BARK IF IT’S MURDER
“It seems that dog has been at the center of quite a lot of trouble lately, hasn’t he?”
“It’s not his fault.”
“No, I’m sure it’s not.” He stretched and rubbed at the back of his neck, before stifling a yawn. “But someone finds him interesting.”
“You think someone came here to steal Stewie?”
He spread his hands. “I’m not sure what to think. The dog was present when Mr. Fuller was murdered. Now that he’s here, your house gets broken into.”
“Almost,” I said, though the distinction was minor.
“You’ve had no issues before with break-ins. There’s no recent activity in this area. No warning signs. Whoever was here, I’d put money on it that it had something to do with that dog . . .”
Books by Alex Erickson
Bookstore Café Mysteries
DEATH BY COFFEE
DEATH BY TEA
DEATH BY PUMPKIN SPICE
DEATH BY VANILLA LATTE
DEATH BY EGGNOG
DEATH BY ESPRESSO
DEATH BY CAFÉ MOCHA
Furever Pets Mysteries
THE POMERANIAN ALWAYS BARKS TWICE
DIAL ‘M’ FOR MAINE COON
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
The Pomeranian Always Barks Twice
Alex Erickson
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
BARK IF IT’S MURDER
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
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18
19
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27
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Eric S. Moore
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the Klogo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2450-2
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1993-5 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1993-X (ebook)
1
The hum of two small wheels on hardwood brought a smile to my face as I hefted a bag of dog food from the floor.
“Hey, Wheels,” I said, turning and carefully stepping around the calico, who had come up behind me. “I’ll get yours in just a minute.”
She meowed once, and then sped over to the food dish, where she would wait patiently until I returned.
Wheels was only two years old, but had faced enough hardship for a lifetime. Born with useless, stunted back legs, she was abandoned and left at a shelter by owners who didn’t want to have to deal with her condition. She could have given up on life, but that simply wasn’t in her nature. A set of snazzy wheels, attached to a comfortable harness, kept her mobile, and boy, did she ever take advantage of it. She’d give any healthy four-legged feline a run for their money if it ever came down to a race.
I shouldered the dog food and carried it to a back room where I was currently housing two aging beagles, Leroy and Toby. The room had once been a laundry room, and it still held the washer and dryer, but now, it was mostly used to house rescues. It meant the clothes often came out smelling like cat or dog, but honestly, in this house, everything did.
Both dogs started barking up a storm as I opened the door and stepped inside, careful not to let them out. I didn’t think either would hurt Wheels, but it was always better to be safe when unsure. They’d never been around a cat before, and despite their age, might play a little too rough for her.
Leroy was hard of hearing and had arthritis throughout most of his body, while Toby was blind in one eye. The dogs came to me just recently, and were soon to be on their way to a loving, furever home, where they’d hopefully live out the rest of their days in comfort.
“Quiet,” I said, knowing neither would listen. They lived up to their beagle reputation, woofing and baying like they wanted the world to hear. “You don’t want to upset the neighbors.”
Loud, ear-pounding woofs were my only response.
I filled both dishes, checked the water to make sure it was fresh, and then, with both dogs quieter now that they were eating, I returned to where Wheels waited. I cracked open a can of cat food, gave her half, and then covered the other half for later.
“Ready to go, Mom?” my son, Ben Denton, asked, poking his head into the room. His hair was getting long, but he didn’t seem to mind. It was flung fashionably across his forehead, but was thankfully out of his eyes. He used his fingers to brush it back, often with the crooked, mischievous smile he had on his face now.
I glanced around the room, and satisfied all the animals were taken care of, I nodded. “Let’s go.”
We left the house, Ben in the lead, and with the keys to the van in his hand. His name was written across the back of his shirt in large, blocky white letters, as was the name of my rescue, Furever Pets. Beneath that was our slogan: Purrfectly Defective.
Like Ben, I was wearing the rescue shirt with my name, Liz, between my shoulder blades. Unlike him, however, mine was coated in hair that would clog even the clearest of drains.
When I’d started rescuing pets that were often considered unadoptable, I was told not to waste my time or money on shirts or on the van with “Furever Pets” painted across both sides and the back.
“Why bother?” some asked. “No one wants a ratty old dog or cat with health issues.”
Which was exactly the point. Everyone wants kittens and puppies, yet there are thousands of animals out there that need loving homes. Some have health issues, other physical deformities, but that doesn’t mean they are any less cuddly or in need of a family who will take care of them.
Ben hopped into the driver’s seat and I got into the passenger’s side. I checked the back to make sure we had everything we’d need for the pickup, and then gave him the thumbs-up; it was time to go.
Today’s pickup was going to be a tough one. An older man who could no longer take care of himself, or his elderly Pomeranian, was going to be moved into an extended care facility. It was always hard to take animals away from their owners, but in situations like this, it was often necessary.
“I think Amelia has a new boyfriend,” Ben said. He checked his speed, and slowed down, likely because I was in the van with him. He glanced at me to make sure I hadn’t noticed, which, of course, I had.
“Why do you say that?” I asked. As far as I knew, my daughter was just as single as her older brother.
“She left for class an hour early today. I bet they’ve found a quiet spot to get to know one another, if you know what I mean.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“You’re one to talk,” I said. Ben was a good-looking guy in his early twenties, and he was smart, but he had a tende
ncy to bounce from one girlfriend to the next. My husband, Emmanuel—Manny to everyone but his mother—thought it was a good thing, said he was getting it out of his system now, and that it would help him later in life. I wasn’t so sure I agreed.
But who was I to judge? He was a grown man at this point, even if I still often thought of him as the mischievous teenager he’d once been.
Ben chuckled at my comment, and let the conversation drop.
I sat back and tried not to think about what my daughter may or may not be doing. She was in her second year of college and had yet to settle on a major. She wasn’t interested in helping out with the rescue, nor did she want to follow in her father’s footsteps and become a veterinarian, like Ben. I hoped she’d figure out what she did want to do with her life soon, because it can quickly pass you by if you aren’t careful.
The house came into view a few minutes later. It was an old farmhouse that had been pretty well maintained over the years. The siding was showing its age compared to the addition on the far side, but it was pretty clean. A faded red barn sat out back. The property might have once been big, likely a farm, considering the house, but was now parceled down to only a couple of acres.
The neighborhood itself was quiet, despite being situated in an otherwise busy end of town. Grey Falls was once a small farming village that had turned into a city of about twenty-five thousand. Still, it felt more like a small town than a real city, thanks to how it was spread out, rather than up.
We pulled in behind a pair of cars and a van I recognized immediately.
“Oh, no,” I muttered, getting out and eyeing the offending vehicle.
“What are they doing here?” Ben asked.
“Nothing good.”
Pets Luv Us was sprayed across the side of the van. Kittens, puppies, rabbits, and hamsters were all drawn in intricate detail throughout the logo. The outside of the van itself was a startling pink, and looking inside, so was the interior. Even the steering wheel was buried beneath a frilly pink cover.
I walked past the van, trepidation growing. I passed by a ceramic Pomeranian holding watch out front, before reaching the front door and knocking. When no one answered, I hammered harder, hoping I wasn’t too late.
“Mom, over here.” Ben was standing at the corner of the house. He waved me over, and then, before I could say anything, he started for the back.
I followed after him reluctantly. We were expected, but I hated walking around a property without express permission to do so. You never knew how someone might handle the intrusion.
I caught up to Ben just as a small gathering of people came into view, situated around a concrete patio. A worn, dirt path led from that to the red barn.
Timothy Fuller was seated in a wheelchair, his Pomeranian, Stewie, in his lap. The old man looked angry, and quite frankly, annoyed. Behind him, an African American woman dressed in nurse’s scrubs looked on with concern. Standing a few feet away was a couple I didn’t know, but looking at the man, I assumed he was related to Mr. Fuller. They had the same dour look, the same harsh eyes, it was impossible for them not to be related. Next to him was a woman I took to be his wife. She was pretty, but had an arrogance about her that already rubbed me the wrong way.
And then there were the other two people. Duke Billings, a broad-shouldered man with dark brown hair, cut short, was looking on. He stood beside a woman in a pink tank top and white shorts that would look more at home on a beach than while working. Her blond hair was pulled back from her face, which was carefully made up with precision.
Courtney Shaw. My nemesis.
She was saying something to the couple, but before she finished, she caught sight of me. A frown creased her perfect features and her head cocked to the side. “Liz? What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question,” I said, before turning to Timothy. “I’m here to pick up Stewie, Mr. Fuller, as we agreed.”
Timothy scowled and placed a protective hand over his dog. “This isn’t what I expected,” he said. His voice came out ragged and harsh. Deep wrinkles lined his face, and were a shade darker than the rest of his skin, as if he’d spent a lifetime smoking and it had somehow seeped into the creases of his flesh.
“I was here first,” Courtney said, placing a well-manicured hand on her hip. “I believe that gives me the right to take the dog.”
“Mr. Fuller called me,” I said, keeping my voice level. I couldn’t believe Courtney would try to pull this here, in front of a man who was about to give up what very well might be his only companion.
“He may have, but that doesn’t change the fact I’m the better option.” Courtney cocked her hip and turned back to the couple. “As I was saying, I promise you, I will find the perfect home for Chewy.”
“Stewie,” Timothy barked. “Are your ears broken, missy?” He looked her up and down. “Or does stupidity come with the outfit?”
Courtney flushed as the man she was talking to said, “Dad!”
I grinned, but my mirth was short-lived when Timothy turned his beady eyes on me. “What are you laughing at? I swear, I’m surrounded by idiots.” He turned in his chair. “Meredith! These people are giving me a migraine. I need to lie down.” He scowled at everyone in turn.
“Yes, sir.” The nurse gave me a look I could only describe as pitying, before turning the wheelchair and maneuvering it—along with Timothy and Stewie—through the back door, into the house.
“See what you did?” Courtney said, turning on me. “Why must everything you do end up so . . .” She looked me up and down. “Disheveled.”
I refused to get into an argument with Courtney; not here. I turned to the couple she’d been talking to. “I’m Liz Denton with Furever Pets. Timothy called me to take possession of Stewie. This is my son, Ben.”
“Yo.” Ben waved a lazy hand, then shoved it into his pocket.
“Tim Jr.,” the man said. “But call me Junior. This is my wife, Alexis.” He glanced back toward the back door. “Dad can be difficult. I honestly don’t care which one of you takes the mutt, just as long as it’s gone.” He kicked at a chew toy lying on the patio next to him, knocking it into the yard.
“This is a very trying time for all of us,” Alexis added. She was wearing a flowery white dress and sandals. Every time she shifted her feet, she’d check to make sure she wouldn’t step in something. Neither of them looked to be dog people, which probably explained why I was here.
“You’ll be glad to know, I’ve already found a good home for Stewie,” I said, not that the couple cared what I did with him. All I earned for my comment was a dismissive shrug.
“You mean, you’ll dump him off onto one of your friends,” Courtney said, butting in. Duke took a step back, and, like Ben, kept out of it. “I will personally vet any and all prospective adopters before I sign off on them and let them take Chewy.”
“All for a tidy profit,” I muttered, and then louder, “And it’s Stewie.”
“Whatever.”
“I’m more concerned about him finding a home that can take care of his needs,” I said, focusing my attention back on Junior. “As I understand it, Stewie is an older dog, likely with a few health issues that will need to be looked after?” I made it a question.
“No clue,” Junior said.
“I have a personal connection to a good veterinarian who can look him over,” Courtney said.
“My husband is a veterinarian,” I countered.
“Maybe we should go,” Duke said, finally speaking. “Come back later.”
“If we leave now, she’ll take him!” Courtney made it sound like I’d be doing something illegal.
“It’s in my right to do just that,” I said, trying to keep from getting angry, but the heat was still in my voice.
“You all need to figure it out on your own time,” Junior said, taking his wife’s arm. “And do it somewhere else. I have more important things to do.”
And with that, he turned and led Alexis into the house.
Before I could retort, the back door clicked open again, and the nurse, Meredith, stepped out.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “Mr. Fuller gets worked up easily. Parting with his dog is hard on him, as you well know.”
“I completely understand,” I said. “I don’t want to get in the way, or cause him undue stress.” I glanced at Courtney when I said the last. “If you’d like to show me to Stewie, I can be on my way.”
Courtney made a mewl of protest.
“Mr. Fuller won’t part with him just yet,” Meredith said. “In fact, he told me to tell the both of you to work it out amongst yourselves. He doesn’t want you fighting over his dog.”
“I’m not fighting over it,” I said, but dropped my eyes to my feet as I did. I supposed I was, but honestly, I had all the right in the world to be there. It was Courtney who was butting in where she didn’t belong.
“If you come back later today—one of you—I’m sure he’ll be more willing to part with Stewie.” Meredith flashed us an apologetic smile. “He’ll be in a better mood after a nap.” Something in the way she said it made me wonder about that.
She turned, returned to the house, and left the four of us alone.
“Well, great,” Courtney said, both hands finding her hips. “Now what are we going to do?”
“We do as the man said,” I said. “Let’s find somewhere and talk about it.”
“Really?” Courtney’s eyebrows rose. “You expect me to . . .” Duke laid a hand on her shoulder, causing her to trail off. “Okay, fine,” she huffed.
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