Bite the Biscuit (A Barkery & Biscuits Mystery)

by Linda O. Johnston

  “Want to take off your shoes?” Reed asked. I looked down at my low tan heels and considered it.

  “Why not? Although I don’t want to get into the water.”

  We walked slowly along the sand, and I felt its grittiness on my soles and between my toes. We talked not about what had brought us here, but about animals we’d been treating at the clinic.

  Eventually, I said, “I’m really enjoying myself, but I think we’d better go. I have to be at my shops at five o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Really? Every day?” We’d stopped, and Reed looked down at me. I enjoyed the concern and amazement in his shining brown eyes.

  “Yes, at least for now, till I get things started. My assistants may help me in that way, too, soon, but I have to get into a routine with them and make sure I trust them to do everything necessary at that hour before I’ll let either or both of them get things started in the morning.”

  “You could also hire someone else,” he said.

  I nodded. “That’s another possibility I’m considering, but it would mean paying another salary, so that’s in the future as well.”

  Reed’s eyes had changed a bit while we looked at each other. Now there was fondness and more in his gaze.

  So, yes, right there on the beach, all the world—or at least as much of it as was on the Knobcone Heights Resort’s beach at this hour—got to see us share a really nice, warm kiss.

  We walked back to the stairway. Still smiling, I brushed the sand from my feet and put on my shoes, and then we went up into the lobby again.

  We were crossing it when Reed’s phone chimed. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the screen. “The clinic.” He answered immediately.

  It was soon apparent that he was talking to one of the techs staying there overnight, who had a complicated question about a new patient’s overnight treatment. I knew which dog they were discussing, a Portuguese water dog named Riff who had had a fight with an even larger dog. The patient had been badly bitten but should be fine, although for right now his injuries needed to be treated very carefully. Reed walked to a corner of the lobby. I didn’t stay with him. There was nothing I could do at the moment.

  I considered baiting my new enemies, but when I walked by the door where I’d seen them before, it was closed.

  I figured I’d just write a note to Reed and hand it to him, thanking him and letting him know I’d see him soon at the clinic but I needed to go home to sleep. I headed to the desk, where Neal was talking with someone, to request a piece of paper to write on.

  I recognized that someone right away—Jack Loroco, the guy who’d not only come to my party but suggested I might want to sell some of my dog treats nationally as a VimPets product.

  “Hi,” I said somewhat hesitantly. It was too soon for me to approach that kind of marketing, even if I eventually wanted to. But just in case, I needed to be friendly.

  “Carrie, hi,” he said. “Remember me from yesterday?”

  “I do, Jack,” I replied. I looked at Neal. “May I have a piece of paper? I need to leave Reed a note since he’s on the phone. I unfortunately need to get home now.”

  “Yep, sis, you do.” Neal looked at Jack. “Since you’re in the business—we were just talking about your store and VimPets, Carrie—you must know, Jack, how early someone who runs a bakery needs to get started in the morning.”

  “Definitely,” Jack replied.

  “I’ll give Reed your good night,” Neal said. “I’ll still be here for another half hour or so. He’s bound to be off the phone by then.”

  I liked the idea that Reed would get the reminder personally. “Great. Thanks. And he can call me on my way home—as long as it’s no later than about ten minutes from now.”

  “Got it.”

  I turned to say goodbye to Jack, but he said, “I’m staying here but I’ll walk you to your car. Got a couple of ideas.”

  I sucked in my breath. Did I want to talk any kind of business with him now?

  But he fortunately said, “I’ll be here for another day or so before heading back to L.A. We should make arrangements to talk when it’s not getting so late.”

  “Good idea,” I said.

  We decided that coffee tomorrow afternoon might work, and I gave him my phone number to call and confirm it.

  “Now,” he said as we reached my car in the crowded parking lot and I pushed the button on my key fob to open it. “You know I was there when that Myra woman gave you a hard time about baking things that compete with her husband’s pet emporium.”

  I held my breath for a moment. Was he going to accuse me of murdering her too?

  “I heard that she was killed last night,” Jack continued.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s a shame.” I reached for my car’s door handle but he beat me to it, opening the door for me.

  I slid in quickly and waited for him to make a comment about the rumors—or worse, about my guilt. Which he did, but not exactly as I’d braced myself for.

  “She was a silly woman,” he said. “Competition can be good. And her ridiculous attitude still wouldn’t have given you reason to harm her. So, all I’ve heard around here today? I know it’s untrue. In some ways, I had more reason to kill her than you did—and I didn’t do it either, Carrie. Good night. I’ll look forward to our talk tomorrow.”

  He bent down and unexpectedly kissed me on the forehead, then closed the door.

  I had a lot to ponder on my drive home on the curving, hilly, and artificially lighted streets of Knobcone Heights. At the top of the list was why Jack Loroco thought he was a more logical suspect in Myra Ethman’s murder than I was.

  Had he argued with her too? Had anyone heard it?

  Most of all, had he killed her?

  If it wasn’t Jack, then what about Chef Manfred Indor? He’d been fired by Myra. To most people, that isn’t a horrible enough event to lead to murder, but I didn’t know Manfred. Maybe he’d flipped out because of the insult, or the way she’d handled it, or … who knew?

  Most important, were the cops aware of Jack or Manfred or anyone else who had an motive, arguably, to kill Myra—assuming Jack actually had a motive?

  Sure, the detectives were harassing me, but I couldn’t be the only one—could I?

  And would I be able to sleep for my few available hours that night?

  I’d started to pull into my driveway when my phone rang. It was hooked up to the car while I was driving, and the sound startled me. I stopped and pushed the button, figuring I knew who it was.

  I was right. “Hi, Carrie. It’s Reed. Sorry I got distracted by the call, but—”

  “It’s perfectly all right,” I told him. “Riff’s care is much more important than our saying good night.”

  “Yes and no,” he said. “Anyway, I assume I’ll see you at your shift tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Sure,” I said. But my smile faded when I pushed the button to hang up and finished driving into my garage. I could have added, but didn’t, As long as I’m not in jail.

  I didn’t have to say it, though. Just thinking it—again—made me quiver. I was scared. But I couldn’t let myself focus on it.

  Even so, I was so glad that Biscuit was waiting when I went into the house. Her exuberant greeting helped my state of mind. “I missed you too, girl,” I told her with a hug, then took her out for a brief walk under the neighborhood’s streetlights.

  And, yes, I did somehow get some sleep that night, since I was awakened by my alarm when it went off again at four a.m.

  “Oh, no,” I whispered around five o’clock in the morning. I barely heard my own words over Biscuit’s barking in—where else?—the Barkery. I was in the part of the kitchen right behind the Barkery, since I’d already gotten the human breakfast treats started and was about to commence the doggies’.

  I wasn’t sure which door I’d heard someone knocking on—and calling “Police!” from outside. Couldn’t they at least wait until I’d gotten all my initial products ready, so I co
uld open the shops on time? Or maybe till six a.m. when Judy was due to arrive?

  Maybe I could buy them off with a couple of scones. They’d seemed to enjoy them before. Or … I looked down at the dough I had just been preparing for the first round of dog biscuits, ones that contained fresh apple slivers. Maybe the police would like these better? All my doggy treats were good enough to be eaten by people.

  I heard the knock again and realized I’d better move. I quickly rinsed the dough off my hands and hurried through the door into the shop. I grabbed Biscuit’s leash and attached her to the crate. Then, taking a deep breath, I opened the Barkery door.

  The two detectives stood there under the lights. “Can we come in, Ms. Kennersly?” Detective Bridget Morana demanded.

  “Do I have a choice?” I hadn’t had one last time. And I’d no reason to think that Neal would join us again, since as far as I knew he’d been sound asleep when Biscuit and I had left this morning—and I wasn’t aware of any visits he’d had from these cops.

  Wayne Crunoll and Bridget both came in as I stood aside. My heart was thumping erratically. Were they here to arrest me? If so, why?

  What evidence had they found that they thought implicated me?

  As it turned out, they were here more to harass me than anything—although I forbore accusing them of it. I already had a horrible relationship with them. Why make it worse? They disguised it, though, in a way they probably thought would make me feel like one of them—at least till they could put the cuffs on me.

  “Sorry for coming here at such an early hour, Carrie,” Bridget said, “but we knew you’d be here and we have a couple of things to run by you.”

  That sounded totally odd, so I rearranged three chairs on the Barkery’s floor to fit around one of the small round tables so we’d have somewhere to sit while we talked.

  I couldn’t completely hate Wayne, since he knelt even in his dressy detective clothes to gently roughhouse with Biscuit while Bridget watched me. But I couldn’t exactly like him, either.

  “You know,” Bridget said, her pale brown eyes tired but intent, “we don’t get many murders here in Knobcone Heights, which is a good thing. But that means Wayne and I, as two of the main detectives on our small police force, have to work twice as hard as if we did it all the time.”

  “As a person now following two careers at the same time, I understand,” I lied. I offered them scones, which both said they’d love. Leaving Biscuit there, I went into the kitchen to fetch a couple of my baked goods, Wayne at my heels. When I returned to the Barkery, I handed them their treats. Then I settled into the chair I’d set up for myself.

  I did understand their having to work hard, but I did not understand at all why they were here. Maybe I shouldn’t be so generous with the treats. It might encourage them to visit even more.

  Bridget sat down too, crossing her legs in her dressy slacks. “Let me be honest with you,” she said. As if I believed that. “You still seem like the most obvious suspect, given your argument with Ms. Ethman that night. But to do our job right, we have to look at all angles, all possibilities.”

  What was this about—especially at this hour? Was she trying to put me off guard so I’d say something that would lead to whatever evidence they thought they were looking for?

  “I’m glad,” was my wary response.

  “So … do you have any ideas who else we should look at? You’ve now had a day to try to work out your own defense. Not that we want you to try to figure out who committed the murder—assuming you didn’t do it. In fact, it’s best if you stay far out of it. But since you might want to aim our attention toward someone else—well, who would you try to aim it at now, after a day’s reflection?”

  This was weird. I still thought they were trying to put me off guard, but what if they were serious? Was this some new way of detectives investigating a murder case? Based on some odd TV show with pseudo-psychics or whatever?

  “All I really know is that it wasn’t me,” I said cautiously. “Or my brother Neal. But … ” Ah. It occurred to me that they might have received a call from Harris, or his parents or sister, or even Walt Hainner, letting them know I’d been taunting them by hanging out at their resort’s restaurant. “But as I think you might know, I did spend a little bit of time last night at the Knobcone Heights Resort having dinner with a friend.”

  “Well, yes, we did hear that.” Wayne was now sitting in the third chair I’d put out for us, eating his scone. “Were you sounding any of the Ethmans out about whether they could have killed Myra?”

  I stifled my ironic laugh. “No, although most of them made it clear I wasn’t welcome there for dinner, even as a paying customer.” I didn’t need to mention I’d only paid the tip. “Walt Hainner, Elise’s husband, was a lot kinder than the rest of them.”

  “And would you like to point your finger at one or all of them, to get ours pointed away from you?” Bridget smiled as if she intended this to be a joke, but I knew better.

  Would they then use my theoretically pointed finger to take my theoretical fingerprint and compare it against ones they found on Myra? But joking with myself didn’t make me feel any better. Besides, I was sure that if they actually wanted my prints they’d ask or get a warrant or whatever cops did.

  “Honestly? I don’t trust any of them—not even Walt, not entirely. But I can’t tell you which of them might have murdered Myra. Maybe they all colluded. It wouldn’t hurt for you to check into that.”

  “Of course,” Bridget said, but I suspected she wouldn’t really look too deeply into any of them. “Thanks for your suggestion. And for us to check things out—could you give us the name of the friend you were with last night?”

  I hesitated. They’d probably find out anyway if they didn’t know already, but I didn’t want to sic them on Reed. “I don’t think so. He’s one of my bosses and I don’t want to get him involved in this.”

  “Okay,” Bridget said, so I felt certain she already knew.

  I considered mentioning Jack Loroco instead, since he’d hinted at some kind of motive to harm Myra, but I also didn’t want to send these detectives after him until I knew if he was joking or if there was actually a reason to question him.

  “Well, if you hear anything about the Ethmans that we should know, I’m sure you’ll tell us.” Bridget paused. “Oh, and by the way, do you happen to have any of that kind of dog treat you made the first day—the kind that was found near Ms. Ethman’s body?”

  Ah-hah. I wasn’t sure why, but this could be the real reason for their visit. I doubted they actually wanted me to point to an elite Ethman and make accusations—although I would, of course, if I had any evidence to support it.

  But as to the biscuits? “Sorry, no,” I said. “The ones we didn’t give away were all sold yesterday. I’ll make some again soon. I know you have a cat, Bridget, and these are dog treats. Does Wayne want some for his wife’s dachshunds?” I tried to sound innocent, as if I didn’t believe this was some kind of trap they were setting up.

  “Sure,” Wayne said. “Or any others of your treats. I’m sure my dogs would love ’em.”

  “I’m sure they would,” I returned with a smile.

  “But he especially said he wanted to give his dogs those particular treats,” Bridget said, sending what looked like a warning glance to her partner.

  “Absolutely,” Wayne said. It only underscored the fact that they wanted more of these particular biscuits for some reason, although how they’d be able to use a new batch to prove I supposedly killed Myra, I had no idea.

  “When I make more, I’ll save some for you,” I said. Which meant I probably shouldn’t make any more of that particular kind of treat until Myra’s killer had been found and arrested. Too bad. I really liked that recipe.

  “Well, thanks,” Bridget said. “We’d better be going now. I’d imagine you have other treats to bake—both for dogs and people. Maybe even that special kind of biscuit.”

  She was pushing it too hard, but I
wasn’t about to tell her so. On the other hand, if I could get them sniffing in a different direction …

  “There is one thing I did want to mention, although it might mean nothing,” I said. “Did you know that Myra recently fired one of the resort’s best chefs? From what I heard, he was really resentful. Whether he’d have killed her, I don’t know, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask him.”

  “We’re still looking for him,” Wayne admitted as they reached the door, earning him another evil look from his partner.

  “Well, if I happen to run into Chef Manfred Indor, I’ll be sure to let you know,” I said. Not that I’d recognize him. But if I could set these two on another, much more likely suspect, I’d be delighted.

  TEN

  I BREATHED A DEEP sigh of relief when the cops finally left. But that relief didn’t last long. I had lots of treats to finish baking before the day at the shops could begin, although Judy would arrive soon. I’d asked both my assistants to help out today. Staggered days would begin later this week.

  Fortunately, I hadn’t left anything in the oven, so I wouldn’t face a burned batch of baked goods. I checked that Biscuit’s leash was still attached to her crate, gave my fuzzy golden girl a big hug to comfort myself more than her, and hurried back into the kitchen. I washed my hands for a long time, as I always did as a vet tech and now as a baker. Only then did I start grabbing the ingredients for the next batch of dog biscuits and begin to mix them.

  I lost myself in the process for a while, trying to concentrate on mixing and baking and my stores. How business might be today. How I’d shift from working at the Barkery to Icing and back again.

  But not unexpectedly, my thoughts eventually started heading toward my cop visit. Their insinuations and questions. My vul-

  nerability.

  My fear, that I couldn’t suppress all the time. Like now.

  What was I really going to do? Not just wait and see what happened. I had to take control of something, at least.