Bite the Biscuit (A Barkery & Biscuits Mystery)

by Linda O. Johnston

  Copyright Information

  Bite the Biscuit: A Barkery & Biscuits Mystery © 2015 by Linda O. Johnston.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2015

  E-book ISBN: 9780738746296

  Book format by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Ellen Lawson

  Cover illustration by Christina Hess

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  Midnight Ink

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  To people everywhere who love their dogs and

  want to feed them the best and healthiest treats.

  To people who have a sweet tooth of their own.

  To readers who enjoy cozy mysteries,

  especially those involving pets and food.

  And, as always, to my dear husband Fred.

  I think he fits into two of the three categories!

  ONE

  TWO NEW STORES! RATHER, one new and one redone. They were opening today, and both were mine.

  I couldn’t help smiling as I glanced out through the narrow expanse of windows in the shop where I stood.

  A lot of people were outside on the sidewalk. Many stared inside expectantly, waiting for the doors to open. Others were involved in conversation, and the unintelligible crowd noises, though muffled by the windows and walls, seemed to be increasing in volume. Because more people were arriving?

  Despite how proud I was of this new venture and how determined I was to make it work, I felt a rush of stage fright. I quickly shoved it aside and turned back to Brenda Anesco. This had previously been just one store—Icing on the Cake—and it had been all hers. I owed her a lot, including the courtesy of listening to her final instructions for the new Icing, the shop we currently occupied.

  “I’m really going to miss this place,” Brenda told me with a sigh. Her back was toward the window, perhaps intentionally. Did she realize how much the throng was growing?

  I wished, for her sake, that there had been more crowds when she had been in charge. But the bakery’s recent decline in sales wasn’t why she was leaving. No, the decline that caused her departure had to do with her mother’s health.

  “I know you’ll take good care of it,” she continued. “Won’t you, Carrie?”

  “Of course.”

  Ignoring the crowd and how nervous it had started to make me, I stepped toward her along the gleaming new vinyl tile floor I’d just had installed in Icing. It was patterned in a patchwork of pale gold and dark brown, which I hoped would lure people to buy similarly hued pastries for themselves. The blissful aroma of baking cakes and cinnamon and chocolate that wafted through the air would attract them a whole lot better than the decor, though. Even my mouth was watering, and I’d been inhaling the enticing scent long enough to become inured—somewhat, at least.

  “And you’ll remember all I told you?” Brenda continued. “I mean, what draws people in. How to keep them coming back. All of that.”

  Short and a bit plump, with uneven ash brown hair—not to mention endlessly gesturing fingers with blunt pink nails—Brenda was much more of an expert than I, at least about Icing. She knew how to bake great stuff even if her business skills had wavered a bit recently. Plus, even though she was in her early forties, around ten years older than me, she was my dearest friend. So of course I was listening to her.

  But as eager as I was for all to go well for Icing, I was a lot more concerned about the other store, my half of the newly divided bakery: Barkery and Biscuits, which featured my own very special baked and otherwise cooked products.

  For dogs.

  Were any members of the crowd waiting for the Barkery to open? I thought so. I hoped so.

  “Mmm-hmm,” I responded, giving Brenda a quick hug of reassurance. But despite how much I wanted to make her feel better, my gaze had wandered over her shoulder toward the closed door that led to my favorite area, the new part. I ached to go there to make sure it, like Icing, was thoroughly ready to receive whichever members of the group outside wanted to attend its launch.

  Maybe that would be all of them.

  “Listen to me, Carrie Kennersly,” Brenda demanded, stepping back. Her arms, in the light pink sweater she’d knitted herself, were folded as she glared at me. Uh-oh. Busted. She must have realized how sidetracked I was. Not that she should be surprised.

  “I am.” I shifted uncomfortably in my seldom-worn blue stilettos. Above them, I wore a flowing dress in the same azure shade, one of my few party outfits.

  “What was the last thing I told you about our products, then?”

  Brenda, despite being my friend, could be really pushy. But I got it. She’d let me remodel the store she loved, but Icing remained her baby.

  “Make them sweet and make them good,” I said, and she grinned.

  She went over a few things again, like the popularity of her red velvet cupcakes, which were in a prime location in the large refrigerated display case crammed attractively full of the bakery’s other products too.

  She finally finished. “Okay, it’s time. Go on into the Barkery and get the party started.”

  I gave her another brief hug and hurried to open the wide wooden door into Barkery and Biscuits.

  My little golden toy poodle–terrier mix, appropriately named Biscuit, flew at me, and I knelt to take her into my arms after closing the door behind me. At the moment she was loose, but I’d have to restrict her now so she couldn’t run out when the front door was open.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” I said as she stood on her hind legs and licked my face.

  I glanced down at the floor beneath my knees. I’d had it redone also. The materials were similar to those used in Icing—sturdy but attractive vinyl tiles. But the main area was all blue, and the center decoration was huge and appropriate and beige, in the shape of—what else?—a dog biscuit.

  There was an alluring aroma in here too, though not sweet like the one in the bakery. This one suggested a hint of meat. Otherwise, this part of the shop was a mirror image of the other. I’d planned it that way.

  Both retail parts of the stores were fairly compact, just large enough to house the wide display cases and have room
for people to line up if necessary. Plus, each held an area where customers could sit at small tables to rest and eat.

  But the joint kitchen? It was huge and necessary and modern and wonderful!

  “Are we ready?” asked Judy Zelener, correctly interrupting my reunion with my dog. We had things to do here. All of us.

  “I think so.” I rose, holding Biscuit.

  Judy was one of the shop assistants I had inherited from Brenda. The other one, Dinah Greeley, was back in the kitchen making sure the trays containing samples of my dog treats were ready.

  Judy was in her late twenties, with a long face, high forehead, and shoulder-length wavy hair in a shade of medium brown that resembled cherry wood. She always seemed serious, especially when involved in a discussion with Brenda or argument with Dinah. The latter, unfortunately, happened too often.

  Now, though, she smiled, and it lit up her whole face. “Are you going to open the door?”

  “Definitely.” Taking a deep, calming breath, I put Biscuit down, looping the end of the black leash I’d pulled from my pocket over my wrist to keep her close. Then I unlocked the Barkery’s glass front door, pulled it wide open, and hollered “Welcome!” to the sound of the ringing bell I’d had installed on top to notify us of customers.

  In moments, the crowd began pushing inside.

  It was happening! One of my most cherished wishes was at last coming true. I’d trained to be a veterinary technician, a job that I could love—did love—even though it meant working for someone else to earn a living. But owning my own business, being my own boss—that had always been my dream. Especially when it also involved the other love of my life, dogs.

  I, Carrie Kennersly, was now a store owner. Not only that, but most of the products I was about to sell were my own creations.

  “Now I’ll go open Icing,” I said to Judy, but Brenda appeared in the doorway leading to the other side.

  “I’ve just opened it,” she said, holding out a round metal tray of dog biscuit samples. “Dinah gave me this from the kitchen. She’s greeting everyone in Icing for me. The party has begun!”

  She was absolutely right. People were flowing into the Barkery. I needn’t have worried that everyone there wanted to visit Icing. I hadn’t been able to see the crowd’s feet earlier, so I hadn’t known that many had their leashed dogs with them—very welcome in the Barkery, but not in the human-focused bakery.

  A lot of our visitors were familiar—friends, even. I’d met quite a few of them when their dogs were patients at the Knobcone Veterinary Clinic; I still worked there, part-time now, as a vet tech. And some of these people were also neighbors who lived near my home.

  I greeted as many as I could by name, welcoming them and ensuring that they received samples of baked goods for their pets to try. Biscuit, at my feet, helped too in her limited way, wagging her tail at both people and dogs.

  At least some of the people I didn’t know had to be tourists visiting our lovely town of Knobcone Heights, California. I’d had help making sure that word had gotten out.

  “Hi, Carrie.” Les Ethman, a moderate-height guy with eyes that turned down at the corners and a forehead that kept expanding, was a member of the City Council and was owned by an English bulldog named Sam. I wondered whether he had dressed up to make an impression at the party or if he had some official business to conduct, since he wore a blue shirt with a striped necktie and nicely creased slacks.

  “Hi, Les,” I said. “Where’s Sam?”

  “Left him home for today. But I want to bring him some of your treats. Give me a recommendation.”

  “They’re all good, of course.” Would I really say otherwise? Never. But it happened to be true. I raised my voice, since some people around us had started to listen in. “I use all natural ingredients. The treats come in different flavors, from liver to peanut butter to chicken, beef, or cheese, and even some dog-healthy fruits and veggies. They’re all labeled.”

  Saying “excuse me,” I wended my way sideways with Biscuit enough to be able to gesture with my free hand toward the large refrigerated display case, which was identical to the one in Icing. Both shops also had shelves along their back walls that held treats less likely to go stale fast, like small cookies in glass jars. Like the refrigerated case in Icing, the one in the Barkery was filled with baked delights—but all for dogs. “See?” I asked my audience, pointing to the sizeable ingredients labels stuck on toothpicks on each plate. I also hoped they noticed that some of the items had “B&B” etched into them, representing “Barkery and Biscuits.”

  “They sound good enough for people to eat.” Another member of City Council had just joined her colleague. Wilhelmina Matlock, who preferred to be called “Billi,” was also an acquaintance of mine thanks to her frequent visits to the veterinary hospital. She owned a couple of dogs, but I knew her more for her private shelter where she took in rescues. She was one busy lady, since she also owned a day spa that catered to the wealthy human residents and tourists who came to Knobcone Heights.

  “You can always sample them yourselves,” I said. “The ingredients are just as good for people as for their pets—although there are a few you should avoid if you have a peanut allergy. I’d be glad to point them out.”

  Some of those around us made faces that suggested they’d rather do anything than taste any kind of dog treats.

  “Please come over here,” I called to Judy, to whom Brenda had handed the sample tray. “This first tray contains our cheese biscuits,” I told the crowd. “As gourmet as your dog could ever want, with three kinds of cheese as well as wheat germ, pureed veggies, and other highly tasty ingredients baked until nice and crunchy.” I loved them. So did Biscuit and every other dog I’d given a taste to.

  By the time Judy got close to me, only half a dozen bone-shaped biscuits remained on the tray.

  “Looks like they’re popular, so grab what’s left,” I told our patrons, “and we’ll bring another flavor out soon.”

  I saw that some people were forming an irregular line at the cash register on the counter, most pointing at treats in the adjoining display case.

  “Please serve those folks,” I told Judy in a low voice. She nodded. I figured that Brenda and Dinah were handling sales on the bakery side.

  The men and women around us, including the two I’d been speaking with, managed to take samples before they were all gone. I laughed. “I think it’s time for me to get the next tray.”

  But I couldn’t bring Biscuit into the kitchen. That was one restriction in the city permit that had allowed me to divide the original Icing on the Cake bakery into two parts. Pets were permitted in Barkery and Biscuits, but only the store area, since the kitchen was used for cooking products for both people and pets.

  I’d divided the equipment and counters up in the kitchen, and put in a special ventilation system so the aroma of meaty animal treats wouldn’t contaminate people-goodies containing things like sugar and chocolate, and vice versa. And I’d made it absolutely clear to my assistants that those ingredients had to be kept separate, for taste reasons but also for dog health, since chocolate was dangerous to them.

  Right now, I wasn’t about to let Biscuit loose while I entered the kitchen, especially as this throng of people also held open the front door. The area I had planned to keep Biscuit in wasn’t completely set up because of the party. What could I do with her while I got the next round of dog treats?

  Fortunately, one of the people just coming in was Neal, my brother. He wasn’t looking toward me but back outside as he gestured for someone else to enter.

  “Hey, Neal!” I called. Somehow he heard me over all the conversations going on among the shoulder-to-shoulder people.

  I couldn’t have been happier to see him. Not only could he take care of Biscuit while I went into the kitchen, but he could also help with crowd control, starting to get this group flowing in and out.

  Neal is twenty-eight—four years younger than me—and quite a few inches taller. Like me,
he’s got the Kennersly longish nose and blunt chin, plus some fairly sharp cheekbones as well as our family’s typical medium-blond hair. An athlete and leader of fun tourist expeditions, as well as one of the front desk receptionists at the Knobcone Heights Resort, Neal keeps his hair short and a shadow of a light beard on his cheeks and chin.

  He lives with me. We’re about as close as siblings can be, which is a good thing. We’re all we’ve got.

  And he’s used to taking orders from me.

  It took him a minute to scooch through the crowd, not only because he had to keep excusing himself but because, friendly guy that he is, he greeted everyone, mostly by name. His job at the premier local hotel meant that he’d even met many of the tourists. In fact, at my urging, he’d told a lot of tourists about my grand opening.

  “Hey, Carrie,” he said as he reached me. “Hi, Bug,” he added, bending over to rough up Biscuit’s wavy fur. He stood straight again and looked down at me. “Good crowd, huh?”

  My bro was wearing a snug, navy Knobcone Heights Resort T-shirt that showed off his muscular build, and jeans. Dressing up wasn’t in his vocabulary—unless he had a hot date who demanded it. And since lots of women seemed eager for his attention, he apparently could have one of those hot dates whenever he chose.

  “It sure is,” I said. “I need to get something in the kitchen, then pop in on the Icing side. Will you take care of Biscuit for me?”

  “What do you think, Bug?” He looked down at my dog again. “You gonna take good care of your uncle Neal?” Without waiting for Biscuit to answer, Neal held out his arms and I gently turned my pup over to him.

  But before I could inch my way to the kitchen, I heard the undercurrent of excited party voices ramp up to a crescendo, then stop. What was going on?

  I turned to look toward the door.

  Two people I recognized were shoving their way in. They were relatives of Les Ethman, but Les remained standing at the side of the store talking earnestly with Billi. And unlike their uncle, they clearly had an attitude—one they’d merely hinted at over the last months of my remodeling. Was it about to erupt?