Death by Chocolate Lab (Lucky Paws Petsitting Mystery)

by Bethany Blake

  Piper didn’t acknowledge my gratitude. “I asked what you were doing at Steve’s,” she reminded me.

  I smoothed my—Piper’s—skirt over my knees and was suddenly struck by a question I should’ve asked when Dylan handed me the keys. “How did you guys know my van was at Steve’s? Mom didn’t even know exactly where it was.”

  “I didn’t talk to Mom,” Piper said. “I ran into Detective Black at Fuller’s Market. He asked if you’d retrieved your ‘rolling death trap’ yet. When it was obvious that I didn’t know what he was talking about, he told me where to find it, in case you didn’t have a way to get it back.”

  “Oh.”

  “What’s going on with you and Detective Black?” she asked. “And don’t say, ‘Nothing,’ because I saw you two standing outside the house after midnight—reading together, for some reason.”

  I stopped fidgeting with the skirt and looked over at Piper. “You spied on me? Really?”

  “Says the girl who not only watched me have an argument with Steve, but also ended up telling the police all about it.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “You wanted me to be honest, though.”

  “Yes, that is true,” Piper conceded as she drove through the university’s tall, impressive iron gates. The students were still on summer break, so the pretty little campus was quiet. No one was on the footpaths that wound among the ivy-covered brick buildings, and the only cars were parked near the chapel, which was all but hidden in a shady grove of oak trees. “And I want you to come clean now about your trip to Steve’s,” my sister added, pulling into a parking spot near the tiny church. “What in the world were you doing at his house?”

  We both exited the car and slammed our doors. “Investigating,” I admitted.

  We were running late, thanks to our protracted argument about what I should wear, so Piper was hurrying, but she glanced back at me. “You were doing what?”

  I teetered on her low heels, trying to keep pace. “I’ll tell you everything later,” I promised right before she grabbed a wrought-iron handle on the chapel’s wooden door and hauled it open. Now that I was admitting to sneaking around Steve’s house, I got excited to share what I’d learned there, and I whispered, “I do think you’ll be very interested to know that I met Steve’s . . .”

  I started to say, “son,” but then decided not to finish that thought, since I was practically bumping into none other than Bryce Beamus, who stood at the very back of the chapel, as if he wasn’t sure he belonged at his own father’s funeral.

  The service was already under way, so I nodded a silent greeting, which wasn’t returned. Then I stepped up next to Piper, who had paused to search for a seat in the crowded church. My feet already hurt, so I definitely wanted to sit down, too, and I scanned the pews, seeking an empty spot big enough for both of us.

  As I surveyed the crowd, I saw a lot of people I’d expected to attend Steve’s memorial—as well as a few I’d never dreamed would show up.

  I double-checked the congregation.

  And at least one key individual was conspicuously missing.

  Chapter 42

  Piper and I never did find empty seats, so we made room for ourselves, squeezing into the next-to-last pew with some folks who looked pretty put out to be shoved out of their prime aisle spots.

  As the minister, whose denomination I never did catch, wrapped up some opening remarks, I took the opportunity to observe the mourners.

  Or could I really call all of them mourners?

  I seriously doubted that Bryce Beamus, who’d moved to the front of the chapel, was grief stricken. I still thought there was a good chance he’d killed his father.

  As for Tom Flinchbaugh, who sat two pews ahead of me, sweating in a polyester shirt, I couldn’t understand why he was even there—and without Tessie. Steve Beamus had killed his sister, Angela.

  Why attend Steve’s funeral?

  And why was Tom still wearing a bandage on his hand?

  The dressing was smaller, but still noticeable when he wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

  I looked to the other side of the chapel, where Giulia and Christian sat, cool and collected in spite of how warm the room was.

  Well, Christian appeared cool. He wore a dark suit and a suitably solemn expression.

  As I watched them both, Giulia bent her head and dabbed at her eyes. Christian immediately slid his arm around her shoulders.

  Was he comforting his fiancée?

  Or claiming and silencing her, as I’d felt he’d done back at Espresso Pronto?

  I stole a peek at Piper, who was grim but was not shedding any tears, then looked at Giulia again. Her shoulders shook.

  I was starting to believe that the rumors about Steve and Giulia must’ve been true. She certainly wouldn’t weep over a casual acquaintance.

  Christian pulled her closer, and I wondered how he must feel to be seated next to his bride-to-be, in the chapel where they’d get married, while she mourned another man.

  Then I carefully searched the pews one more time, looking for Virginia Lockhart. It seemed to me that someone who’d given Steve a book of plays by Shakespeare, inscribed with a maudlin note, should be at his funeral.

  Or hadn’t the “always” part of “love always” been accurate?

  All at once, I heard the door at the back of the chapel open on its squeaky hinges, and I turned, fully expecting to see Virginia slip into the church.

  But I was wrong.

  We had been joined by Detective Jonathan Black, who met my gaze for just a moment before taking his place with some other overflow attendees, who stood along the back wall.

  I should’ve faced forward again, but for a few seconds, I couldn’t stop looking at Jonathan. He had definitely usurped Christian Clarke’s position as Sylvan Creek’s most handsome man. His dark suit was impeccably tailored, and his hair looked a little shorter and neater, like he’d gotten it cut . . . out of respect for Steve?

  I knew Jonathan was there as part of his investigation, but he seemed more like a genuine mourner than some of the people who’d really known Steve. I could’ve sworn I saw a shadow of pain in his eyes.

  I know that he’s buried someone important to him.

  Maybe quite a few someones . . .

  I was so preoccupied with Jonathan that I didn’t even realize the minister had stopped talking until Piper nudged me, whispering, “Turn around! It’s time for the eulogies!”

  I did as she directed, only to discover that the first person to raise a tentative hand, asking for permission to speak, was the last person I would’ve expected to talk at all.

  Bryce Beamus.

  Chapter 43

  I had to spin around and look at Jonathan again. I doubted that many other people—if anyone else—in the chapel knew who Bryce was or how much he’d resented his father.

  Jonathan didn’t look at me, though. His eyes were trained on Bryce, who trudged up to the lectern, his shoulders slumped even more than usual. If I’d worn the outfit I’d originally picked out—a black, drapey shirt over a long, olive-green, tiered skirt—I wouldn’t have been half as underdressed as Bryce, who looked like he was leaving for a safari right after the service. His khaki shirt and pants combo had more pockets than a herd of kangaroos. I supposed the clothes were considered “professional wear” for members of a guerilla army.

  When Bryce turned to face us all, I saw that his eyes were rimmed with red, like he’d been crying. But when he began to talk, I realized that he was probably suffering from a lack of sleep due to a guilty conscience, because the first words out of his mouth were a shaky confession.

  My heart nearly pounded out of my chest, Piper grabbed my arm, and everyone in attendance gasped when Bryce buried his face in his hands and told us all, “Steve Beamus was my father, and I . . . I poisoned him.”

  Chapter 44

  “Are you upset with me?” I asked Piper, who’d been silent during most of the ride home from Steve’s memorial service, which had wrappe
d up quickly after Jonathan led away Bryce Beamus.

  Their exit hadn’t been overly disruptive. Jonathan had quietly approached the lectern and placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, then had guided him out the door. If I hadn’t known Jonathan was a detective, I would’ve thought he was a concerned uncle helping a grieving nephew through a breakdown. Still, Bryce’s admission that he’d poisoned his dad had been a hard act to follow. Only three other people had stood up to eulogize Steve—including Piper, who’d given a brief, but classy, speech.

  Now, however, my sister was deathly silent. She hadn’t said a word since I’d confessed to knowing all about Bryce and snooping not once, but twice, at Steve’s house.

  “Piper?” I prompted as she turned the car onto Winding Hill Lane. “Are you mad? I was just trying to help you.”

  “I know,” she finally said, exhaling with a sigh. “You were keeping a lot of secrets, though.”

  I slouched down in my seat, to the degree that the pencil skirt allowed me to move. It was like a straitjacket made for legs. “Sorry,” I grumbled. “I knew you’d disapprove of me breaking into the house and tracking down the Jeep.”

  “Yes,” Piper agreed. “Because you might’ve been putting yourself in danger. Bryce seems unstable, to say the least, and you were alone in a house with him!”

  “But it all worked out,” I reminded her. “If I hadn’t led Jonathan to Bryce, he might never have confessed to poisoning Steve. And now you’re off the hook!”

  Piper gave me a funny look. “How so?”

  Had she missed the entire drama at the funeral?

  “Bryce confessed,” I said. “Case closed!”

  We’d arrived at the farm, and Piper parked in the gravel spot near the barn. “Umm . . . Steve was bludgeoned,” she pointed out. “Bryce didn’t admit to that crime.”

  Oh, crud. She was right. How had I overlooked that?

  Piper reached to open her door. “Just promise me that you’ll stop meddling in this whole mess, okay?” she requested. “Let the professionals take it from here. Please.”

  I couldn’t make any promises. I was meeting with Giulia that very night, in hopes of learning more about the murder.

  Plus, I couldn’t stop thinking about the book of plays with Virginia’s inscription inside.

  I had to find out what her message meant.

  But first, I needed to get out of the sausage casing that was making my legs sweat, kick off the shoes that felt like vises on my toes, and take a nice, long nap.

  Who would’ve thought that could go wrong?

  Chapter 45

  “Dylan, no!”

  My own voice woke me from my nightmare, and I sat bolt upright in bed, my heart racing.

  The sunlight filtering through my window had an eerie pinkish cast, and I checked the clock and was dismayed to realize that I’d slept for nearly five hours. It was after seven o’clock.

  As I sat there catching my breath, I gradually recalled details from the dream I’d had, in which Artie and Socrates had gone missing, like Axis. They’d been taken away by Dylan, who’d chased me, brandishing a mallet and quoting Shakespeare. . . .

  I shook off the memories, reminding myself that Dylan was a vegan peacenik who would never hurt an animal, let alone me. I didn’t think he’d ever read Shakespeare, either. His tastes ran more toward Beat poetry than sonnets. The dream meant nothing.

  Still, I moved to the edge of the mattress so I could see the floor next to my bed, where I expected to find Socrates and Artie sleeping. Lately, Socrates had been sharing a tiny corner of his pillow.

  But neither dog was there, and although I knew they had probably woken up before me, grown bored, and wandered off, I felt even more uneasy.

  Slipping off the bed, I went to the window and drew back the curtain.

  The sunset was beautiful, but bloodred and almost blinding.

  Raising my hand to shield my eyes, I saw that someone was walking near the barn, in the direction of the network of trails that snaked through the woods.

  I couldn’t quite shake my sense of foreboding, but I really wanted to talk with the visitor to Piper’s property, and I pulled on my cowgirl boots and ran off, headed for the forest as the sun set lower.

  Chapter 46

  “Virginia, wait!” I called, catching up to her under a thick canopy of trees that cast the path she’d followed in dark shadows. She and the rottweilers walked quickly and were already pretty deep into the woods, at a fork in the trails. “Wait up!” I repeated when she didn’t turn around. Even the dogs were ignoring me—until I added more loudly, “Hold! Enough!”

  Macduff, Hamlet, and Iago stopped in their tracks—and so did Virginia. As she turned slowly to face me, the rottweilers, off leash, came to her side.

  I loved those dogs, and I knew they were friendly, but all at once I got the creeps. As they gathered around Virginia in the darkness, drawing close to one another, their black bodies seemed to blend together, so I was reminded of Cerberus, the three-headed dog said to guard the underworld.

  Virginia was giving me the willies, too. “How did you know that command?” she asked in a low, even, unwelcoming tone. “I never told you to address the dogs that way.”

  Maybe if she had, I wouldn’t have nearly lost control of them the night they’d been spooked by the storm. I didn’t mention that, though. She was obviously in a bad mood and probably wouldn’t appreciate criticism from her hired dog walker.

  Seriously, though . . . Why have a secret language for the dogs? Why not teach me the command, since I walked the rotties at least twice a week, when she was too busy with her law practice?

  “I heard Steve address them that way once,” I told her. “When Macduff, Hamlet, and Iago got loose in town.”

  Virginia didn’t respond, although I thought she stiffened. “What do you want?” she asked, resting one hand on Macduff’s head. In what little light was available, I could just barely see all three dogs’ eyes glittering and their pink, panting tongues hanging out. “I’m working with my dogs,” Virginia noted. “And it’s getting late, so if you could please make it quick.”

  “You were here the night Steve was killed, weren’t you?” I asked, moving closer to the pack and its leader. “I saw your SUV parked in its usual spot.”

  Virginia hesitated, then said warily, “Perhaps I was. Why do you ask?”

  “You were also there when the police questioned Piper, so you know she’s a suspect,” I said. “I’m trying to help her. So if you saw anything that might be useful—”

  “I’ve spoken with the two detectives,” Virginia interrupted. “I told them everything I know. Which is nothing. I was out on these paths, walking the dogs.”

  “Really?” That was hard to believe. “But it was so late—”

  Virginia spoke sharply, cutting me off again. “What are you trying to say?”

  I raised my hands and took a step back. “Nothing!”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Virginia grumbled. “I’ve got to go.” She turned and summoned the rotties with a click of her tongue and the sharp command “Advance!”

  Most people released their dogs with “Okay” or “Let’s go.”

  “Virginia,” I said, stopping her again. “Wait!”

  “What?” She turned back, sounding exasperated. “I honestly can’t tell you anything!”

  I had a feeling that Virginia was being ruder than usual because she was grieving a man she shouldn’t have been mourning. Maybe she and Steve had been having an affair when he died, or maybe the inscription in the book was old, and they hadn’t been together for a long time—since before she’d married Senator Mitch. Either way, I suspected that she was hiding a big heartache, and at least one secret tragedy, that she couldn’t share with anybody.

  Sylvan Creek was a small town. If Virginia and Steve had told anyone about their “pain” and the “fruit” it might yield, word would’ve spread—with Moxie serving as a prime conduit. My best friend was on a first-n
ame basis with all the skeletons that were hiding in closets around Sylvan Creek. But as far as I knew, everyone, Moxie included, believed Virginia’s life was and always had been perfect.

  “Are we done here?” Virginia asked.

  “I guess so,” I said. “But before you go . . . can I ask one more thing, just out of curiosity?”

  “I suppose so,” she agreed. I couldn’t really see her face, but it sounded like she was gritting her teeth.

  I forged ahead, anyhow. “Why are the dogs named for characters in Shakespeare’s plays?” I asked. “And why do you train them with commands that sound Shakespearean, too? Were you an English major before you went to law school or something?”

  I didn’t really expect Virginia to answer those questions, but she suddenly seemed to soften toward me. Her voice grew quieter and lost its edge. “Those plays once helped me through a very difficult time in my life,” she said. “They mean quite a bit to me.”

  “Oh, gosh . . . What happened?” I was sympathetic, but I was also struggling to contain my excitement, because I was pretty sure she was referring to the tragedy that had inspired the inscription. “That is, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I do mind,” she snapped, as if she realized she’d let her guard down too much. “And it was nothing, really!”

  She was being rude again, but I felt sorry for her. Whatever happened hadn’t been “nothing.”

  “Do you want me to walk the dogs tomorrow?” I asked, wishing I could give her a hug. Since I couldn’t do that—it would baffle her, and I’d get pushed away—I offered her the only thing I could think of. A discount on my services. “I think I owe you a freebie,” I added. “I’m starting a thing where every fifth walk is on the house.”

  She didn’t answer me, and I worried that my nosiness had just cost me one of my best customers.

  And would I have to follow through with that impulsive, impromptu change to my policies? Start giving all my clients punch cards for free walks?

  Piper would not be pleased to learn that my profits were about to go down.