by Ally Roberts
Asking Fur Trouble
By Ally Roberts
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 any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Asking Fur Trouble
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2018
Cover design by Alchemy Book Covers and Design
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the expressed written consent of the author.
Books by Ally Roberts
Asking Fur Trouble
Cause Fur Alarm (Coming Soon!)
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ONE
The world was my oyster.
That’s what I tried telling myself, but I wasn’t buying it.
Not completely, anyway.
Sure, I was making a fresh start, but it didn’t exactly feel like a world of opportunity was waiting for me.
I was a newly single woman, striking out on my own for the first time in over a decade. Divorcing my husband meant leaving the world I’d known—friends and jobs and city—behind.
I’d kept the dog, and he’d kept everything else.
I glanced down at the mutt I’d rescued from a Minneapolis shelter two years earlier.
I was pretty sure I’d gotten the better end of the deal.
And I was going to make the most of our new situation, regardless of just how uncertain it all looked.
“Come on,” I said to Trixie as I snapped a leash onto her red collar. “Let’s go see what you think of the ocean.”
She popped up off the floor and ambled along beside me as we made our way out the front door of my grandmother’s house and onto the porch. A strong sun and warm breeze greeted us, and I breathed in the salty air. A sea of green greeted me—green palm trees, green grass, green shrubs and plants—which was a far cry from what I’d left behind in Minneapolis. There, winter had finally loosened its iron hold and the trees were tentatively shooting out new leaves, as if testing the water to make sure it really was time to welcome spring. Even the ice on the lakes had been slow to leave, the surface shifting from white to dark gray before finally exposing small patches of blue water.
Spring had definitely sprung here in South Carolina. Heck, with the strong sun and the warm breeze warming my body, it felt like we were already approaching summer. I took another deep breath and reveled in the scent and the feel of the damp salt-scented air.
I didn’t want to admit it, but I’d missed the beach.
I’d missed the ocean.
I just wasn’t sure I’d missed Sweetwater Island, the town I grew up in.
And yet here I was, back after over a decade of being gone.
Whether I wanted to be or not.
I tugged on Trixie’s leash and she followed me down the steps and out to the sidewalk. We were going to take a quick walk so she could get some exercise and so that I could reacquaint myself with the island. I’d left my hometown the summer I graduated from high school and had made it back just once during all that time. Twelve years might not seem like a long time to be gone from somewhere, but I’d had this idea in my head that the town would have grown or changed in some way.
I was wrong.
Everything looked exactly the same. The houses, the streets, the palm trees swaying in the warm ocean breeze—nothing had changed. I didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.
Even my grandmother’s house hadn’t seemed to age. Considering it was already over a hundred years old, this felt like no small feat. But everything about it that I remembered—the wide front porch, the polished wood floors, the brick fireplace in the living room, the ceiling fans and antique chandeliers throughout the charming two-story home—was still there. Same as always, as if frozen in time.
As we strolled down the sidewalk, making quick work of the ten blocks that separated the house from the beach, I wondered if maybe I was the only thing that had changed. Maybe time had stood still for everyone and everything else.
It certainly had for Greg. He’d been surprised when I asked for a divorce, as if he couldn’t quite understand how I could want such a thing. Our marriage was fine, according to him. How could I see it any different?
Easily, I thought. Our entire married life had revolved around his hopes, his dreams, his career. I’d just been along for the ride.
But now I was in my own car, so to speak, and in charge of my own destiny.
It should have felt glorious. Affirming, like an open journal just waiting to be written in.
But I couldn’t quite shake the fact that by coming home, I was taking a step backward, not forward.
I didn’t have a choice, though, I reminded myself. With no job and no degree and nothing but a paltry divorce settlement and a dog that ate entirely too much for her size, it wasn’t as if opportunities abounded.
Hmm. So maybe the world wasn’t actually my oyster…or if it was, mine was missing the pearl.
Regardless, I had to find a way to regroup and formulate a plan.
And coming home was the only way I was going to accomplish this.
I glanced down at the dog walking by my side. She was part shepherd, part collie, and a whole lot of random muttness.
And she was mine.
Hands down, she was the best part of the life I’d left behind.
“You ready to check out the ocean?” I asked her.
She glanced up at me with her doe-brown eyes, her tongue just beginning to loll.
“Just you wait,” I told her. “You think this is warm? Summer in South Carolina is like living inside a volcano.”
We crossed the street and headed toward a path tucked between two houses that I knew led to the beach. Trixie was not a water dog—she’d barely managed to stick her feet in the various lakes and rivers I took her to around Minneapolis—but I had hopes that the ocean would be different. Maybe the waves would entice her or intrigue her in a way the calmer waters never had. She was sort of a spaz, after all. Maybe she just needed motion, something to chase.
I had an extra leash in my free hand, a long, bungee-like thing that I could put her on when we got closer to the water. That way, if she wanted to explore a little deeper out, I didn’t have to go with her. Not that I didn’t like swimming, but it was only early May and I didn’t know how brave I felt like being if the ocean temperature was still cold.
We followed the sandy path, past the bushes and trees that lined both sides, and I thought the ocean might just be visible if we took a few more steps. My body buzzed with anticipation. I got up on my tiptoes, thinking the extra inches might provide some visual advantage, but the sound of an animal suddenly crashing through the bushes distracted me.
I whirled around just in time to see a shaggy brown dog hurtling toward us. Instinctively, I stepped between Trixie and the newcomer. I had no idea if this dog was friendly, rabid, or somewhere in between, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
The dog made a beeline for me, its tail wagging and its ears in the full radar position. It immediately licked my hand and then went and sniffed Trixie.
I let out a sigh of relief.
Not rabid.
Or aggressive.
I reached out and stroked a furry ear. “Where did you come from?” I asked, to no one in particular. I pet him some more, working my way toward his neck, where I was finally ab
le to locate a collar and tags.
“Arrow.” I chuckled. Felt like a fitting name, considering the way he’d rocketed toward me.
With Trixie’s leash held tight in my other hand, I leaned down and inspected the rest of the tags hanging from Arrow’s collar. There was a rabies tag, a dog license, and a tag I couldn’t quite make out. I got closer and smiled when I realized what it was.
An address.
“Well, it looks like we know where home is,” I told him.
And I had a leash to hook him to.
I clipped him to the long leash I’d brought along, wound the excess around my wrist, and, a little reluctantly, headed away from the ocean.
Trixie and I could do that later. Right now, we had a runaway dog to return home.
I’d already committed the address on the tag to memory. Beaumont Lane. It was two blocks up the road, and if I remembered how the addresses worked on the island, we would take a right. Arrow trotted along happily on one side of me, with Trixie on the other. They tugged a little, trying to get to each other, but I managed to keep them focused and walking. No small feat, as far as I as concerned. Walking Trixie on her own could sometimes be a chore, especially if a rabbit or squirrel pinged her radar, so controlling the two of them felt like an enormous accomplishment.
Arrow perked up when we turned the corner and he saw where we were headed. He strained against the leash as we approached a yellow two-story house, whimpering and whining a little.
“Almost there,” I told him. I didn’t dare give him any more slack on the leash. He’d probably pull me across the lawn and have me face-planted on the front porch if I did that.
We bounded up the three steps and I opened the storm door so I could access the wooden door behind it. I knocked a few times and kept the storm door propped open.
No answer.
I looked down at Arrow. “Is anyone home?”
He cocked his head.
Not exactly the answer I was looking for.
I knocked again and waited, but there was no sound from inside the house.
“Maybe they’re at work,” I muttered.
I let the storm door close and hopped off the front porch. Arrow was pulling toward the backyard so I let him. Maybe there was a fenced area back there, or a doghouse or something where I could leave him.
But there wasn’t.
The yard was a patchwork of grass and weeds and bare patches of sand, with no fence at all. The only structure was a weathered shed, painted the same shade of yellow as the house, and with the same brown trim.
I surveyed the yard and the back of the house, shading my eyes so I had a better view.
I had no idea what to do with this dog. I couldn’t just leave him, not if he was going to be running up and down the streets. It didn’t sound safe for him or for any cars that might be driving by.
I looked at the back of the house and squinted. From where I was standing, it looked as though the back door might be open. I took a step toward it, then another.
Yes, the door was definitely open. Not wide; just a crack. Maybe a couple of inches.
But that meant someone was bound to be home.
Which meant I could drop Arrow with his owner and continue on with my day. Take Trixie to the beach like I’d planned, and see more of the island that was now going to be home for the foreseeable future.
Arrow led the way, scampering and pulling on the leash, Trixie in hot pursuit.
I pulled them both up short when we got to the door and knocked on the doorframe.
“Hello?” I called. “Anyone home?”
Arrow was straining hard now and I readjusted the leash to try to pull him closer. But he must have felt the momentary slack in the lead because he leaped forward and the leash slipped out of my hands. Before I could react, he nosed open the door and disappeared inside. The only thing visible was the long blue leash bouncing along the tile floor.
Part of me thought I should just go. Close the door so the dog couldn’t get out again and leave.
But I sort of wanted my leash back. Because I really didn’t have the money to buy a new one and because I really didn’t want to walk in the water next to Trixie when we finally made it down to the beach.
“Hello?” I tried again. “I…I need my leash back.”
There was no answer. Even Arrow’s nails clicking on the floor had stopped, and I wondered if he’d headed upstairs or encountered carpet or what.
I took a tentative step into the house, into a bright and airy kitchen. I tried not to look around, but it was hard not to. The room was cheerful and charming, and spotlessly clean. It reminded me of my mother’s kitchen.
I called out again. “Hello?”
Silence.
I changed tactics. “Arrow? Come here, boy!”
The friendly dog didn’t come back, and I suddenly realized just how weird it was to be standing in the kitchen of a house that I didn’t belong in.
The hairs on my neck stood at attention. Something felt…wrong.
I glanced down at Trixie. If there was any kind of threat, she was oblivious. Her nose searched the tiled kitchen floor, sniffing out all the scents unnoticeable to me.
“Forget the leash,” I mumbled to myself.
But even though I told myself to do this—literally, out loud—and even though a sixth sense I didn’t know I had was kicking in, urging me to get the heck out of there, I didn’t turn around and leave.
Instead, I took a step forward, and then another, further into the silent house.
I turned left, down the hallway, and stifled a scream as a flash of brown streaked by in my peripheral vision.
But it was only Arrow, trotting back toward us, his tail wagging happily.
I sagged a little with relief.
“What are you doing, buddy?” I asked.
I took another step.
The scream that came out of my mouth this time was louder.
More genuine.
Because I wasn’t looking at a dog this time.
I was looking at a dead body.
TWO
At least I didn’t faint.
I kept reminding myself of this as I sat outside the house, parked on the front porch. Trixie and Arrow both rested beside me, no longer wary of the flashing red and blue lights spinning on the police cruisers parked on the street. The ambulance had come and gone a while ago, but the police were still there, inside the house of the deceased woman whose body I’d found thirty minutes earlier.
Absently, I stroked Trixie’s fur. I wasn’t that out of sorts, all things considered. I mean, yes, I’d stumbled upon a dead body, but apart from feeling sad that someone had died, I wasn’t having any feelings of stress or fear over the discovery.
I knew why. Because a long time ago, I’d envisioned myself becoming a police detective, handling just such a scene. Of course, that was long before I met Greg and put all of my dreams aside so he could pursue his.
But still. The fact that I’d kept it together—that, after the initial shock had worn off I’d managed to pull out my phone and calmly report what I’d found to the 911-dispatcher on the other end—felt like something worth celebrating.
A flash of blue caught my eye and I looked toward the sidewalk.
A man dressed in a light blue Oxford shirt and khakis was walking by, with a very attractive black lab trotting next to him. The guy himself wasn’t too bad looking, either.
His gaze drifted in my direction. He looked at me, then the two dogs at my feet, then back to me.
“Both of those yours?” he asked as he slowed to a stop.
“Just one of them is,” I said. “I’m…” My voice trailed off. Did I say I was watching the other dog because his owner had just been found dead?
“I’m sort of dog sitting,” I said instead.
“Were you guys out for a walk?” He motioned to the leashes attached to the dogs.
I nodded. “Sort of.” Again, it felt far too complicated to try to explain to a total
stranger how I’d managed to get Arrow on one of my leashes.
“Really?” He came up the sidewalk.
He was definitely as attractive as his handsome black lab, I realized. Even more so. Dark hair swept off his forehead, and dark brown eyes that looked warm and friendly. The goatee he wore was barely there, shaved so close that it looked more like well-behaved stubble. I bet it took a lot of practice to get it to look that good.
“So you’re a dog walker?” he asked.
I blinked. “Uh, well, I walk my dog so I guess I am.”
He smiled, and I noticed not just his straight, white teeth but the tiny cleft that dented his chin, too. “Let me rephrase,” he said. “Do you walk other people’s dogs? Because I have a dog that loves walks and I don’t always have the time to give him one.”
I stared at him.
His eyes widened. “Not for free, of course,” he said quickly. “I would pay you. Quite well, actually.”
I shook my head. What on earth was he talking about?
“I should probably back up a little,” he said with a sheepish grin. He stuck out his hand, the one not wrapped around his dog’s leash. “My name's Asher. Asher Ellsworth.”
“Wendy,” I said, shaking his hand. It was smooth and warm, not a callous to be felt. “Wendy Walker.”
Asher chuckled. “Well, that’s a fitting name for a dog walker, now isn’t it?”
I grinned. I wasn’t a dog walker, but it was a little amusing to hear him make that connection. And it was more than a little intriguing to hear that someone would pay me to do something I already had to do with my own dog.
Okay, more than a little intriguing.
I didn’t have a chance to respond to his question because the two officers who were still on site approached from the side of the house. Asher glanced their way and then back toward the curb where their cruisers were still parked, the flashing lights still spinning. I watched his expression change as he made the connection that the police were in the house I was sitting outside of.
“Chief Ritter,” he said, greeting one of the men by name, a man who apparently was the chief of police on Sweetwater Island. Asher’s brow furrowed as he took in the somber expressions on the men’s faces. “Is everything okay?”
