Death by Chocolate Lab (Lucky Paws Petsitting Mystery)

by Bethany Blake

  “In spite of the fans, Piper’s gonna kill me,” I told Artie and Socrates, leading them toward the door.

  Socrates clearly agreed. He hung his head, and a low grumble echoed in his white-streaked chest, as if he was trying to tell me, “Yes, you are in trouble.”

  Resigning myself to a scolding—which wouldn’t really be fair, since I was helping in my own way and taking care of my business, as Piper was always advising me to do—I stepped into the sunlight.

  As I’d worked, I’d heard cars, conversations, and some barking outside the barn, but I was still surprised by how many people and dogs had arrived. Most of the handlers had established what looked like small campsites, with crates and blankets and portable fans for both dogs and owners. The trial was all set up, too. Two rings, defined by low white plastic fences, were filled with obstacles, including the tunnel I’d seen Steve take out of his truck and a colorful hoop through which dogs would jump, as well as lines of poles that the dogs would slalom through, like canine skiers.

  Searching for familiar faces, I saw Giulia manning her already busy coffee stand. While she handed out cold drinks and accepted cash, her boyfriend, Christian, lounged in a nylon folding chair he’d set up in a shadow cast by the cart. He was reading the Wall Street Journal and seemed oblivious to how busy Giulia was. As I watched, she maintained her smile but wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.

  I started to walk over, thinking I could offer to help, and buy an Italian soda, only to bump, literally, into Virginia Lockhart, who had Hamlet, Iago, and Macduff on their leather leads.

  “Sorry,” I said, stepping back and petting the pack leader, Macduff, who was nuzzling my hand. I smiled at Virginia, who somehow managed to look cool and comfortable in what was definitely an expensive white linen, sleeveless top, khaki-colored shorts, and sporty, but feminine flats. Most handlers wore tees or polos and old sneakers. Her dark hair, secured by a water-color-print scarf, was sleekly polished, too, while my curls were going insane, thanks to the humidity. “I guess I was really distracted,” I added. “I didn’t even see you.” I glanced at the dogs, whose panting mouths all seemed to be grinning. “Or my three favorite rottweilers, who are hard to miss.”

  The dogs might’ve been happy, but Virginia did not seem amused by our human fender bender. She crossed her arms over her ample chest and scowled. “You should be apologizing for nearly losing my dogs last night! Why didn’t you tell me they got loose?”

  “Because nothing really happened,” I informed her. I didn’t remind her that she hadn’t given me much chance to say anything when I’d dropped off Hamlet, Iago, and Macduff at her house in Foxview Heights. She’d hurried the dogs into the gorgeous home she shared with her state senator husband, Mitch, and left me standing on the stoop in the drizzle while she wrote out a check. The next thing I’d known, a massive door was being shut in my face. Honestly, the huge brass knocker had nearly bumped my nose. Feeling muzzles poking at my hand, I stroked Iago and Hammie, too. “They just got a little spooked by the storm.”

  Virginia jutted out her pointed chin. “The next time an incident happens, I am to be informed,” she warned me.

  At least, it felt like a warning.

  If I was ever in court, I would want Virginia Lockhart defending me. But outside a courtroom, she could be a tad abrasive, to put it nicely. I wondered, briefly, if she bossed around Mitch or if he was as strong-willed as his wife. I’d met him only once, and he’d been jovial in a fake way, like he was angling for a vote—which was probably the case.

  “I will call you about watching the dogs next week,” Virginia added, so at least I knew I hadn’t been fired. Then she gave the leads a quick tug, made a ch-ch sound, and said, “Lay on, Macduff!”

  I watched them all walk away, with Macduff in the lead, and wondered why she and Steve both spoke to the rotties like they were actual characters in a play by Shakespeare.

  Why not talk to them like normal American dogs?

  I also suddenly wondered how Virginia even knew that Hammie, Macduff, and Iago had been loose.

  Had Steve told her?

  And speaking of Steve . . .

  I looked around again, but I didn’t see him or my sister. I did find Tessie and Tom Flinchbaugh, who were working at their mobile pet shop. Like Giulia, they had lots of customers. Tom was under the tent, which they’d apparently figured out how to erect, ringing up a customer. He had a big bandage on his hand, and I thought that was probably overkill. I was pretty sure he hadn’t even been bleeding when I’d seen him wincing the night before. Tessie, meanwhile, was showing a potential customer the features of a pet puzzle that would dispense treats if a dog could figure out how to open tricky little flaps.

  “You are insulted by that, aren’t you?” I asked Socrates, who did not like dog toys. Especially ones that assumed he would be challenged by simple tasks.

  Two droopy, but wise brown eyes blinked up at me, so I knew he agreed that the toy was beneath him.

  “I bet you’d like playing with the puzzle, though,” I added, smiling down at Artie.

  Only Artie wasn’t next to me.

  Following the sound of laughter—which often trailed in Artie’s wake—I found him and groaned out loud. “Artie! No!”

  Chapter 7

  I seriously doubted that a thrice abandoned Chihuahua had ever been offered formal agility training, but what Artie lacked in experience he made up for in exuberance.

  As I climbed over the low white fence that defined one of the two courses, he gleefully navigated one obstacle after another, first launching himself through the colorful hanging hoop, like a lion at a circus, then climbing the A-frame, where he stood tall, his tail wagging with excitement.

  “Artie, get down from there,” I said, catching a glimpse of Piper, who stood outside the ring, shaking her head with disapproval.

  I wasn’t sure why she was so unhappy. The event hadn’t officially started yet, and Artie wasn’t hurting anything. In fact, some people seemed to find him quite entertaining. A small crowd was gathering.

  Still, I didn’t want to make Piper mad, so I called to Artie again. “Come!”

  No one knew much about why Artie had been given up several times, but I suspected that it had something to do with his lawless, free spirit, which I admired. Although, at that moment, I would’ve preferred that he listen to me, as opposed to dart down the A-frame and duck into the long red tunnel. I waited for a moment, but apparently, Artie thought he’d found a pretty nifty hiding place, because he didn’t emerge from the other side.

  “Daphne . . .” I heard a warning in Piper’s voice, and more laughter from the people who’d gathered around the ring.

  “I’m getting him,” I promised, with a glance down at Socrates, who’d joined me on the course, too. “Do you want to bring him out?”

  Socrates looked genuinely offended by the suggestion that he debase himself by walking into a tunnel. In fact, he lay down and yawned.

  “Daphne!” Piper’s voice was sharper, and I looked over to see her scowling at me and pointing to her wrist, although she wasn’t wearing a watch. “The trial starts in five minutes!”

  “Okay, okay!”

  Apparently, I would have to debase myself. Getting down on all fours, I crawled until I could poke my head inside the tunnel.

  “Artie, come over here.”

  I started to summon him again, but suddenly my throat got very tight, making it difficult to talk, because Artie wasn’t alone inside that obstacle.

  I froze in place for a second, then backtracked slowly on my hands and knees. Forcing myself to stay calm, in spite of just having seen a body, I stood up and called to Piper, telling her in a shaky voice, “I . . . I found Steve Beamus.”

  Chapter 8

  “I can’t believe he’s really dead,” I muttered to Piper. We stood with the rest of the crowd just outside the ring while the local coroner, Vonda Shakes; some uniformed police officers; and an ambulance crew bustled around the tu
nnel, doing official-looking things. I stroked Artie, who was cradled in my arms and shaking more than usual, as if he understood what he’d just seen. Socrates, sitting at my feet, was his usual composed self. I looked down to see him observing the goings-on as keenly as any human. Then I turned to Piper. “Are you okay?”

  She was pale, but she nodded. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  She was lying, in her stoic way. Of course she wasn’t “fine.” A guy she’d cared about—at some point, at least—had almost certainly been murdered, and she’d been the one to confirm that he was really deceased. Although I’d tried to assure her that it was too late to save Steve—I’d seen his blank, wide-open eyes and a dark and nearly dried bloodstain on his head—she’d insisted on crawling in to check his pulse.

  Once again, the reality of what had happened at Piper’s peaceful farm struck me, and I looked around at the gathered crowd. Christian Clarke had a comforting, or possessive, arm draped around Giulia, who was gnawing her fingernails, her brow furrowed. She seemed stiff in her boyfriend’s embrace.

  On the other side of the ring, Tom and Tessie Flinchbaugh were standing slightly apart from everyone. They were deep in a conversation that looked almost like an argument. Their mouths were drawn down, and their hand gestures were small, but frequent and rapid. I couldn’t imagine the mild-mannered couple bickering about anything, but Tom was definitely agitated. He kept wiping his balding head with a limp handkerchief.

  Then I searched for Virginia Lockhart, but she was gone. The shady spot under a willow tree at the edge of the property, where she’d set up her crates, was empty, so I assumed she’d packed up Macduff, Hamlet, and Iago and gone home. That made sense to me. Obviously, the trial was canceled.

  All at once, I remembered how I thought I’d seen Virginia’s SUV parked near that same tree the night before.

  Had she been scoping out a good spot to set up for the day?

  Or had I been wrong, and had she not been there at all?

  “He didn’t deserve this,” Piper said softly, interrupting my thoughts. “He wasn’t always the nicest person, but this . . .”

  My sister rarely got emotional, and I turned to discover that her eyes were glistening. It was unnerving to see Piper close to crying, and I didn’t mean to make things worse, but I had to discuss something with my rule-following, hyper-honest sibling, and I had to do it quickly, because more sirens were approaching.

  “Piper,” I whispered over Artie’s shaky little head. “This is your farm, and the police are going to question us. I promise I won’t mention that you and Steve argued last night, and you shouldn’t say anything, either. It’ll just complicate things.”

  Piper’s eyes widened with disbelief, and she opened her mouth, like she was about to disagree.

  But before she could say a word, someone interrupted our conversation, telling us in a deep, commanding voice, “Don’t either of you go anywhere. I may want to hear about that argument later.”

  I didn’t recognize the speaker until I turned and realized that, while I’d never talked with the stranger who’d walked up behind us, I’d seen him twice before.

  Once on the street, walking past my van.

  And once in my dreams.

  Chapter 9

  “Who are you?” I asked, although I was afraid I knew who’d overheard me urging Piper to withhold information. The man’s dark gray tailored suit, so out of place on a farm during a dog trial, was kind of a giveaway.

  “I’m Detective Jonathan Black,” he informed me, confirming my suspicion. As my stomach twisted, his gaze darted between me and Piper. “And you two are . . . ?”

  “I’m Piper Templeton,” my sister said. “I own Winding Hill Farm.”

  Piper looked at me, as if I should go next. “I’m her sister, Daphne,” I said. I nodded to the dogs. “These guys are Socrates and Artie. I live here . . . rent free. I have a pet-sitting business.”

  I wasn’t sure why I added the extra stuff. I supposed I was nervous. Not only had I just gotten caught trying to obstruct justice, but also Jonathan Black was even more handsome up close than I’d thought when he’d walked past my van. He had thick, nearly black hair that fell over his forehead in an appealing way; a strong jaw that was marked by a small, intriguing scar; and very dark blue eyes that reminded me of the sky the previous evening, right before the storm had hit. Those eyes were intimidating, as was his attitude. He was tall and stood with a relaxed sort of confidence, so he looked like he owned the farm, and we were the visitors. And not very welcome ones.

  Before I could blurt out more random things—and I was on the verge of doing it—Detective Black returned his attention to Piper. “Did you argue with the dead man last night? Did I hear correctly?”

  Piper was fair to begin with, and she’d been more pale than usual since seeing Steve’s body. But she got ashen then. Still, she nodded and answered without hesitation. “Yes. We did have a fight.”

  Piper didn’t elaborate. I thought that was probably smart. She might want to get a lawyer before answering more questions.

  Detective Black frowned at me, and although I hadn’t quarreled with Steve Beamus, I got the sense that I was in worse trouble than my sister. The thunderclouds in Jonathan Black’s eyes would’ve sent Macduff, Hamlet, and Iago racing for the hills. Artie, sensitive to human emotions, like all dogs, wriggled until I set him down next to imperturbable Socrates.

  Luckily, before I could get a lecture about the possibly bad counsel I’d just offered Piper, we were interrupted by the coroner, Vonda Shakes, who approached us, pulling latex gloves off her hands. The rubber fingers made very official snapping sounds as she removed them. “Piper, Daphne,” she said, offering my sister and me a sympathetic frown. “I’m so sorry.”

  Needless to say, we knew Vonda. I often sat for her perky little King Charles spaniel, Maximilian, and Piper was Max’s vet. Plus, we lived in Sylvan Creek. Everybody knew everybody.

  I stole a glance at Detective Black.

  How did we not know him?

  He kind of stood out.

  Apparently, Vonda was acquainted with the newcomer. “Of course, we’ll need to do an autopsy,” she told Detective Black. “But I’d say you can safely proceed on the assumption that this is a homicide.”

  He nodded. “Okay.” Then he glanced between Piper and me again. “Don’t. Go. Anywhere.”

  “Of course not,” Piper agreed for both of us. She must’ve seen the doubtful way Detective Black looked at me, because she added, “I’ll keep an eye on Daphne. I promise.”

  How did I become the one who needed to be watched?

  “I don’t even have enough gas in the VW to go five miles—and that includes the half mile I’d coast down the hill,” I informed everybody. “Plus, my passport got stolen in Istanbul two years ago. I’m hardly a flight risk.”

  Detective Black studied me for a long, long time. I had no idea what he was thinking, but after a while, I felt my cheeks getting warm.

  Then he broke our gaze and lightly touched Vonda’s arm, indicating that she should accompany him over the fence and into the ring. Once inside, he immediately began to direct the scene. “I want every piece of evidence bagged,” he told the uniformed officers. “Photos from every angle.” He pointed to the tunnel. “That’s a bloodstain. Don’t miss any of those, because the fabric is red. . . .”

  I was preoccupied with observing Detective Black and trying to pretend that Piper wasn’t glaring at me when someone rested strong, reassuring hands on my shoulders, and I caught a familiar whiff of coconut sunblock, which apparently didn’t work that well.

  “Daph, are you okay?” Dylan asked as I shifted to face him. “I came as soon as I heard about Steve—and you finding him.”

  “You were supposed to be here an hour ago,” Piper noted through gritted teeth. Dylan’s unconventional relationship with time was a constant source of irritation for her, like the board shorts. And she was having a pretty bad day.

  “Sorry,” he said,
but absently. He really didn’t understand Piper’s obsession with punctuality. He subscribed to Einstein’s theory about time being a river. A lazy river, in Dylan’s view. He was also busy folding me close to himself in a comforting embrace.

  Right before I leaned against him—I really did need a hug, enough to overlook our uncertain relationship status—I caught a glimpse of Detective Black, who was no longer directing the other officers.

  No, he was standing stock-still, watching me.

  Chapter 10

  The day of Steve Beamus’s murder turned out to be incredibly long, and by late evening, I was really glad to sink into the confines of a dimly lit booth at a small restaurant called Franco’s to share a glass of wine with Moxie and Piper while we waited for our dinners to arrive.

  Poor Piper looked wan and exhausted, but Moxie was full of energy and questions. I felt drained, like Piper, and wished I had a dimmer switch for my best friend, so I could tone her down a bit.

  At least we’d already told Moxie everything about finding Steve’s body and getting questioned by police.

  Unfortunately, she’d latched onto a new, related subject: Dylan’s arrival on the scene, and the fact that the hug he’d offered me had ended up stretching on for quite a while, until I’d gotten too warm and wriggled out of his embrace. At which point, he’d tried to pull me close again.

  “It sounds like he was being protective,” Moxie noted, digging deep into an overflowing bread basket to get one of the warmest, softest rolls on the bottom. Franco’s had the best bread, made in-house from a secret recipe that dated back to the restaurant’s founding in the 1920s. In fact, little had changed since that era. The place still felt like a speakeasy, with dark paneled walls, flickering candles on all the tables, and a hushed atmosphere, conducive to sharing secrets. “He was being romantic, don’t you think?”

  “It was more weird than romantic,” I said, grabbing a roll. Tearing it open to release the yeasty steam, I dipped my knife into a waiting plate of softened butter, which I slathered over the bread. “I felt almost suffocated, which is not Dylan’s style. I don’t know what got into him.”