Bark Twice For Murder: A Pet Shop Mystery, Book 2 (Pet Shop Mysteries)
Page 1
TABLE OF CONTENTS
BARK TWICE FOR MURDER
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
Bark Twice
for
Murder
A Pet Shop Mystery
Book Two
By
Susie Gayle
Copyright 2016 Summer Prescott Books
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication nor any of the information herein may be quoted from, nor reproduced, in any form, including but not limited to: printing, scanning, photocopying or any other printed, digital, or audio formats, without prior express written consent of the copyright holder.
**This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places of business, or situations past or present, is completely unintentional.
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BARK TWICE FOR
MURDER
A Pet Shop Mystery Book Two
CHAPTER 1
* * *
Outside, the sleet pounds the storefront windows of the Pet Shop Stop as it doubles in intensity from only a few minutes prior. There’s little I can do but stare out at the ice careening in sheets from the sky and sigh heavily.
It’s mid-October, for Pete’s sake.
Beside me, Sarah—my sole employee and sole girlfriend—clucks her tongue and says, “Well… this sucks.”
“Sure does.” There’s a very short list of bad things about living in coastal Maine, especially our little town of Seaview Rock. Most would call it beautiful. Some, depending on their vocabulary, might even call it idyllic. But if there’s one thing that tops the list, it’s the freak storms that come in off the Atlantic, and this is one of the freakiest I’ve seen. Just a few days ago the weather authorities were calling for a “light dusting of snow,” and in the course of seventy-two hours it evolved into sleet, heavy snow, and high winds.
“Alright,” I say, tearing my gaze away from the hypnotic awe of the storm outside, “let’s close up early.”
“It’s not even six o’clock,” Sarah says.
“I know, but nobody’s going to be out in this anyway.” I turn to her and add, “You know I can’t let you drive in this.”
“Is that so?”
I nod sadly. “Your front-wheel drive is no match for the awesome might of Mother Nature. I’m afraid we have no choice but to take my SUV, go back to my place, make hot chocolate and binge-watch Animal Planet.”
Sarah purses her lips. “Well, alright. I knew taking this job would come with sacrifices.” She unties her green apron and hangs it on a hook behind the counter. “We should make sure everyone has plenty to eat, just in case we can’t make it here tomorrow.”
“Sure thing.” I appreciate her foresight, even though we both know I’d walk here if I had to. I don’t live very far, and the Pet Shop Stop is not only my store and my livelihood, but also my passion. When I was little, I wanted to be a veterinarian. Then I got to high school and realized that being a vet meant doing stuff like the occasional euthanization and I promptly switched gears. In my late twenties, my new dream came into fruition—owning my own pet store. That was nine years ago, and I’ve been here ever since, on Center Street in Seaview Rock.
Sarah Cummings came onboard about a year and a half ago as a part-time employee. I’d been looking for help and heard through a friend about a compassionate woman who volunteered at local shelters and food banks. What my friend failed to mention was that she’s also disarmingly attractive, with auburn hair and nice skin and dimples when she laughs. Her interview was a lunch at the Runside, our local watering hole, that we mostly spent talking about animals. I hired her on the spot, and our working relationship quickly became a friendship, and then about six months ago became something more.
“Will?” Sarah calls out as she distributes kibble to the dog kennels lining one side of the shop. “Can you grab me a couple of rope toys? I don’t want these guys to get bored.”
“I could,” I tell her, “but I’ve got a guy for that.” I snap my fingers twice and Rowdy comes bounding over from his doggie bed in the rear of the store. He sits dutifully in front of me with his tail swishing enthusiastically against the tiled floor. “Rowdy, bring Sarah toys.”
Rowdy scurries over to a bin behind the counter, takes up two toys in his mouth, and drops them at Sarah’s feet. After an appreciative pat on the head, he hurries back for more.
“What’s next? Are you going to teach him to run the register?” Sarah asks with a grin.
“I’d teach him to do my accounting if he had thumbs.” Rowdy is a former shelter dog that I adopted last spring after we had something of an adventure together. He’s some sort of Franken-dog mid-sized terrier mix; smart as a border collie but rambunctious as a retriever pup. (The vet offered to do a DNA test to find out his breeds, but I declined. Why put labels on things?)
Over the last several months I’ve taught Rowdy no fewer than fifteen commands, all of which he learned with flying colors. But every once in a while, he loses his mind and eats a sofa leg or tries to dig a hole to China. Dogs will be dogs, right?
“Good boy, Rowdy.” Sarah gives him a scratch under the chin as his tail wags so hard it polishes the floor. “You’re so smart, yes you are.”
“You think that’s cool? Watch this one,” I tell her. I kick off my boots and take a few paces back. “Rowdy, shoes. Get the shoes.” Lately we’ve been working on a new trick where Rowdy brings me my shoes in the morning. The hardest part for him, of course, is determining which shoes to bring me.
But instead of grabbing my shoes, Rowdy instead decides to full-on attack Sarah’s boots. He wraps his slobbering jaws around her ankle and tugs, almost knocking her to the ground. She laughs in between trying to scold him. “Rowdy, no! Wrong shoes! No!”
He backs off, confused, cocking his head to the side as if to say, What? You asked for shoes. Okay, so that trick needs some work.
Then suddenly he turns his attention to the window and his tail freezes. He barks once and bounds over to the storefront window. Both Sarah and I gaze out to see a figure on a blue mountain bike trying to navigate the freak snowstorm. I’m pretty sure it’s a guy, but it’s h
ard to tell with the hood of the person’s parka pulled up. Sleet pelts down on them as the front wheel of the bike slips and they slide sideways to the asphalt.
“Jeez, are they nuts? Who would try to ride a bike in this weather?”
“Someone who doesn’t own a car, probably,” Sarah notes. “Will, let’s offer them a ride.”
I open the door to the shop and an icy blast of wind blows right through me. I suck in a sharp breath and hug my arms to my sides as I call out to the bike rider. “Hey! Hey, buddy! Come inside!”
The figure doesn’t hear me, with the hood of their jacket pulled up and the sleet skittering around them. I try waving my arms, but they don’t see me. Instead they get back on the bike and try again, the front tire of the bike wobbling on the ice as they attempt to pedal through the slushy, icy street.
“Whoever it is, they seem like they’re in a hurry,” I tell Sarah as I close the door again.
“Wouldn’t you be, in this weather?” We stand there in the window for a moment, watching them pass by. “I hope they live close. Speaking of, we should really get going. This is only going to get worse.”
“Agreed. Let’s…” I trail off as a familiar pickup truck rolls to a stop in front of the store. Sammy, in a puffy jacket, hurriedly gets out of the truck and yanks open the door to the pet shop. His face is red from the wind, dotted with melting pieces of ice.
“Will,” he says, “there’s an emergency. We have to go now.”
CHAPTER 2
* * *
Sammy Barstow is my best friend, and a barber that runs a shop just a few blocks from mine. A few years ago, when I was going through my divorce (sore subject, don’t ask) he helped me out quite a bit, not just by being there for me but by forcing me get out of the house and be a part of society. (What a monster, right?) Part of his “therapy” was signing us up to be reserve members of Seaview Rock’s fire department. If nothing else, it was good exercise, and we learned some pretty cool emergency techniques. I even got to work a fire hose.
But in the almost three years since we signed on and did the training, we’ve never once been called in.
“I tried calling your cell,” Sammy tells me, somewhat out of breath.
“Sorry, it’s usually on silent during store hours. What’s the emergency?” Ordinarily I’d guess fire, but not in this weather.
“A boat crashed up on the jetty. Most of the guys can’t get there. The chief asked anyone who can make it to help out.”
Halfway through his speech I’m already grabbing my jacket and scarf. As I’m bundling, I tell Sarah, “Take my car and Rowdy and meet me back at my place. I’ll have Sammy drop me… what are you doing?”
Sarah pulls on her jacket as she says, “What about me has ever given you the impression that I’m the kind of woman that sits these things out?”
I shrug. “Good point.” I turn to Rowdy and tell him, “Stay here, pal. We’ll be back for you as soon as we can.”
Rowdy whines a little and puts a paw in the air, which I’ve learned is his way of saying, “Take me with you!” He also knows that it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen, the manipulative little beast.
“No, Rowdy,” I tell him.
“He’s been useful before…” Sammy offers.
“You’re not helping.” I roll my eyes. “Fine, we’ll all go.”
Two minutes later we’re all piled into the cab of Sam’s truck, Sarah in the middle and me in the passenger seat with Rowdy on my lap. Even with four-wheel drive the truck still slips a little every now and then, the roads growing more treacherous by the minute. Luckily, no one else is really out—except that person we saw on the bike—and we make it down to the pier in one piece.
The pier at Seaview Rock starts just beyond the Runside Bar & Grill and extends out over the water about forty yards. It’s the most popular place in town for fishing, and it’s flanked on one side by a boat launch and the other by the jetty, a length of large partially-submerged rocks that serves as a breakwater for the boat launch and public beach beyond it.
Sammy parks the truck in the Runside’s lot and the four of us clamber out. There are already two police cruisers and an ambulance present, and it looks like the EMS guys are in the process of loading someone into the rear of the ambulance.
Chief Mayhew, a stocky woman wearing a heavy black coat with a brown fur-lined collar, jogs over to us, squinting against the sleet.
“What happened?” I ask her. “Did you find anyone onboard?”
“We haven’t been able to get there yet!” she calls back, loud over the cacophony of the wind and freezing rain. “An officer and one of the firefighters tried to launch from the pier, and their boat capsized. We’re taking them to the hospital for hypothermia!”
Okay, this is bad. I don’t have to say that out loud, because judging by the looks on everyone’s faces, they know it, too.
Through the sheets of sleet and large, wet snowflakes I can barely see the outline of the crashed boat out at the end of the jetty, about twenty yards past the pier. I can’t tell exactly, but it looks like it was pushed up against the rocks and got stuck there.
“Let’s go check things out!” Sammy shouts to me.
Sarah grabs my arm. “Please be careful!”
“We’re just going out on the pier.” I follow Sammy, and Rowdy follows me, as we step out onto the wooden planks slick with ice and snow. We tread carefully, single file, to try to get a closer look at the crashed boat.
Sammy points to the shallows of the jetty. “If we can launch a boat there, we can run parallel to the jetty and maybe get out to it…”
“Sure,” I tell him, “if either of us was good enough to not run up on the rocks ourselves.”
He doesn’t say anything. Neither of us are boat owners, and therefore are likely not experienced enough to avoid the same fate as the crashed boat.
We’re only about ten yards down the pier when Sammy’s left foot slips and he tumbles sideways. I grab onto him instinctively and we both go down, hitting the deck of the pier hard with our heads hanging over the side.
“That was close,” I tell him.
“Good catch. Thanks,” Sammy says. “I’d rather not freeze to death today.”
As we climb to our feet, I’m certain I hear a noise over the din of the storm—an echoing, high-pitched whine. A mewl.
Rowdy hears it too, since he looks at me inquisitively and barks once.
“Sammy…” I beckon him closer to shore, where the water is shallow, and then I get down on my hands and knees. “Hang onto my feet.” He does so, as I slide most of my torso over the water so I can get a look under the pier.
I crane my neck as far as I can, but it’s too dark under the pier for me to see anything. But I definitely hear the sound again.
And it is most definitely a cat.
Now, I know what you might be thinking. People could be on that crashed boat. They might be hurt. They might be in trouble. And believe me, I’d like nothing more than to be able to get out there and help them. But I’m here now, and there’s a cat under the pier that I can help.
“I need a light!”
“Here.” It’s Chief Mayhew’s voice as she puts her heavy black flashlight in my hand. I shine it beneath the pier, and when I see what I see I nearly drop it in the water.
Under the pier, in about a foot and a half of water, is a black and white cat, soaking wet and mewling pathetically… and using a man’s body as a raft.
CHAPTER 3
* * *
Have you ever turned on the shower before the water gets hot, and that first burst is just icy cold and hits your body and all your muscles seize up for a second?
Imagine that times a hundred and you’d get some idea of what it felt like to jump into the water after this guy and the cat. I don’t think twice; I spin my body around feet-first and hop off the pier. The water only comes up to just below my knee, but it’s so devastatingly cold that for a few seconds I forg
et that I even have feet, since I immediately lose all feeling in them. As I reach beneath the pier and grab the man by the shoulder to pull him out, the frigid water sends shock waves of pins and needles up both arms.
The guy is wearing only a thick sweater and jeans. His eyes are closed; his lips are blue and his face is a shade of white that I didn’t think was possible on a human being.
It doesn’t even occur to me until I have him out of the water and I’m pulling him up to shore that he might be dead.
Sarah scoops up the cat and sticks it inside her jacket as Sammy, the chief and I get the man onto solid land—not like that’s doing all that much for him, since the sleet and snow are still coming down hard.
I check for a pulse. It’s there, but weak. “This guy is alive,” I tell them.
“Sammy, get your truck warmed up,” the chief instructs. As he hurries off, she starts CPR, compressing his chest rhythmically and counting silently. She arches his neck and pinches his nose to ventilate him, but suddenly he sputters and coughs, saltwater spraying up from his lungs.
Then he loses consciousness again.
“Help me carry him,” Chief Mayhew tells me. She grabs his arms and I grab his legs as we carry him to Sammy’s truck and arrange him as best we can in the cab with the heat on full-blast.
Sammy tosses me the keys. “Get him to the hospital. I’ll stay here with the chief and see what else we can do.”
I nod and get in the driver’s seat. The passenger door opens and Sarah slides in, laying the man’s head in her lap. “I’m coming, too.”
I don’t even try to argue. In fact, I’m grateful for the help. There’s definitely a correlation between strong and stubborn, and Sarah has the capacity to be both.
***