The Case of the Caged Cockers

by B R Snow

  Around seven, just after the first puppy was delivered, Chef Claire stopped by the Inn with our dinner. We left the condo and headed to my office. As Chef Claire was passing around bowls of gumbo and sandwiches, I noticed the shiny object loosely wrapped around her wrist.

  “Wow,” I said. “That is a gorgeous tennis bracelet, Chef Claire.”

  She held her arm up and gently shook it and the bracelet sparkled in the light.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, sitting down to eat.

  “Who’s that from?” Josie said.

  “I think it’s from Freddie,” Chef Claire said.

  Confused, I glanced at Josie who also seemed clueless.

  “You think?” I said. “You don’t know who gave it you?”

  Chef Claire put her sandwich down and then held up her other arm that displayed an identical tennis bracelet.

  “No way,” Josie said, laughing.

  “Yeah,” Chef Claire said.

  “Freddie and Jackson got you the same thing?” I said, staring at the bracelets.

  “Identical,” Chef Claire said. “Right down to the wrapping. For a moment, I thought I was having a deja vu moment.”

  Josie and I roared with laughter.

  “Well, I guess it’s nice to know they both have similar tastes,” Josie said.

  “What is a girl to do?” I said, unable to stop laughing.

  “Shut up,” Chef Claire said, picking up her sandwich. “I was in the kitchen and heard a knock on the door. It was Freddie. We exchanged gifts, he stayed for about an hour, and we made plans to have dinner next week, then he left. Fifteen minutes later, Jackson showed up, and I swear we had the exact same conversation. It was like they had planned it. They wouldn’t do that would they?”

  “I seriously doubt it, Chef Claire,” Josie said. “I don’t think either one of them is in the mood to share their strategies with each other when it comes to you.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Chef Claire said. “But it was really weird.”

  “So what are you going to do?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe wear them both. Or neither one.”

  “Just wear one,” Josie said. “That will keep them guessing about which one of them might be in your doghouse.”

  “You’re terrible,” Chef Claire said, laughing.

  “I think the word you’re looking for is evil,” I said.

  “Hey, we’re about to enter the winter doldrums, and we’ll need something to help get us through it,” Josie said.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I said, chuckling. “Wear one.”

  Chef Claire headed back up to the house, and we returned to the shepherd’s condo where the second puppy was on its way. I sat down and stroked the mother’s head as she continued through the deliveries, while Josie checked the status of each puppy. When the last puppy arrived, we helped the mother clean the puppies and made sure they were all warm and comfortable. Josie sat with her back against the side of the condo and stretched her legs out.

  “I’ll take the first shift,” Josie said, yawning.

  “Okay. I’m going to grab a shower, and I’ll be back in a couple hours,” I said.

  “Perfect,” she said. “Just wake me up if I doze off.”

  I started to head for the rear entrance that led up to the house then stopped.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” I said. “I got you one more present.”

  “Suzy,” she said. “You didn’t have to do that. You always go way overboard.”

  “I saw this one and thought of you immediately.”

  “You’re too much,” Josie said, shaking her head.

  I reached into my pocket, removed a bag of bite-sized Snickers, and tossed it to her.

  “Oooh, how did you know?” she said, snatching the bag out of the air. “It’s exactly what I wanted.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas, Suzy.”

  I started up the path to the house pulled forward by the smell of gingerbread as I heard the sound of Christmas carols being sung somewhere off in the distance accented by the soft, mouse-like crinkling of tiny presents being unwrapped.

  Read an excerpt from The Case of the Dapper Dandie Dinmont, the next installment in The Thousand Islands Doggy Inn Mysteries.

  Coming January, 2017

  Chapter 1

  When it comes to winter in the Thousand Islands, I do my utmost best to remain philosophical. Especially by the time February rolls around. Over the years, winter has come to symbolize rebirth as Mother Nature performs her own often brutal version of hibernation bringing cold, wind, and snow that transforms our landscape into a sleeping giant and threatens to turn us mere mortals into hermits. For winter in our little part of the world is a season often dominated by the recluse as activity gives way and surrenders to dormancy. Daily life becomes a time for reflection as individuals look inward, quiet their mind and soul, and dream and plan for the days ahead when the air and water warm, and eventually purify the inevitable discontent that follows as the seemingly endless winter season drones on and refuses to release its grip.

  At least that’s what I’ve telling myself and anyone else who will listen to the soliloquy I’ve been blabbering the past five minutes through chattering teeth and severely chapped lips. Josie is giving me her wrap it up look that consists of pursed, narrow lips and a body-piercing glare it’s best to avoid returning lest your eyes burn in their sockets. But I feel compelled to continue waxing poetic as I force my mind to think about anything else other than my frozen feet.

  “Yes, we need to think of winter as an invitation,” I said, hands on hips as I surveyed the scene in front of us. “An invitation to crystallize our inner thoughts and skate through winter, gliding over even the biggest challenges life may put in front of us.”

  “Suzy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut up. It’s twelve below zero, and I can’t feel my legs,” Josie said. “Who holds a carnival in the middle of February?”

  “It’s the Winter Carnival,” I said, gliding away on my skates then circling back around her. “Take a look around. Have you ever seen anything this beautiful?”

  “Is that a trick question?” she said.

  “Absolutely not,” I said, pointing down at the ice. “What do you see down there?”

  “I see a fish,” Josie said. “And I bet it’s warmer than we are.”

  “What else do you see?”

  “Water, some plants, a couple more fish. What’s your point?” Josie said, glancing up at me.

  “My point is that it’s like looking down at an aquarium,” I said.

  Many years, winter arrived with a flurry of snowstorms and vicious wind that turned the shoreline into a jagged outcrop of snow and ice. But occasionally, Mother Nature was kind enough to transform miles of the River into the world’s largest ice skating rink. In late January, we had a warm spell where the temperatures hit fifty during the day and hovered near freezing at night. And all of the River ice that had formed up to that point melted. On the first of February, the temperature dropped precipitously and stayed below zero for the next three weeks. And along with the freezing temperature that consistently hit minus thirty at night was the absence of wind and snow. Now, a six-inch sheet of ice resembling glass stretched for miles up and down the shoreline of the St. Lawrence. It was only the third time I’d seen it in my lifetime and, freezing temperatures aside; it was magnificent.

  A hockey puck glided past us. I looked upriver and saw a young boy waving at another who was downriver several hundred yards away. The puck finally arrived at its destination and the second boy sent it back. When the puck eventually again crossed our path, I glanced at Josie who couldn’t help but smile.

  “Yeah, that’s pretty cool,” she conceded, pushing off on the toe of one of her skates and gliding away.

  A lot of people hated winter with a passion; others considered it their favorite seaso
n. Like me, Josie fell somewhere in the middle and, during the time she’d lived here, had developed strategies designed to help her cope with the cold and snow. But when her coping mechanisms failed to deliver the results she expected or pushed her outside the boundaries of her comfort zone into situations out of her control, Josie turned, in a word, cranky.

  As a native of Georgia, Josie’s skating as a kid had been confined to roller skates. But after several years as a local, she’d gotten good on ice skates, although she preferred to do her skating in the relative comfort of an ice skating rink surrounded by heaters and hot chocolate. But this weekend everyone was outside enjoying the expanded Winter Carnival the Town Council, led by my mother, had quickly put together to take full advantage of the see-through, six-inch sheet of glass.

  I skated over to my SUV that was parked a few feet away on the ice and grabbed my binoculars. Dozens of cars, trucks, and snowmobiles filled the inner bay and, at the far end about a mile away, an ice fishing derby was in progress. At the other end of the bay, four makeshift hockey rinks had been set up, and a tournament was in progress. In between the two major organized events, people were practicing their double axels, playing broomball, drinking, and doing other assorted activities to help them take their minds off the cold.

  I lowered my binoculars and set them down on the front seat then skated back to Josie who was practicing small jumps.

  “Try putting a bit more weight on the front of your jump foot,” I said, watching her struggle to get airborne. She nodded and tried another jump. “Wow. That was a good one.”

  “Thanks,” Josie said. “I’ve got a good teacher.”

  “Incoming!”

  We turned just in time to see Chef Claire barreling toward us. This winter was her first time on skates. And while she’d quickly learned the skating process, Chef Claire was still working on how to stop. She slammed into us, and we all collapsed in a heap on the thick ice.

  “Sorry about that,” Chef Claire said, climbing to her feet. “Are you guys okay?”

  “Define okay,” Josie said, groaning as she got up. “You need to work on learning how to put the brakes on.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Chef Claire said, laughing. “But it’s so much fun going fast on these things.”

  “For somebody who wasn’t sure if she would be able to handle the winters, you sure seem to be okay with it,” I said.

  “Are you kidding? I love all of it,” Chef Claire said, her eyes dancing and her cheeks flushed ruby-red. “I just came over to tell you that lunch is ready.”

  “Great,” Josie said. “What are we having?”

  “Well, I thought I’d stay with hot dishes since we’re out here.”

  “Good call,” Josie said, nodding her head vigorously.

  “I’m starving,” I said.

  That’s a major understatement. Since New Year’s, I’d been working on a resolution to drop the seven pounds I’d gained since last summer. By the time Valentine’s Day had rolled around, I’d made it. But it hadn’t been easy saying no to a lot of Chef Claire’s food. And Valentine’s Day itself had caused a temporary setback when Josie and me, once again dateless, had chosen to buy two of the biggest boxes of chocolate we could find. We’d spent the evening in front of the fire in our pajamas willing to watch anything except romantic movies, sipping champagne, and working our way through an assortment of chocolates filled with cream, nougats, nuts, caramel, and other assorted surprises. But I’d shaken off that setback and refocused my efforts. Now I was down a total of ten pounds and ready to eat.

  “So what’s on the menu?” I said, trying to sound casual.

  “Beef bourguignon, chicken vindaloo, and that tomato-basil soup you both like so much,” Chef Claire said.

  “Okay, you got me,” I said, skating toward the back of my SUV. “What do you say, Josie?”

  “I could eat.”

  Chef Claire opened the back hatch of the vehicle where several warming trays were stacked. She removed a folding card table and placed next to the car out of the wind. We all paused when we heard the roar approaching us.

  “I don’t believe it,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Man, that thing is fast,” Chef Claire said.

  The black snowmobile continued to speed toward us and then came to a long, skidding stop right in front of the car. My mother, dressed head to toe in a shocking pink snowmobiling suit, turned off the powerful machine, removed her pink helmet, and smiled at us as she shook her hair into place. The man sitting behind her continued clutching her waist with both hands as he held on for dear life.

  “Wentworth, as much as I love feeling your arms around me, you can let go now,” my mother said. “We’ve stopped.”

  “Are you sure?” the man said as he reluctantly released his grip.

  “Fear is such an unappealing trait in a man,” she said, laughing.

  “Well, I’m sorry, my dear,” Wentworth said. “At the moment, it’s all I have to offer.”

  “Hello, darling,” my mother said, beaming at me.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said.

  “Josie. Chef Claire,” she said, climbing off the seat. “How are you ladies today?”

  “We’re great, Mrs. C.,” Josie said. “Hi, Wentworth.”

  The man sitting at the back of the snowmobile gave us a small wave as he struggled to his feet, slipped and almost fell on the ice, then sat back down on the edge of the seat to remove his helmet. He looked less than pleased to be here. The wind, now gusting, blew his white hair to one side of his head. He ran his fingers through it in an attempt to put it back in place, then gave up.

  “You’re just in time for lunch,” Chef Claire said. “Are you hungry?”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as my stomach leaves my throat,” Wentworth said in a clipped British accent.

  We’d met my mother’s new boyfriend a couple of times and liked him. But he was very proper in a traditional English sort of way, and I knew my mother was doing her best to loosen him up. I doubted if an eighty-mile-an-hour snowmobile ride with a wind chill factor of minus sixty was the way to do it, but I’d learned the hard way not to argue with my mother when it came to how she handled the men in her life.

  “Mom, that snowmobile is too powerful for you to handle,” I said.

  “Nonsense, darling,” my mother said.

  “Listen to her,” Wentworth said. “Please.”

  Josie laughed.

  “Nice snowmobile suit, Mrs. C.,” Josie said.

  “Thanks,” she said, twirling in her boots. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s very…,” Josie said.

  “Pink,” I said. “The word you’re looking for is pink.”

  “Darling, relax,” my mother said. “I’m perfectly comfortable handling this machine. And this suit makes me feel downright sassy.”

  “What does Wentworth do again?” Josie whispered.

  “Lawyer?” I whispered. “No, I think he’s a banker.”

  Josie nodded and lost interest in the conversation when she caught a whiff of the vindaloo.

  “If you guys can get the folding chairs set up, I’ll get everything ready,” Chef Claire said.

  We each grabbed a chair and arranged them around the table. Chef Claire grabbed a large tablecloth from the back of the SUV and walked to the front of the car to give herself enough room to unfold it.

  “Let me just get this on the table before I serve,” Chef Claire said, holding the tablecloth over her head with both hands.

  “I wouldn’t do that out there, Chef Claire,” I said, getting up out of my chair.

  “What do you mean?” Chef Claire said, flipping the tablecloth open with both hands.

  The wind grabbed it and turned it into a sail.

  “Uh-oh,” I said, staring at Chef Claire as she began moving away from us.

  We watched as the helpless Chef Claire held on for dear life and quickly picked up speed.

  “Why doesn’t she just drop the tablecloth?” my mother said, sta
ring into the distance.

  “She loves going fast,” Josie said, laughing. “I think she learned that from you, Mrs. C.”

  “Well, eventually she has to stop, right?” Wentworth said.

  “She hasn’t learned how to stop yet,” I said, watching the red and white checkerboard sail flap in the breeze.

  “Should we wait, or can we go ahead and start eating?” Josie said.

  I shook my head at Josie.

  “I think we should probably wait for her,” I said.

  “How long is it going to take her to get back?” Josie said. “I mean, we don’t want it to get cold.”

  “Man, she’s motoring,” my mother said as she watched Chef Claire disappear into the distance. “Maybe I can figure out a way to hook up a sail to my snowmobile.”

  “Uh, let’s not go there, Mom,” I said, skating around the car to retrieve my binoculars.

  I looked through them and watched Chef Claire race past several startled onlookers. Then she lost her balance, fell down, but continued to slide across the ice for several hundred feet. I watched her turn over on her knees laughing, then she stopped, and a look of panic appeared and remained on her face.

  “I think she might be hurt,” I said.

  I ran to my mother’s snowmobile. I sat down, started the engine, then roared toward Chef Claire. About a minute later, I came to a sliding stop next to her. She continued to stare down through the ice.

  “Are you okay?” I said, skating closer to her.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, still staring down below the surface. “Certainly better than him.”

  I followed her eyes and then my stomach roiled when I saw the frozen body staring up at us through the ice. He was wearing a tee shirt and shorts.

  Not that the dead man’s seasonally-inappropriate fashion choice mattered a whit.