Clawed: A Gin & Tonic Mystery

by L. A. Kornetsky

  L. A. Kornetsky’s “witty”* Gin & Tonic mystery series makes reviewers’ ears perk up!

  Praise for DOGHOUSE

  “The witty banter between characters Tonica and Ginny and the interaction between Penny and Georgie keeps the reader engaged. . . . [A] thought-provoking mystery. Love it!”

  —Single Titles*

  Praise for FIXED

  “There’s really no way to see where this suspense story is going or what the final, action-packed chapters will reveal.”

  —BookLoons

  Praise for COLLARED

  “Charming. . . . Vivid descriptions of Seattle’s Ballard neighborhood are a plus in this cozy tale.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The plot moves quickly, enhanced by smart dialogue and good characterizations. . . . A strong beginning to what should be an entertaining series.”

  —Library Journal

  Thank you for downloading this Pocket Books eBook.

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  For Shana, Indy, and Pandora, Mei-Chan, Boomer, and Cas.

  Because these books couldn’t have been written without them.

  1

  Don’t be like that, babe.”

  His voice sounded the same, his face looked the same, everything was exactly the same as before except for his hands on her hips, his body too close to hers. She went still, the urge to fight warring with the need to disappear, for this to not be happening to her.

  His hand stroked through her hair, obscenely gentle. She could scream, kick, shove him away, but the packet on the chair just behind him mocked her. If she did that, would he refuse to give it to her? Would he make trouble?

  He kissed her, and it wasn’t so bad, but then his hand slipped up, cupping her breast, and she shoved on instinct, moving him back hard enough to knock against the table.

  Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by a sharp knock on the front door. He turned as though he could see who it was, and she took the chance to grab the packet, tucking it under her arm as though daring him to take it back. It was hers; she’d paid for it.

  He shot her a look, as much exasperation as anger, and left the room, clearly going to see who was at the door. Not willing to stay there, she followed him, thinking to slide out the door while he was occupied with the newcomer.

  “Why are you here?” He didn’t seem pleased to see the woman standing outside, and sounded ruder than she’d ever heard him.

  “We need to talk.” The woman glanced at her, then took a longer look, making her uncomfortable enough to shift her feet, gripping the package tighter.

  “You okay, sweetheart?” the woman asked.

  “I . . . Yes. I’m fine.” She didn’t want to talk to anyone, she just wanted to go home. He looked like he was going to argue as she slipped past him, out onto the porch, but the woman took his attention again. “Leave the girl alone,” she said. “We have business to discuss.”

  He really didn’t look happy, but nodded, letting the woman in and closing the door behind them, but not before he gave her one last long stare.

  She fled down the steps, and didn’t look back.

  * * *

  Going sixty miles an hour was no time to suddenly feel someone licking the side of your face. The little car swerved slightly in its lane, and the driver used her right elbow to shove her passenger back down. “Georgie, sit. Sit!”

  Her elbow barely dented the forty-plus pounds of muscle, but Georgie sighed mournfully, settled herself on the backseat again, and rested her wrinkled muzzle on her paws. Large brown eyes rolled upward as though she were the most put-upon dog in the universe.

  “You spend half your life crammed into the back of Teddy’s car without complaint. Put you in the backseat of a nice rental sedan, and suddenly you can’t get comfortable?” Ginny shifted gears, checked the mirror, and then reached back to rub Georgie’s tawny head with her free hand. “We’re almost there, kiddo. And don’t sigh like that at me. If I’d left you home you would have been even more miserable, and driven Mrs. Olson nuts.”

  Their next-door neighbor was willing to take the dog for a daily walk when Ginny couldn’t be home in time, but the retiree was too old to get down on her knees and romp, and even though Georgie wasn’t a puppy anymore, she still needed a lot of personal affection. The shar-pei had sulked for the entire three days Ginny had left her with Mrs. Olson, making the older woman think the dog was sick, and involving a panicked—and expensive—emergency vet visit.

  “So it’s your own fault that you’re stuck back there. Sorry, girl.”

  The shar-pei sighed heavily, again, but otherwise behaved herself.

  It wasn’t entirely Georgie’s fault, Ginny knew. Ginny was more agitated than usual—certainly more than she was comfortable with—and the dog was probably picking some of that up, and in her own doggy way trying to help.

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” she said out loud, trying to reassure them both.

  Being your own boss usually meant that every day was take-your-dog-to-work day. Even when she moved location to Mary’s, either to meet with Tonica or just take a break, she was able to bring Georgie with her. Going out of town overnight? Not so much.

  But this was her first meeting with an out-of-town client—hell, it was her first out-of-town client, period. And she couldn’t focus if she was worried all the time about what Georgie was up to, either moping with a sitter, or moping in a kennel. So Ginny had rented a car instead of taking Amtrak from Seattle to Portland, and found a pet-friendly hotel that wasn’t wildly expensive, and they’d see what happened.

  “If nothing else, kid, you being able to handle a longer car ride would mean I could actually take you on long weekend trips. That’s be nice, huh?” Not that there had been many of those recently, or were likely to be in the immediate future. Things had gone cold with her boyfriend—pretty much ex-boyfriend, she admitted, although they hadn’t said the words to each other yet—and her reaction to relationships ending was always to throw herself into more work, but having pet-friendly options that didn’t involve boarding Georgie at the vet in the future would be good.

  “Maybe I could make you my silent partner,” she said to the dog. “Mallard and Canine: Six Legs to Run Your Errands.” There was more to being a private concierge than legwork, but she couldn’t think of anything snappy that would fit on a business card. She took Georgie’s soft snort as a complaint, and laughed. “You are not getting top billing. Deal with it.”

  The traffic was flowing nicely, and Georgie had settled down again, so Ginny let her mind wander to a future where she had clients all the way down to San Francisco, letting the road run under her wheels, until her phone trilled, a familiar name coming up on the dashboard display. She fumbled for the phone plugged into the dashboard, managing to hit ACCEPT without taking her eyes off the road or accidentally hanging up on the person calling.

  “Hey, Ginny.” The connection was staticky, but Tonica’s voice was clear. “You there yet?”

  “Almost. Coming up on the bridge. Traffic was pretty good.”

  There was a clink of glassware in the background, and a low voice saying something she couldn’t quite make out. She could almost imagine Tonica leaning against the bar, one hand on the phone, one eye watching Stacy or Seth setting up for the
day. Then she frowned, checking the dash clock. It was too early for Tonica to be at Mary’s—they didn’t open until after noon on weekdays, and it was barely ten now.

  “Why’re you in so early?” And why was he calling her, she thought. They were friends, yeah, but not the call-and-hang-out-on-the-phone kind of friends.

  “Delivery,” he said with a sigh. “And I’m still the only one who can sign for anything,”

  “I can!” Stacy’s voice called out, clear for a moment, and Ginny laughed. She could only imagine his expression in reaction to the waitress-turned-bartender suggesting that she could forge his signature. “You don’t really look the part,” he said dryly, off-mic. “But thanks for playing.”

  In the backseat, Georgie had picked her head up at the sound of the familiar voices coming out of the phone, and now she whined a little, as though wondering where Tonica and Stacy were.

  Tonica must have heard the noise, because he asked, “And how’s Herself doing?”

  Ginny looked at Georgie in the rearview mirror. “So far so good. A little twitchy, but that’s understandable.”

  “And no projectile carsickness?”

  Ginny was offended on her dog’s behalf. “She’s never once thrown up in your car. Why do you think she’d have problems now?”

  “Because for all the jaunting around town we’ve done, we’ve never driven her three hours all at once. And because we both know that she’s a delicate flower.”

  The fact that her occasional business partner—an avowed not-a-pet-person-damn-it-Mallard—now used “we” when talking about Georgie never failed to crack Ginny up. He was so totally owned, both by her dog, and Penny, the little tabby cat that had adopted him.

  “Delicate flower my ass. She’s tougher than you are, Tonica.” She looked back at Georgie again. “You’re not going to york in the car, are you, baby??”

  Georgie remained noncommittal.

  Ginny adjusted the rearview mirror again and returned her attention to the phone call. “Did you call just to check on her, or was there something you actually needed to ask me?”

  “Yeah. While I’m stuck here waiting, I’m finishing up the paperwork on the Grabien case, and was trying to remember the name of the tow company. You paid for it, so I don’t have a receipt.”

  She frowned in thought. That had been two weeks ago, and she’d been busy since then. “Mackenzie. Maybe? Something Scottish. And Sons? I don’t remember. It was a bright yellow truck.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. “Yeah, that’s gonna help so much, thanks.”

  She could definitely see his expression this time: slightly irritated, eyes squinted, the phone pressed to his ear because he hated wearing a Bluetooth when he was working, running a hand over the top of his head, like the Marine-style haircut he had could get rumpled. Tonica—Theodore Tonica, full-time bartender at and manager of Mary’s Bar, and her partner in their part-time and occasional, totally off-the-books “researchtigations” business, could do bitchface like nobody’s business.

  Especially when it came to paperwork. It was a source of never-ending, if quiet, amusement that he’d let himself get talked into what was basically a management position the year before. For a man who claimed to not want responsibilities . . .

  “Sorry.” She sped up to pass a truck in the left lane, watching nervously as the lumber stacked on the long bed shifted as the truck moved. She hated sharing the road with logging trucks. “You’re going to have to wait until I get home. Or you’re going to have to go over to my apartment and sort through the receipts. They’re in the blue folder on the left-hand side of my desk.”

  “Yeah, in my copious spare time I’ll go rummage through your office, and have you glare at me for a week afterward because I messed up your filing system. Pass. It’ll wait.”

  “I’ll check it as soon as I get home. Might want to email me a reminder, though. Anything else?”

  “No, looks like all the tees are dotted and the eyes are crossed.”

  She gave that joke the laugh it deserved, and even Georgie groaned, although the dog was prone to grunts and heavy exhales on an understood-only-to-dogs basis.

  “Anyway, everything else is quiet down here, for the moment, although having said that I’m sure something’s about to go horrible wrong. You really had to go down tonight? You’re going to miss Trivia Night. Again.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Trivia Night was a big deal at Mary’s, and once upon a time she’d been a fierce member of her team. But truthfully, if only admitted to herself, since the two of them had started solving actual mysteries she hadn’t felt quite the same competitive urge. Answering questions about literary quotations, or random scientific facts just didn’t seem . . . challenging enough anymore.

  And anyway, making money trumped trivia. This new client wasn’t paying much, but she was the first in a new city, and if Ginny did well, it could open up a lot of new doors. Or at least the occasional lucrative one.

  “Just think of it as your team’s chance to finally win,” she told him. “I’ll be back in a few days. Tell Seth to take the tuna salad off the menu before I get back.”

  “Yeah, ’cause he listens to anything I say,” Tonica groused, and then hung up.

  “They can’t function without us,” Ginny told Georgie, who thumped her slender, twisted tail once—a move that involved more of her hindquarters than actual tail—as though to agree. Ginny didn’t have any official connection to Mary’s, but the past two years she was pretty sure she’d spent as much time there as in her own apartment, so much so that they’d threatened to put her name on one of the bar stools.

  “It’s not even the nicest place in town,” she told Georgie now. “And their wine selection is seriously subpar. Why do we keep going back there again?”

  Well, she knew why Georgie went: because Penny was there. Whoever’d coined the phrase “fights like cats and dogs” had never seen Georgie and Penny hanging out together. She and Tonica might have become friends as well as part-time partners, but Georgie and Penny were besties.

  And Ginny went back because it had become her second home, as clichéd as that sounded. The Trivia Nights, packed to the walls and noisy. The quiet afternoons, kicking back and talking with Stacy and Tonica, with Seth muttering in the background, the nearly perfect martinis Tonica made, and the fact that her friends knew that they could find her there, either at the third bar stool down, or the table by the window . . .

  “Oh God, I’ve become a cliché,” she said, laughing at herself. “Georgie, we need an intervention, stat, or we’re going to become a sitcom.”

  Then Georgie made an unfortunate, unhappy noise, and Ginny was too busy trying to find a spot to pull over to think more about Mary’s.

  “No, no, sweetie—just hang on a minute more . . .”

  * * *

  “That Ginny on the phone?” The question came from down the other end of the bar, where his waitress/occasional bartender/aide de folie was prepping the bar for open.

  “Yeah.” Teddy inspected the glassware that had come out of the machine and decided that they passed muster, sliding them into the rack under the counter. “She’s running down to Portland on business.”

  Stacy paused in the act of moving a full bottle behind a half-empty one on the shelf and turned to look at him. “Her business, or . . . ?”

  “Her own.”

  “Good.” Stacy finished adjusting the whiskey, and turned her attention to the bottles of vodka. Her ponytail twitched as she moved, and Penny, in her usual perch above the shelves, reached down a paw as though to snag it. Fortunately for them both, Stacy was a few inches too short, and the cat couldn’t quite reach. “Not that I don’t have a lot of fun when you guys poke into other people’s business, where ‘fun’ means potentially getting beaten up or robbed or puppy-sitting, but her tab needs paying.”

  “Oh, th
at’s not fair,” he said, then paused. Actually, that was a pretty accurate summation of the past year or so. Well, almost. They had gotten threatened, and robbed, and there had been a puppy here briefly, but Ginny hardly ran an extreme tab here, especially since they tended to “forget” to charge her for refills. “I do approve of the mercenary way you’re thinking, though. Excellent progress, young Padawan.”

  Stacy made a rude gesture in his direction. She was about twice as mercenary as he was on a good day, and they both knew it. He was a bartender because he liked people, not because he liked profit.

  Of course, when it came to mercenary urges, Ginny could and would eat them both for lunch. Her drive and focus, and his people skills: that was what made them such a good team. It was a good mix. “Gin and Tonica Investigations,” one of the wags at the bar had dubbed them. It was a terrible pun, but it had stuck, at least with the crowd at Mary’s. Outside, they didn’t advertise. This was still a sideline, a part-time gig neither of them had planned on taking on, much less keeping.

  He’d had doubts at first. And, all right, at second and third, too. This “researchtigations” gig had seemed doomed to crash and burn, and possibly take them both down with it. But Teddy was honest enough to admit that he was hooked on the satisfaction of a successful case, on helping people out of tough spots. And, ideally, not getting hit, beat up, or otherwise busted in the process.

  That thought made him look at the paperwork on the bar in front of him, still needing to be finished, and he winced. They hadn’t gotten hit that time, but his classic Saab had. And trying to explain why a little old lady had taken a hammer to his front hood . . .

  “Hey, we got a couple of requests to put those grilled cheese sandwiches back on the menu,” Stacy said. “You want to tell Seth?”

  “Not particularly.” He might be the manager of the bar, and the final say—short of the owner—on what happened there, but the tiny kitchen was Seth’s domain, and the only thing the ex-boxer disliked more than Teddy telling him what to do was a customer telling him.