.”
Harry grinned, “There are times when I can’t believe it, either. As I was saying, the only thing I can think of is that Pumpkin’s previous owners…”
“Watson,” I hastily corrected.
“…might have had other dogs and Pumpkin, er, Watson felt like the only way she’d be able to eat was if she literally inhaled her food as fast as she could.”
I wrapped a protective arm around Watson, who, in turn, licked my hand.
“That sucks. The poor thing must have gone through hell. How can people be so damn thoughtless? I’d never do that to either Sherlock or Watson.”
Harry held up both hands as if he was being held at gunpoint.
“Hey, we don’t know for certain that’s what happened to her. I mention it only as a possibility.”
“So that’s the only way to get her to stop eating so fast? Give her the food bowl from hell? If she’s already been traumatized with eating, then the last thing I want to do is to make it even more difficult for her. There’s gotta be another way. Seriously, man, her farts smell like rotten broccoli.”
Harry’s grin was back.
“Sherlock doesn’t try to eat any of her food, does he?”
“No.”
“Then, if you truly don’t want to try the special dog bowl, my only suggestion would be to give it some time. Maybe she’ll snap out of this behavior once she realizes there are no perceived threats.”
“And if she doesn’t?” I asked.
“Then you’re going to have to get used to having a farting dog on your hands. Just have a can of air freshener handy and you’ll be fine.”
“That’s just peachy,” I moaned.
Watson turned to gaze adoringly up into my eyes. I ruffled her fur and set her back on the ground. The red and white corgi shook herself for a few moments and then trotted to the closed door. Clearly, she was ready to go home.
“Keep her on that diet,” Harry instructed, “and make sure she doesn’t get any scraps. No human food. She’s a dog, remember that.”
“I’ve never given either of them any people food,” I pointed out. “And I don’t have any plans to start.”
“I know you haven’t. I can tell just by looking at her. I’m just saying that you’re doing the right thing. Don’t cave, no matter how much she begs.”
My cell phone started ringing, filling the lobby with the dulcet tones of Twisted Sister, singing We’re not gonna take it. I fumbled with the phone for a few seconds – nearly dropping it – before I was finally able to silence the blasted thing. It was my turn to offer a sheepish smile.
“Sorry. Forgot to switch the stupid thing to silent mode before I came in here.”
“Awesome choice of tones there, bro,” Harry told me as he handed the clipboard to one of the girls manning the front desk. He leaned over the counter to look at my phone. “Anyone I know?”
“It’s Vance. I can call him back.”
“We’re done here,” Harry told me. “Just take the call.”
“Fine.” I tapped a finger on the cell’s display. “Hey, Vance. What’s going on?”
“Zack. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
I held my credit card questioningly up to Harry, who shook his no. I nodded in appreciation and turned to leave.
“No. Watson and I were just leaving Harry’s office.”
“Oh? Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, thanks for asking. Harry was just checking Watson out to make sure she’s okay.”
“I still say that’s a strange name for a female dog.”
“I’ve already heard the same thing from Harry today. Don’t you start up either.”
“Tell me again why you named your dog ‘Watson’?
“It went with Sherlock, okay?”
“But she’s a girl! Watson is a boy’s name.”
“It was my decision. I like how Sherlock and Watson sound together. She doesn’t have a problem with it so I fail to see why you should, either.”
“I thought you told me last week that you now considered yourself a dog lover. Why put the poor girl through that?”
“Fine. I’ll admit I thought it’d be cute. Besides, I’ve been through this with Jillian, with Harry, with you, and a slew of other people. She likes it, she responds to it, end of story. Is that why you called? To give me hell about my dog’s name?”
I heard Vance laugh.
“Hardly. You asked for my help with a personal problem, remember?”
Vance was – is – a detective for the Pomme Valley Police Department. We met a few months ago when I had the unpleasant experience of sitting on the wrong side of an interrogation table. Accused of murder. However, that’s a story I’ve already told and I don’t need to go back down that road right now.
Anyway, I have been getting harassing phone calls in the middle of the night. There was never anyone there. I could never hear anyone say anything. The only thing I could hear was someone breathing softly into the phone. The logical assumption was a distant member of my late wife’s family was the culprit. Long story short, Bon
nie Davies, the person that I had inherited my house from – and my winery – had bequeathed everything to my wife and me. Since Samantha died in a car accident last year that meant I was the lone beneficiary.
It’s certainly a fantastic way to make new friends, believe you me. Man alive had that pissed some people off. High on the list was Abigail Lawson, Bonnie’s daughter. I can only assume she was doing everything in her power to make my life a living hell, hoping I’ll throw in the towel and just move away.
Well, it ain’t gonna happen, lady. PV is my home now. You’d better get used to it.
So, since the calls kept coming, I had enlisted the help of my detective friend. Hopefully, he had some insight into what I could do to get these people to leave me alone. I was tired of being woken up at 3:30 am every single morning, almost like clockwork.
“So what do you have for me?” I optimistically asked.
“The calls are being made from a disposable phone. There is no way to track that. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do.”
“Swell.”
“I do have a recommendation.”
“I’m listening.”
“How often do you use the landline? Just get rid of it. That’s what I did. I’ve always got my cell on me so I never miss a call.”
“If that’s my only option then I’m willing to entertain it. Abigail can suck it for all I care.”
“You don’t know if Abigail is behind this.”
“You have to admit, she’s a damn fine suspect.”
“You do have a point. Hey, have you talked to Jillian today?”
“No, why?”
Case of the Fleet-Footed Mummy Page 1
