by Susie Gayle
TABLE OF CONTENTS
BARK ONCE FOR MURDER
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
Bark Once
for
Murder
A Pet Shop Mystery
Book One
By
Susie Gayle
Copyright 2016 Summer Prescott Books
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication nor any of the information herein may be quoted from, nor reproduced, in any form, including but not limited to: printing, scanning, photocopying or any other printed, digital, or audio formats, without prior express written consent of the copyright holder.
**This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places of business, or situations past or present, is completely unintentional.
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BARK ONCE FOR
MURDER
A Pet Shop Mystery Book One
CHAPTER 1
* * *
“Alright, buddy,” I say, narrowing my eyes and lowering my hips into my best offensive-lineman stance. “Be reasonable. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”
The dog, a mid-sized terrier mix, puts his butt in the air, wags his tail, and then chooses the hard way. He jukes right, and as I leap forward for him, he darts left and bounds away happily.
“Sarah!” I call out. “Coming at you!”
Sarah, my part-time employee and full-time girlfriend—I know, I know, employer faux pas, but I’ll come back around to that part—vaults over the counter of the pet shop like a lithe gymnast and spreads her arms, ready to grab the errant pooch. But the dog has other plans; he leaps up at her, and before she can grab him, all thirty-five pounds of furry fury rebounds off of her, sending her sprawling into a display of bagged cedar chips.
“Will, on your left!” she cries out, extricating herself from pleasant-smelling rodent bedding.
The dog skirts around me, his paws slipping on the tiled floor of my shop, and hip-checks the parakeet cage, sending a dozen birds squawking and colorful feathers flying. Then he slides on his belly and disappears beneath a large cage housing four guinea pigs.
“I got it,” Sarah says, grabbing a broom. She gently pushes the broom beneath the cage, trying to prod the dog out from beneath it. His tail wags so hard it thumps the wall behind him rhythmically.
“This is probably the most excitement this poor guy has seen in a while,” I remark.
For the record, we’re trying to help this dog.
“Come on,” Sarah coos. “Come on out and get a treat. Do you know that word, ‘treat’?” The dog stays hidden. “He doesn’t know ‘treat.’ Will, go grab a cookie from the jar.” The dog grabs the bristles of the broom in his teeth and starts pulling it fiercely, playing tug of war with Sarah.
“We can’t give him a treat,” I tell her. “That promotes bad behavior; if we give him a cookie, he’ll think that this is an acceptable way to act and continue to—”
“Will!” she cries out, losing her battle with the beast.
“On it.” I grab a nearby bucket of tennis balls—three for two dollars, what a deal!—and dump them out. A couple dozen neon-green balls bounce across the floor, which is apparently the most beautiful sight this dog has ever seen, because he flies out from beneath the cage and grabs the closest one. Then he drops it in favor of another, and then another, and his brain seems to short-circuit in his quest to find the perfect tennis ball, giving Sarah a chance to get a firm grip on his collar.
“Got you!” she exclaims triumphantly. She picks up a ball, and the dog seems to agree that it is indeed the best one, because he follows her without any further trouble to the small enclosure in the rear of the store reserved for people to play with dogs before they purchase.
“Phew!” I sigh with relief. We’ve been chasing that squirmy little beast around the Pet Shop Stop—that’s my store, by the way—for twenty minutes. “I’m getting too old for this.”
Sarah locks the enclosure as the dog lies down, content to tear the world’s most perfect tennis ball into itty-bitty pieces. “Just last month, I saw you chase a rabbit all the way to the pier,” she says. “This is kids’ stuff.”
“But it is kind of your fault,” I smirk so she knows I’m kidding.
But it totally is kind of her fault.
Sarah has a big heart, which is simultaneously one of her most endearing traits and one of her biggest flaws. She’d give her jacket to a homeless person in subzero temperature and gladly become a Sarah-cicle if it meant helping someone out. Recently, she had the idea for the shop to foster dogs and cats from the nearby shelters to help get them adopted, and I agreed immediately; every pet deserves a good home, even if it means we sell fewer dogs and cats.
“Did the shelter tell you what his name is?” I ask her.
She sticks out her lip and shakes her head. “He was a stray. No tags, no name.”
“Poor guy.” I think on it for a moment, and then announce, “We’ll call him Rowdy.”
She snorts—another endearing trait of hers. “Fitting. It’s a good thing no customers came in, or else he might have darted right out the door.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Good thing no customers came in.”
That’s been a bit of a problem for the Pet Shop Stop lately. We’re in a great location, right on Center Street in downtown Seaview Rock. And we have a pretty big selection—dogs, cats, ferrets, rabbits, guinea pigs, hamsters, gerbils, turtles, parakeets, an array of small fish, and a few types of lizards. You know, the typical sort of pets. Want an animal companion? Come on down and pick your fancy. Looking for something more exotic, like a West African gray parrot? They’re endangered. Shame on you.
Oh, but I don’t do snakes. Never snakes. I deeply appreciate all creatures, big and small, but I appreciate snakes from a distance, or behind glass. It’s a phobia of mine. Long story.
Anyway, Seaview Rock is a pretty small town. Not many o
f the residents need new pets—I’ve seen to that. Sure, we sell pet food and supplies. That’s the stuff that keeps the store open and operating. But the whole goal of a pet store, in my opinion, isn’t to make money. I make enough to get by. No, the point is to find a home for these animals. What good are they sitting in my shop? They need a family to love and care for them.
Usually I do pretty decent business from the tourists that come in from the surrounding area. If you look up “quaint seaside New England town” online, photos of Seaview Rock would come up. Our old architecture, our historical nature, it’s all so charming it belongs on a wall calendar or in an oil painting. Problem is, it doesn’t seem lately like many people are terribly interested in that stuff, and if the local pet shop owner is feeling the squeeze, you can bet we all are.
“Will,” Sarah gasps, jarring me from my reverie. “It’s quarter after six!”
“Okay…” I say slowly.
“Weren’t you supposed to meet Sammy at the Runside at six?”
I slap my forehead. “Yeah.” I look around at the feathers on the floor, the disheveled bags of cedar chips, the tennis balls that drifted to distant corners of the shop. “But I’m not going to leave you with this mess.”
“Go, shoo,” she says, practically pushing me out the door. “Tell Sammy I said hi, and I’ll meet you down there after I close up.”
“Are you—”
“Yes, I’m sure. Go!” She gives me a kiss on the cheek and a final playful shove toward the door. “I’ll leave Rowdy in the enclosure tonight, give him some space and a bone to chew on.”
“Okay, okay, I’m going.” I untie my green apron, toss it behind the counter, and fetch my jacket before I head out, wondering how my life went from so bad just a few years ago to so great.
CHAPTER 2
* * *
May in Maine, at least where we are on the coast, isn’t quite as warm as you’d think. While other parts of the country are gearing up for summer, we’re just glad to be wearing lighter jackets than we were a month ago. For us, a good day in late spring is being able to say, “I don’t even need to zip this up today!”
And since I don’t even need to zip it up today, I decide to walk to the Runside. It’s only ten minutes, and even though I’ve lived in this town my whole life, I still like to admire it. I may be a bit biased, but Seaview Rock is the best town in America. It’s remained practically unchanged since the 1860s, when it boomed from little more than a settlement into a seaside authority thanks to good fishing and a couple of hatcheries that are still in operation today. Our town takes its history very seriously: any renovations or construction have to be approved by the town council, and it’s a five-step process, from reviewing the plans to hiring the right contractors to inspecting and passing the final results. That might seem a little unnecessary to some, but preservation is important to us, and contemporary architecture makes us queasy. The words “natural light” and “open-concept” are practically swears in these parts.
The Runside Bar & Grill is no exception. It opened as a bar back in the late nineteenth century, when fishermen decided they needed a place to grab a cold brew after pulling in with their full nets. The first version of it was actually built from repurposed planks of a dock that partially collapsed, and though most of them had to be replaced over the years, a few of those old remnants are still embedded in the walls today.
When I arrive, I say hi to the usual crew, Frank and Marcus and Deidre—the Runside’s regulars—and take a stool at the bar next to Sammy. The bartender and owner, Holly, slides a glass my way. A Whale of an Ale, the Runside’s own copper-colored craft brew, is probably the best thing that’s ever passed these lips. Holly makes it herself, with the help of her oldest son Nick, who is usually manning the grill in the back.
“Sammy Boy!” I greet him with a hearty grip on both shoulders.
“Well, someone’s in a good mood,” he smirks. He can tell my mood by what I call him—if it’s Sammy Boy, Sam I Am, or Samwise Gamgee, I’m in good spirits. If it’s just Sam, then he knows something is amiss, and he buys me a beer and asks, “Why so glum, chum?”
“Yes, I am in a good mood, Samuel, because life is good. I’ve got my own business, I live in a great town, and for the first time in a long time, I have a wonderful woman in my life.”
“So business is good?” he asks.
“Eh… business is decent,” I shrug and take a long sip. “Could be better. But I’m confident we’ll bounce back.”
Sammy nods and inspects me for a while, and then—in the spirit of a true friend—says, “You need a haircut.”
“What? I just had one. Couldn’t have been more than a month ago.”
“Five weeks,” he tells me, “to the day, if I’m not mistaken.”
“There is no way that you remember that.”
“Sure I do. That was the day you first told me that you were thinking about asking Sarah on a date. But you chickened out, and eight days later she asked you first. You two went to the Fresh Catch on April twenty-third.”
I roll my eyes. Two things to know about Sammy: First, he’s got a ridiculously good memory. Second, he’s a barber, and the combination of those things is astounding. He easily remembers names, birthdays, and the precise way all his clients like their hair cut. Best of all, he’s the classic kind of barber, the sort with the red-and-blue spinning sign out front, who wears a pressed white shirt every day, and combs his black hair straight back to hide the tiny little bald patch on his crown. Heck, he still shaves his male patrons with a straight razor that he sharpens on a leather strop, and in sixteen years he’s never once nicked me.
He’s also my best friend and confidant. Guys, I’m telling you, if you’re in the market for a good friend, find yourself a barber. Nobody listens better than them.
“Hair grows faster when it’s warmer,” he remarks, tipping back his glass.
“I am ninety percent sure that is one-hundred percent false,” I tell him.
“Look it up.” He motions to Holly for another Whale of an Ale. She nods, plucks up his glass, and in two smooth motions fills it up. For a woman in her fifties, Holly has perfected the art of grace behind a bar. Watching her pour pints is a thing of beauty.
“Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon, at lunch.” I run my fingers through my brown hair, now that he has me self-conscious. It comes in really thick, so I like to keep it short.
“You fellas want anything to eat?” Holly asks. “Tonight’s special is ribeye with crab cakes.”
My mouth waters a little, but I shake my head. “Not yet. I’m waiting on Sarah; promised her a late dinner tonight after the shop’s closed.”
Holly nods and moves along to fill other empty glasses. Once she’s out of earshot, Sammy asks, without looking up, “Have you told Karen about you and Sarah?”
A shiver runs down my spine. Even after three years, hearing her name spoken aloud has the same reaction in me as when a Republican hears the term “gun control.”
“Why should I?” I ask, probably a little too defensively.
He shrugs. “You two still talk, don’t you?”
“No, we don’t talk. We occasionally text. And only when necessary.”
“Okay, then. Did you text Karen about you and Sarah?”
I sigh, “Yes.”
Karen Bear, who was once known as Karen Sullivan, Mrs. Will Sullivan, and behind closed doors, Kare-Bear, is my ex-wife. Twelve years ago we were newlyweds, and I was convinced that she was the love of my life, the only woman I would ever need or want. Four years ago I discovered she was having an affair. Don’t ask for details; I’m not willing to revisit them. Three years ago our divorce finalized, and she ran off to the big city to be with the other guy (if you can call Portland, Maine “the big city”).
I was in a pretty dark place for a while after that. My only solace was in the animals at my shop—which was ironic, because she claims the reason she left me was b
ecause I cared more about the animals than I did her. Then business turned really good for a while, and I needed help. I hired on a part-timer, a woman named Sarah Cummings that came highly recommended from the area animal shelters she volunteered at. That was almost a year ago, and a little less than four weeks back, Sarah and I started dating. Part of me knows we shouldn’t, from the whole employer/employee standpoint, but I don’t look at us like that. In fact, Sarah’s been such a huge help with the Pet Shop Stop that I see her more as a partner, and if things work out… who knows?
But yes. I sent a text message to my ex-wife to let her know that I was seeing someone.
“I didn’t hear anything back,” I tell Sammy. “She’s probably angry.”
“Or maybe she doesn’t care.”
“That would be ideal. Maybe she’s too busy enjoying life in ‘the big city.’”
Sammy clears his throat and fidgets a little. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Samuel,” I say slowly. “Do you know something?”
“I… may have heard… some rumors.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What sort of rumors?”
He takes a long swig, holding up his index finger as if to say, one moment. I stare him down until he sets the glass on the bar top again.
“I heard that things didn’t end up so well for her, and that she’s coming back to Seaview Rock,” he says finally.
“From who?” I demand. “Who said that?”
“Her cousin, Sid.”
“So Sid says she’s sulking back to Seaview.” I take a moment to digest this new information.
Sammy scoffs. “Say that three times fast.” Then he puts his hand on my shoulder and asks, “You alright?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine. We’re both adults; we can live where we want. I mean, this town is small, but it’s not that small. How often would I run into her? Probably never.”
“Sure, Will. Probably never.” Sammy shakes his head at my optimism.
