Death by Chocolate Lab (Lucky Paws Petsitting Mystery)

by Bethany Blake

  Opening the front door of my van, I said, “Before you go . . . I should probably also tell you that I think I might’ve found the weapon used in the first murder.”

  Chapter 55

  I’d intended to get up early and tell Piper all about finding Virginia’s body and the hammer, and about the fact that Jonathan would be in touch with her, but I didn’t get home until nearly 3:00 a.m.—after being subjected to Jonathan’s longest lecture yet, about mishandling evidence, with more warnings about wandering in the woods, too. Not surprisingly, I slept right through my alarm, which had no snooze button, because it was a live rooster that wandered with some really free-ranging chickens on Piper’s property. The moment Cluck Taylor had stopped celebrating the sunrise, I’d rolled over and promptly fallen back asleep, with Artie pressed against my face, three rottweilers on the floor, and Socrates snoring in his bed, which he’d dragged to a far corner of the room to get some privacy.

  By the time we all woke up, it was nearly 11:00 a.m., and Piper was already at work, so I made the dogs and myself omelets for brunch. Luckily, Cluck’s harem had been busy the past few days, so I had nearly two dozen eggs, which would still barely be enough to put a dent in the rotties’ huge appetites.

  While the dogs all went outside for some fresh air—with Artie joyfully leading the way for his guests—I cracked all the eggs into a huge bowl and mixed in a little water so the omelets would be fluffy.

  After pouring some of the mixture into a pan, I waited until the beautiful deep yellow, almost orange, eggs began to cook through, then added some cooked rice, peas, and chopped ham.

  When those less conventional, but perfect for pups, omelets were all prepared and cooling, I made my veggie version with a mixture of ricotta and mozzarella cheeses and some chopped basil from a pot on the windowsill.

  Plating everything—in dog bowls for the rottweilers and Artie, and on human plates for me and finicky Socrates—I then went to the door to call everyone inside. I almost hated to interrupt the moment, though.

  For the first time I could recall, Socrates was deigning to play. He was actually running across the grass with Iago, Hamlet, Macduff, and Artie. His big paws were flying, and his ears were streaming behind his head.

  Not surprisingly, the Chihuahua was in the lead, his eyes bulging and his tongue flapping like an out-of-control kite as he tore in my direction.

  A few moments later, having smelled their breakfasts, all five dogs tumbled through the door and were soon up to their eyeballs in eggs, snuffling and snorting as they ate.

  Well, Socrates didn’t snuffle. He seemed slightly embarrassed to have been caught scampering around the yard. He ate slowly and didn’t meet my eyes.

  “It’s okay to have fun,” I told him, shoveling down my omelet with about as much decorum as the rottweilers and Artie. I was starving, since my entire dinner the night before had consisted of pie and a few potato chips. “You should play.”

  Socrates pretended not to hear me, but I had a feeling he would sneak in some future romps. In the meantime, I thought it might be nice to spend some quality time with him while Artie was preoccupied with the visitors. They had all finished their meals, and Artie was proudly leading Hamlet, Iago, and Macduff into the living room, presumably to show them his favorite sunny napping spot near the fireplace.

  “How about you and I go into town?” I asked Socrates, who was already at the door.

  He could read my mind almost as well as Moxie. Maybe better.

  I went to say good-bye to the other dogs, but they were already asleep. Artie was draped across Iago’s head, and Macduff and Hamlet were curled up together.

  How could Piper, a vet, not want at least five dogs?

  Returning to the kitchen, I waved to Socrates. “Let’s go.”

  He trotted next to me, we both got into the van, and soon we were driving down Sylvan Creek’s main street. The town was peaceful, and it was hard to believe I’d found Virginia’s body the night before.

  Nothing, it seemed, had changed.

  I stopped at an intersection and looked to my right, over Socrates’s head.

  Correction.

  One thing had changed in Sylvan Creek.

  Espresso Pronto, Giulia Alberti’s café, had a big hand-lettered sign on the door.

  One that said CLOSED INDEFINITELY.

  Chapter 56

  “Where do you think Giulia is?” I asked Piper and Dylan, who were bustling around one of Piper’s exam rooms, getting ready to perform a minor procedure on an iguana. Socrates was sitting as close to the door as possible. He was not a fan of modern medicine. “Why is the café closed?”

  “I don’t know,” Piper said, sounding grumpy. “But I really could’ve used coffee today.” She was arranging some scary-looking instruments on a silver tray, and she raised a scalpel at me in a threatening way. I didn’t think that was wise for a murder suspect. “Why didn’t you wake me up and tell me about the hammer?” she demanded. “And about Virginia!”

  “Easy there, Dr. Piper,” Dylan urged, nudging my sister out of the way. He gently removed the sharp object from her hand and took over organization of the instrument tray. “I’m sure Daph didn’t want to upset you in the middle of the night.”

  “What were you doing at the park so late?” Piper asked me. “What were you up to?”

  “I was supposed to meet Giulia. She was upset the last time I saw her, and wanted to talk. But she didn’t show up for our meeting. And now the café is closed!”

  No one else seemed to think that was as strange as I did. Then again, Piper and Dylan hadn’t seen the odd way that Giulia and Christian had been acting the other day.

  “She’s probably just on vacation, Daph,” Dylan said, still trying to mellow out the mood. “Relax, okay?” He turned to Socrates. “You should chill, too. You’re not getting any shots today.”

  Socrates wasn’t normally a crybaby, but he whined softly at the word shot.

  Dylan grinned. “Sorry, pal.”

  He was wearing board shorts under his lab coat, and while I thought his tanned legs looked pretty nice, I was sure his attire was contributing to Piper’s bad mood. At least his shoes were closed-toe, knockoff rubber Crocs, as opposed to flip-flops.

  “I’m going to get Sparky,” Piper said through gritted teeth. “When I come back, you need to leave, Daphne. Unless you and Socrates want to assist in draining an abscess on an iguana’s jowl.”

  “No, I suppose we’d rather not. . . .”

  I didn’t finish that thought. Piper had left the room and closed the door behind her, a little too hard for a place of business.

  “She’ll be okay, Daph,” Dylan promised. He pushed aside the tray and came over to where I was standing, next to the exam table. He leaned against it and crossed his arms, searching my face and frowning. “But I’m worried about you. You must be pretty shaken up to find Virginia like that, after seeing Steve’s body, too.”

  “I’m trying not to get too upset.” I shrugged. “‘For anything that men can tell, death may be the greatest good that can happen to them: but they fear it as if they knew quite well that it was the greatest of evils.’”

  “Socrates?” Dylan guessed.

  “Yeah,” I said, gesturing to a still worried basset hound. “The philosopher, not him.”

  I probably hadn’t needed to clarify that.

  Dylan smiled in the way that made his eyes crinkle. “Well, even if you are okay, you could probably use a night out. Why don’t you let me take you to the Lakeside tonight?” He must’ve seen that I was suddenly concerned, because he added, “I promise I won’t sing to you. I won’t even bring my guitar. We’ll just get some of your favorite cheese and hang out by the water.”

  That did sound pretty good. “Okay. How about I meet you there at nine?”

  There was no reason to put a strain on Dylan’s car by forcing him to drive it up Winding Hill when my van could coast right down.

  “I’ll see you then,” Dylan said.


  He moved to close the blinds, so people walking by on the sidewalk wouldn’t have to witness an iguana’s draining abscess, and when I looked out the window, I saw Tom Flinchbaugh crossing the street, presumably headed for the Philosopher’s Tome to reopen the shop after stepping out to get some lunch. He carried a paper sack in his hand, which still sported a small white bandage.

  “I’ve gotta run,” I told Dylan—and Piper, who was opening the door awkwardly. She had a large, drowsy lizard cradled in her arms. “I’ll see you two later.” I paused to stroke the iguana’s head. “And good luck, Sparky. I hope you have a speedy recovery.”

  Socrates couldn’t get away from that room fast enough, and we both hurried out of Templeton Animal Hospital, then followed Tom to his shop, where he stood at the front door, fumbling for his keys with his free hand.

  “Tom!” I called. “Wait!”

  Hearing my voice, he turned, and Socrates and I both stopped short.

  What was that expression on his normally placid face?

  Was that fear?

  Chapter 57

  “I’m sorry that I’m so jumpy these days,” Tom said, standing back so Socrates and I could enter the Philosopher’s Tome first. As soon as we crossed the threshold, we both paused to take a deep breath, inhaling the delightfully musty smell of profound thoughts, captured on old, yellowed paper and passed down for generation after generation to contemplate. Tom followed us inside and closed the door behind himself, so the always soothingly dim space got even darker. “Between Steve Beamus getting killed and now Virginia Lockhart. . .” Tom shook his head. “Sylvan Creek doesn’t feel safe anymore.”

  Since I was starting to fear that Tom was the killer, I was surprised that he brought up the murders. Then again, how could the topic be avoided?

  I watched Tom as he shambled behind the small sales counter and opened the bag that held his lunch, then pulled out a plastic-wrapped tuna fish sandwich and a container of macaroni salad, which I knew came from the Delightful Deli.

  I loved that salad. And could I really believe that the man who was wordlessly offering it to me, along with a plastic fork, was capable of murder?

  No. It was impossible. No matter what the evidence suggested, Tom Flinchbaugh couldn’t be a killer.

  Right?

  “Is everything all right, Daphne?” Tom asked.

  I realized he was still holding the macaroni salad, waiting for me to take it, and I gratefully accepted the container. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks for sharing your lunch.”

  We’d performed this ritual many times, and I didn’t even bother to refuse politely anymore.

  Popping off the lid, I dug the fork into perfectly al dente macaroni, just the right amount of mayonnaise, crisp celery bits, and the secret ingredient—a hint of pickle relish.

  Tom opened a glass jar filled with bone-shaped biscuits that he kept on the counter for Socrates and bent to place three on a plate that waited on the floor. Socrates, as always, tried to act like he wasn’t overly eager to accept the treat. He turned his face away, ostensibly reading the titles on the lowest shelves of the section devoted to German idealism—a school of thought that I knew didn’t even interest him. He was definitely an existentialist.

  Then Tom unwrapped his sandwich, but he didn’t immediately take a bite. “You . . . you found Virginia,” he ventured. “At least, that’s the talk around town.”

  Moxie!

  “The talk is correct,” I said, taking a seat on a worn, crimson-velvet upholstered chair. “I found her body in the park.” I paused, then asked quietly, “Did you see anything odd the night of Steve’s death? Because everything the police turn up seems to point to Piper—and we both know she’s no killer.”

  Some of the color drained from Tom’s cheeks, and he picked at his sandwich, averting his eyes. “No, I’m sorry, Daphne. I didn’t see anything. I was busy with that vexing tent.” He raised his face and smiled wanly. “You can imagine I’m not good with things like that.”

  Forgetting that I shouldn’t know how he injured himself, I poked my fork in his direction. “Yes, I see that you really hurt yourself, trying to erect that thing.”

  For a moment, Tom appeared confused. Then he looked down at his bandaged hand. “Oh . . . Oh, yes! That! It’s healing now. Getting better every day.”

  He was hiding something.

  “Tom?” My heart started beating a bit faster, and I confessed, “I was standing at my window, looking out, when you got hurt putting up the tent. But it didn’t look like you cut yourself. How did that happen?”

  During a scuffle with Steve Beamus perhaps?

  Tom’s face got ashen, and he didn’t answer me. The store grew deathly quiet, except for the sound of Socrates finally chomping down on a biscuit.

  I wanted to fill that uncomfortable silence, but I forced myself to wait it out, and my rare show of patience was rewarded when Tom leaned closer. His eyes were darting everywhere, although we were definitely alone. “Daphne,” he whispered, “can you keep a secret?”

  Chapter 58

  “I know that Tessie thinks I killed Steve,” Tom confided. His hands rested on the counter, and he balled up his fists. “You can imagine how that hurts, to have my own wife believe I’m capable of murder!”

  My cheeks flushed, because I sometimes feared that Tom was guilty of homicide, too.

  “I doubt she really believes that,” I fibbed to make him feel better. “Everyone is just on edge lately.”

  Tom’s shoulders rounded, and he spoke more softly, his head hanging low. “I suppose I really can’t blame Tessie. I hated Steve Beamus.” He looked up at me again, misery in his blue-gray eyes. “And Steve and I . . . we argued the night he was killed.”

  I felt my eyes grow wide, and I set the container of macaroni salad next to me on the chair, so I could give Tom my full attention. “Did you tell the police?”

  “No!” Tom said that too loudly. He lowered his voice again. “And you can’t, either. I didn’t kill him. I swear it! The police don’t need to know that I confronted him. I just wanted him to know that I would never forgive him for what he did to my sister.”

  “Yes, I know about the accident,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Tom swiped a finger under his eyes, which were teary. “Yes. I’m sorry, too. All these years later, the pain never goes away. Aside from Tessie, Angela was my only family.”

  Socrates and I exchanged sorrowful looks, and I gave Tom a moment to compose himself. Then I asked, “Did you do more than argue with Steve that night?” I gestured to his hand. “Is that how you hurt yourself? In a physical fight?”

  Tom laughed, but ruefully. “No. Can you imagine me throwing a punch, let alone at Steve Beamus? I would’ve received more than a cut on my hand if I’d hit him—as I probably should’ve done!”

  The tension had eased enough for me to resume eating. I picked up the container and dug in, asking, “So, how’d you get the cut?”

  I was mainly being nosy at that point. I was fairly sure that I believed Tom’s story—although I did wonder where he’d gone during the time Tessie couldn’t account for his whereabouts.

  Fortunately, he was about to tell me.

  “I couldn’t sleep that night, after Tessie and I left Winding Hill,” he said. “As I tossed and turned in bed, I kept picturing Steve’s smug face. And I could hear him telling me over and over again that there was nothing he could do about the past. He didn’t even sound sorry. So I got up and went to Angela’s grave. I took small hedge clippers to clean it up, like I do every year, near the anniversary of the accident.” He raised his hand and smiled wanly again. “I was agitated, and I shouldn’t have been using a sharp blade in the dark.”

  Ouch.

  “Did you tell Tessie where you went?” I asked. I couldn’t help congratulating myself for getting so much information out of Tom, compared to a certain police academy attendee who didn’t even know that Tom had argued with Steve. “Maybe she’d be less suspici
ous. . . .”

  Tom shook his balding head. “I can’t tell her. Tessie thinks I’m obsessed with Angela’s death. She thinks I need to let the past go.”

  Tessie was probably right. Tom did seem a bit fixated on the tragedy.

  “When you said you were at Angela’s grave, you really meant the roadside memorial you made for her, right?” I asked. “Because I passed that the other night, and it looked nice, with the fresh coat of paint.”

  I wanted to let him know that his effort to keep his sister’s memory alive—while perhaps borderline unhealthy—was noticed. I also wanted to ask him about the hammer, if I got the chance. A tiny part of me still had doubts about Tom’s innocence.

  But Tom got a funny look on his face. “No, I meant her actual grave. I have no idea who created or maintains that little cross in the woods!”

  Chapter 59

  Spilling so many secrets exhausted poor Tom Flinchbaugh, and at my urging, he packed up his sandwich and went home to take a quick nap while I minded the store.

  That was another one of our standard arrangements, like the sharing of Tom’s lunch.

  It was actually very easy work. Since I was usually the only customer, and I rarely bought anything, I never even had to use the antique cash register.

  After opening the shop’s door to let in some fresh air—the musty smell of deep thoughts could get overwhelming after a while—I moved behind the counter, suddenly curious.

  If I ever opened the register, would there even be any money inside to make change?

  “What do you think, Socrates?” I asked. “Is there any cash in this thing?”

  Socrates was reclining on the velvet-covered chair I’d vacated and didn’t even open an eye as I began pressing a few of the sticky old keys.

  Nothing happened, so I abandoned that endeavor and leaned on the counter, surveying the store, in search of a book or a topic that might pique my interest. I couldn’t focus on philosophy, though. Nor did I feel like cleaning, although there was a feather duster under the counter, and the beams of hazy sunlight that filtered through the tall, narrow windows were filled with dust motes that swirled in the air.