Asking Fur Trouble

by Ally Roberts

  Look what happened the last time I’d done it.

  I’d found a dead body.

  And the chief of police was now seriously thinking I might somehow be responsible.

  I shoved my hands in my pockets, a defensive measure to keep me from reaching out to the golden retriever who was now happily trotting toward me.

  “Don’t engage,” I muttered under my breath.

  Wise words, but impossible to enforce, especially when the dog got up on its hind legs and pawed at my chest.

  “Hey,” I said, gently knocking him off me. As soon as he was back on all fours, I thrust my hands back in my pockets.

  He splayed his front paws and crouched down, indicating he wanted to play. He barked once, then twice.

  “What do you want, boy?” I asked.

  “He thinks you have a ball.”

  I turned.

  A man wearing swim trunks and a white t-shirt was standing behind me.

  He pointed to my pockets. “Show him your hands. He thinks you’re hiding a ball.”

  I hesitated before doing as he suggested. The dog looked at both of my outstretched hands, then turned and headed for the water.

  “You know him?” I asked. “The dog?”

  The man grinned. “I hope so. He’s mine.” He squinted at me. “Wait. Wendy?”

  I took an involuntary step back.

  How did this guy know my name?

  “Is that you?” he asked.

  “Um…” I didn’t know what to say. I had no idea who this guy was but he obviously knew me.

  A smile flashed across his face. “It’s me, Tate. Tate Goodman.”

  The name was like a blast from the past.

  Tate Goodman.

  He and I had gone out in sixth grade.

  For three days.

  Shortly after, his family had moved to Charlotte and I’d never heard—or thought of—him again.

  “Tate?” It was my turn to squint.

  The man standing in front of me looked nothing like the scrawny kid with braces who had tried holding my hand on the playground at Roosevelt Middle School.

  “You look…different,” I said, lamely.

  That was a massive understatement. The guy standing in front of me was easily six feet tall, with a muscular build I never would have guessed might be in his future. Longish brown hair, slightly sun-kissed and mussed from the ocean breeze, and piercing green eyes that I absolutely did not remember. Maybe he was wearing colored contacts. Because I was pretty sure I would have remembered those eyes.

  “You don’t,” he said. “Look different, I mean.”

  I didn’t know if that was a criticism or a compliment.

  “Same dark hair, same blue eyes.” He looked me over, but not in a lewd or lascivious way. “You kind of look like that princess.”

  “Princess?”

  “Yeah. Kate, I think?”

  “She’s not a princess,” I said. “She married Prince William but the title of princess can’t be passed to her. She’s a duchess.”

  “Know a lot about the royal family, huh?”

  I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. I didn’t want to admit the number of magazines I thumbed through at the store to read articles about them, or the fact that I followed all of their Instagram accounts. I’d gotten up at the crack of dawn just so I could watch Meghan and Harry’s nuptials.

  “A little,” I admitted. “And I look nothing like Kate.”

  “Says who?” He arched an eyebrow. “You even have the dimples.”

  I was sure my cheeks were fire engine red now.

  Thankfully, he moved away from the topic of me being a royal doppelganger. “Have you been here this whole time?”

  “At the beach?” I glanced around me. “No, I just got here a few minutes ago.”

  “No, I mean here on the island. I can’t believe I haven’t run into you.”

  “Oh, no, actually, I just came back. I’ve been gone since graduation.”

  He nodded. “I didn’t think so.”

  “What about you?” I asked quickly. I was eager to shift the focus of the conversation off of me. “You moved away, right?”

  “Yep, right at the end of my sixth grade year.”

  At least I’d remembered that correctly.

  “I came back after high school,” Tate said. “Missed the island and decided I wanted to move back.”

  “So you’ve lived here all this time?”

  “Twelve years now.” He grinned. “It was nice to come back home.”

  I understood his sentiment, but the jury was still out for me with that statement. I had a cranky dad and a dead body influencing my current state of mind. The lack of a job and my recent divorce put a damper on things, too.

  “Looks like your dog likes the beach,” I said, shifting my attention to the golden retriever who was back to running along the shore break, chasing after the gulls that dared land on the sand.

  “Harry’s part dolphin, I think.” He whistled and the dog looked at him and then bounded back toward where we were standing. After a couple of quick pets, he took off toward the water again.

  I glanced at Tate’s hands. He wasn’t holding a leash. “He just runs free?”

  He shrugged. “Pretty much. This is his second home.”

  “So you guys are here a lot? At the beach, I mean.”

  Another smile. “Every day during the season,” he responded. He turned and pointed to a couple of storage containers in the sand, far from the shore and close to the sidewalk.

  “I run Beach Gear,” he said. “We rent out umbrellas and chairs and stuff.”

  I saw the logo on the storage containers, an umbrella with the words ‘Beach Gear’ emblazoned on it.

  “You run it?”

  He ran a hand over his head, and the breeze picked up strands of hair, tossing and teasing them a little before they fell. “Actually, I own it.”

  “Own it?” I was impressed.

  “The guy who owned it before wanted out. Clark Trimble. Remember him?”

  I shook my head.

  “He was the guy who brought his long board out every morning, regardless of conditions. He’d be out there on two-footers and he’d be out there during a tropical storm. Nothing got between him and his surf time.”

  I had a vague recollection of hearing stories about him, but I’d never spent many mornings at the beach. My summers had consisted of sleeping late and then rolling out of bed and heading down to spend the afternoon there.

  “Well, I signed on with him when I came back to Sweetwater,” Tate said. “Worked my way from part-time to full. And then a few years ago, he wanted out. Asked me if I wanted to buy the business. I jumped at the chance.”

  “So this really is your second home,” I said. “The beach, I mean.”

  He nodded. “Yep. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  I shifted my gaze back to the water, to the waves that could mesmerize and soothe and make me forget all of my cares and worries.

  It was one of the reasons I’d come back to the island. Sure, being homeless and jobless and husbandless had a lot to do with it, but there was a part of me that desperately missed the coast.

  I’d decided to come back.

  And so, apparently, had Tate Goodman.

  Tate whistled and Harry bounded back to him again, his fur soaked and his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth.

  I’d never seen a happier dog.

  I stole a quick peek at Tate.

  He, too, was smiling. He looked relaxed. And handsome. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine him as some sort of bronzed lifeguard from some soapy Netflix series.

  Yeah, he definitely looked happy.

  I wondered how much being back on Sweetwater Island had to do with his current state.

  And I wondered if coming home would have the same effect on me.

  NINE

  Trixie was waiting for me when I finally got home.

  And so were Chief Ritter and Detective Sim
coe.

  I’d managed to step inside the house and let Trixie out into the backyard when I spotted the cruiser coming down the street. I craned my neck and watched as it pulled to the curb, directly in front of the house.

  Trixie found a small patch of grass and relieved herself, then trotted back to my side.

  “We have company, “ I told her.

  I had a feeling the doorbell would be ringing any second, so I left Trixie in the fenced backyard and forced myself back into the house. It was no easy feat. Part of me wanted to pretend I wasn’t home. My car was parked out front but that didn’t mean anything on the island, especially where my house was situated. Everything was in easy walking distance for me, and the free trolley that rolled through the business district and to the beach was already operating on limited seasonal hours. I could be anywhere on the island, as far as they knew.

  But I was home.

  And when one of them finally pushed the doorbell, I sighed and trudged toward the door.

  It was better to just answer, I tried telling myself. Just see what they want and get it over with.

  Maybe they were here to tell me they’d found a suspect. Or that they’d been wrong about the cause of death. Considering they’d already botched part of the investigation—not roping off the scene and thoroughly investigating it until the day before was about as big of a no-no as there was—this didn’t feel like too big of a stretch.

  I tried to ignore the uptick in my pulse as I opened the door.

  Chief Ritter nodded a greeting. “Afternoon.”

  “Chief Ritter,” I said. I glanced at the big man standing next to him. “Detective Simcoe.”

  Simcoe cleared his throat. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions, ma’am.”

  I cringed at the salutation. I didn’t feel old enough to be called ‘ma’am’ yet.

  “About?” I asked.

  “Your interactions with Caroline Ford.”

  My heart began to beat faster. “I didn’t have any interactions with her,” I said coolly.

  Simcoe’s bushy eyebrows lifted, and they looked like caterpillars creeping toward his scalp. “None?”

  I shook my head. “I already told you, I found her dog wandering near the beach and was bringing it back to her.”

  “How did you know it was her dog?” Chief Ritter asked.

  “I told you this, as well,” I said. “He had a tag with the address on it.”

  “Why didn’t you just call Animal Control?” Detective Simcoe asked.

  “Because I didn’t know Animal Control existed,” I said. “And because the dog wasn’t doing anything wrong. And because I thought the neighborly thing to do would be to return the dog to its home rather than involve the authorities.”

  The two men exchanged glances.

  Chief Ritter wiped at his brow. The pits of his shirt were wet, which struck me as odd. It was a nice day, but not particularly hot. Not hot enough to be sweating profusely, at least. Maybe he was just a heavy sweater. Or maybe he was nervous about talking to me.

  “So you didn’t…uh…kidnap the dog?” he asked.

  My mouth dropped open. “What?”

  Simcoe took a step forward, his expression now stern. “Kidnap him. Take him forcefully.”

  “Of course not!” I snapped. “Why would I steal a dog? I already have one.”

  Detective Simcoe tugged at the collar of his starched white Oxford. “Maybe you were trying to blackmail Caroline.”

  “Blackmail her how? Like a ransom? For money?”

  They exchanged glances again. “You need money?”

  I rolled my eyes. “No, I do not need money.” This wasn’t exactly a truthful statement, but I wasn’t about to discuss my current financial situation with these two. “And I did not kidnap her dog.”

  “Maybe not for money,” Chief Ritter said. He stroked his chin, his eyes locked on me. “But maybe to convince her to give your new business a try.”

  “What?”

  His eyes narrowed. “My wife reminded me about your new business. Dog walking, is it?”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes again.

  He was making terrible connections, obviously, but there was a small part of me that realized just how dangerous this could be. I was in a small town, with an apparently inept police force. Maybe they were just being thorough, investigating all angles…or maybe they truly were looking to pin this crime on me.

  “I have started a dog walking business.”

  The chief grinned triumphantly and Simcoe looked at him. I almost expected them to exchange a fist bump or high-five before slapping cuffs on me.

  “But I didn’t come up with the idea until after I found Caroline Ford’s dog,” I added.

  Both men frowned.

  “And, actually, it wasn’t even my idea.” I was reconstructing the events from the previous day, trying to make sure I remembered everything as accurately as possible. “Asher Ellsworth was the one who suggested it.” I looked at Chief Ritter. “You saw us talking, remember? I think you might have even heard part of our conversation.”

  His nod was subtle.

  “He was the one who asked,” I said. “It hadn’t even crossed my mind until he asked if I would walk his dog. Talk to Asher. He’ll confirm it.”

  The disappointment on both men’s faces was evident.

  I wasn’t really sure how to feel about that.

  “Well,” Chief Ritter said. He hitched up his pants, his hands lingering on the belt looped around his waist…the belt with the gun and the handcuffs he was probably hoping to use on me when he first arrived.

  Okay, so maybe that was a bit dramatic, but panic does that to me. These men had an agenda.

  Me.

  “Talk to Asher Ellsworth,” I said again. I was surprised at how calm and steady my voice sounded, because inside I was a quaking mess. “He’ll tell you.”

  Owen Simcoe took a step back and the relief that rushed through me felt like a tidal wave.

  I was off the hook.

  For now.

  “I will,” Chief Ritter warned.

  I nodded. “He’ll confirm exactly what I just told you.”

  He pursed his lips. “I’ll say it again, Miss Walker. Don’t leave town. You hear? Not until we get to the bottom of this.”

  I swallowed.

  I wasn’t leaving town.

  Not just because he’d ordered me to stay put.

  Because I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  TEN

  “Wait. Slow down. Tell me again why you’re a suspect in a murder case.”

  I rolled over on my bed and stared up at the ceiling. My phone was pressed to my ear and my best friend was on the other line.

  A thousand miles away.

  “Because the police here are completely incompetent and apparently can’t fathom that a local would do something like this,” I said bitterly.

  Shannon chuckled. “So they just pick the newest person in town and try to frame them?”

  “Something like that,” I mumbled. I shifted, shimmying so my head was better positioned on the pillow. “Tell me what you’ve been up to. Take my mind off this mess.”

  Shannon obliged. If there was one thing I could count on, it was the fact that my best friend would chat until she was blue in the face. She always had stories: from work, from dating, from articles she read or videos she watched. She was the kind of person who willingly engaged in conversations but was also happy to talk just to hear her own voice.

  “A man threw up on me today,” she said cheerfully.

  “Ew.” I wrinkled my nose. “How?”

  “He said I gagged him with the suction tube,” she said. “Which is bull. I’ve been a dental hygienist for six years now. I know how to work suction, thank you very much.”

  I chuckled, trying to imagine that particular scenario. The horror, the indignation, the ability to laugh about it afterward; those were all hallmarks of a typical Shannon Lindstrom story.

  �
��I don’t want to talk about vomit,” I said.

  “And I don’t think we should talk about murder, either,” she told me. “Tell me more about this business you’re starting.”

  There wasn’t much more to tell. I’d given her the rundown and she’d reacted with typical Shannon enthusiasm.

  “And you have your first client, right?”

  “Yep, I pick him up tomorrow.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Duke.”

  “Not the dog. The person.”

  “Oh. Asher. Asher Ellsworth. He owns the only rental condos on the island.”

  She whistled. “Does that mean he’s rich? He sounds rich.”

  “How does he sound rich?”

  “His name,” Shannon said. “Asher Ellsworth.” She said it dreamily, and I could see her twirling a long lock of blonde hair around her finger, her eyes closed, a small smile on her face. “And the fact that he owns rental condos.”

  “I have no idea if he’s rich,” I said, which wasn’t exactly true. My mom had hinted at it, so I had a pretty good guess he might be.

  A few seconds later, Shannon said, “He is a total fox!”

  “What? Who?”

  “Asher Ellsworth.”

  I sat up. “How on earth would you know?”

  “I just Googled him. Well, looked him up on Instagram. He looks like a movie star. Is he single?”

  At least we were in agreement about his looks.

  Never mind the fact that it was just a tiny bit creepy that my best friend in Minneapolis was stalking my first client.

  “I have no idea,” I murmured.

  “Do all the guys look like this on the island?” she asked.

  My thoughts instantly went to Tate.

  “Wen?” she said, calling me by the nickname she alone used. “You still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.” But my mind was now on the man with the green eyes and the sun-kissed hair and the bronzed body.

  “Oh my gosh, they do.”

  I blinked. “What? Who does?”

  “The guys. All the guys on the island. It’s like a hot bed of gorgeous-looking men. Ground zero for hot guys. Why have you kept this from me all these years? I…I could move there. Be a dental hygienist there. They need clean teeth, right? Or maybe they’re just genetically predisposed to have awesome teeth. Asher Ellsworth looks like he is.”