Pick and Chews

by Linda O. Johnston

  When I was done with my customer, I approached Krohan. Was this just a friendly visit or an opportunity to check out my shop, and me … and Biscuit?

  “Hi, Dr. Krohan,” I said to him. “Welcome to Barkery and Biscuits.” At the moment, I had no reason to be unfriendly to him except for my suspicions about everyone, particularly those who’d come from his San Diego clinic. Except Reed, of course … maybe.

  “Thanks.” Krohan looked somewhat formal in his white shirt and dark pants. His light brown beard, the same shade as his short hair, appeared to have been shaved to appear barely there. “I’ve finally made my way here to check out your dog bakery. Can you tell me anything about your treats and how you developed them—and their ingredients?”

  I laughed a little. “That could take a long time. But you can be sure that everything is derived from my job as a veterinary technician. I’ve learned what ingredients are healthy, and which are considered best for different kinds of canine medical issues, and so forth.”

  I did point out a few of the treats I’d developed that were not only my favorites but seemed to sell best, including some with carob, others with peanut butter, yams, pumpkin, and liver, in different combinations.

  “Excellent,” he finally said. “I have a couple of dogs at home, so when I’m ready to leave town, I’ll come back here first and buy a selection of your goods. And I’m hoping to return to Knobcone Heights soon.”

  Really? That sounded odd. “That’s nice,” I said, not really meaning it. Despite his explanation about coming to town because he needed to find out what had happened to Raela, I still thought it just as likely that he’d come here because the local authorities had requested it.

  “If my dogs and I like your products, I may be able to recommend that other people in the area buy some as well.” The look in his brown eyes beneath his glasses appeared challenging, as if he wanted me to ask some questions.

  Well, what the heck. I had some questions myself. “I take it you’ll remain in touch with your former employees who’ll now be working here, is that it?”

  “Yes, and more. I’m thinking about taking over the clinic Raela tried to start here, as an adjunct to my existing vet practice. It’s a good location, lots of potential patients whose owners are … well, let’s just say they can afford our services. And the fact that there’s already competition? I think there’s room for both of us. Don’t you?”

  I tried to act friendly, in case I could learn something from him about Raela. “Well, as you can imagine, I’m ambivalent. I’ve been working as a vet tech at the Knobcone Veterinary Clinic for quite a while, although I’m part-time there now. I don’t like the idea of competition for it. But if your practice would bring more customers here to buy from the Barkery for their dogs, or from Icing on the Cake for themselves, I’d certainly like that.”

  “Of course. Well, I haven’t made a decision about it yet. For one thing, I most certainly don’t like the idea that my former employee was murdered in this town. Or that the authorities questioned me as if I could have had something to do with it, though I can prove I was at home when she was killed.”

  If that was true, I could stop considering him a suspect—maybe.

  I decided to remain cordial, just in case I did have to form some kind of business relationship with him.

  Dr. Krohan left a short while later, and after a quick stop in Icing to make sure all was well there, I took Biscuit outside for a walk in the busy town square across the street—looking around very carefully, keeping her close beside me on her leash, and recognizing that the visit from Krohan, though interesting, hadn’t done anything to make me worry less about my dog.

  In fact, I worried even a little more, since it was possible his story had been just that—a story. Fiction to help throw me off my suspicions of him regarding who had killed his former employee and subsequently threatened my dog.

  Biscuit and I returned quickly, and I sat and hugged her for a short while before getting back to waiting on customers in the Barkery.

  And then I realized it was now somewhat late in the day—and I still hadn’t heard back from Detective Wayne Crunoll.

  So, around three o’clock, I called him again. He answered right away. “Okay, Carrie. You can come in now, but I’ll only have a few minutes to spend with you.”

  That was better than nothing. And maybe someone around the station who worked in forensics would be able to grab fingerprints off the note or envelope.

  “We’ll be right there,” I told him before he could change his mind.

  Twenty-Six

  “You’re pretty brave,” Wayne said as I sat in his office with Biscuit on my lap. White shirt, dark pants, and snide grimace—he wore what I sadly expected of him on a day he’d only reluctantly agreed to see me. “Or you love that little dog of yours less than I thought.”

  “No!” I shouted, then half expected a flood of uniformed cops to rush in to protect him. “No,” I repeated more softly, glad we were still alone. “Just the opposite, on both counts. That’s why I’m here. I need the police to help—to catch whoever left that note on my door. You surely understand. I know you care about your dogs.” He brought “his wife’s” dachshund mixes to my shops for treats often enough that I knew they were important to him.

  “Yeah, they’re okay. But you’re not here to talk about them.”

  “You’re right—and you know exactly why I’m here.”

  “Oh, yeah. To show off your plastic gloves.”

  Darn him. Why was he being so sarcastic?

  Yes, I had worn plastic gloves to the station. I kept them around my shops to knead dough sometimes. And now I’d used them to handle the note and envelope, and even then I only touched the edges.

  I didn’t know whether the cops could get fingerprints off any of it, but if they could, most should belong to whoever had left the note.

  I’d even handed Wayne a pair of those gloves to put on when I’d first handed him the message. At least, despite his attitude, he was careful in handling the note and envelope, gloves on, and he’d turned them over right away to a guy he’d called in from the KHPD forensics team.

  Would they find prints? I didn’t feel too confident about it. Whoever had done in Raela was probably fairly smart—or at least I couldn’t assume otherwise. After all, whoever it was hadn’t been caught yet … and might be a veterinarian. And most vets, of course, were intelligent.

  “So who do you think left you the note?” At last, Wayne asked a logical, cop-like question.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Clearly someone who knew I’d been in touch with your department. Someone who figures I might have suggested them to you as a suspect in Raela Fellner’s murder.”

  “There are several of those,” he said dryly.

  “Right.” I hesitated. I’d brought up Oliver Browning before, so I added, “Look, Oliver confronted me the other day in my store because you’d been grilling him, so he’s my first choice right now as a suspect. And he indicated he’d get back at me if I mentioned him to you, so please don’t tell him. But I don’t know for sure if he left the note, or if he’s the killer, and neither do you. Is there anything you can do to hurry your investigation along and arrest the killer, whoever it is, before they find out I’m talking to you again?” Of course, I knew the answer to that. And since I was at the station, the killer might already know.

  There was a knock on the door. When it opened, the forensics guy stood there. “Sorry, but the documents held no fingerprints except a few of Ms. Kennersly’s.” He looked at Wayne, then at me.

  Surprise, surprise. I’d told them about the likelihood of some of my prints being there from when I’d opened the note.

  The two men then talked briefly about the examination of those. The forensics guy had taken samples of my prints when he took the note. It all sounded okay to me, but I wished the results were different. They told me they would hold on to the note and envelope since these papers could wind up being evidence in the m
urder case. Or not.

  When the forensics guy left, Wayne rose. “Sorry we don’t have answers for you, Carrie—not regarding the murder and not regarding that threat to your dog.” He actually sounded sorry this time, or at least his tone was gentler. “You know, we’ve told you before that we can’t encourage an amateur like you to continue snooping into our cases, and now maybe you’ve been given a good reason to back away from this one.”

  For a fleeting moment, I wondered if Wayne could have left that note just to get me to stand down.

  No, that had to be too cruel even for him. And this time, he and his fellow cops had acted less angry with me for looking into a murder. Maybe since I’d helped them find the culprits in the past.

  “You’re right,” I said. “And I know you’ve been working hard on your investigation. But—well, what will you do to try to find the person who left the note?”

  He just looked at me, wryness back on his face. “What do you think we’ll do?”

  “Very little,” I responded, holding back the emotions that had suddenly leapt once more to the forefront of my mind: Frustration. Irritation. Fear. And more than a bit of anger. This time it wasn’t me who was in danger, but my dog—and the cops weren’t jumping in any harder to help her. “I know you’re busy and all. But you do realize, don’t you, that looking into this might yield the actual killer?”

  “Or it could result in whoever it is actually harming your dog,” he reminded me—not that I’d forgotten that even for a moment.

  “Which is why you should hurry, but—well, if you could also be discreet—”

  “I’ve got a meeting coming up in about three minutes, Carrie,” Wayne said. “And you’re on your own with this, at least for now. Keep your dog safe. Although if you do happen to confirm who wrote it, let me know. If it’s someone we’re not already checking out thoroughly, we’ll look into them more, and as a person of interest in the murder, too.”

  With that, he ushered Biscuit and me to the door of his office.

  I stood in the reception area of the police station a minute later just trying to catch my breath—and looking around suspiciously at everyone who was there, to see who was looking at us.

  I knew a few of them—cops and civilians—mostly from my shops. But none of my murder suspects were there.

  Yet, would word get out to … whoever it was … and let them know I had disobeyed their instructions and showed up at the police station?

  How could I protect Biscuit—and myself?

  Dejected, I started to walk out. That was when Oliver entered the reception room from another hallway, followed by Bridget.

  He’d been at the station, too? Maybe they were conducting the new interrogation Oliver had mentioned yesterday.

  Had he become their main suspect?

  And had he dared to threaten my sweet dog, who now was sitting at my feet?

  Oliver stopped. Glared at me. Stomped across the room to stare down and point a long, accusatory finger at me. “Are you making false accusations again, Carrie? You’d better stop, or I’ll make sure you do.”

  A threat—from the killer? From the person who had threatened Biscuit? Both?

  “Just stay away from us, Oliver,” I told him. “If you don’t, I’ll—”

  “You’ll be seeing me again,” he spat back. “Count on it. Today. Or tomorrow. Or both … and often.” And with that, he stomped out of the station as I stared at his back … and shuddered.

  I tried ducking back into Wayne’s office before leaving to tell him about this latest threat, but he wasn’t there. Nor was Bridget, and she had apparently been the one questioning Oliver that afternoon.

  I did manage, however, to get the receptionist to tell Chief Loretta that I needed to see her. To my surprise, she quickly appeared in the reception area and motioned for me to join her, which Biscuit and I did.

  In a somewhat quiet corner away from the crowd, I told her what had happened. She was already aware of the threat against Biscuit, and she stooped to give my dog a quick pat.

  “This is to go no farther than us. For your information, I granted a quick interview to Silas Perring of KnobTV this morning, which will undoubtedly appear on the news, but I didn’t know of this latest threat against your dog. Right now, we’re still checking into all leads but we aren’t yet prepared to arrest anyone in Dr. Fellner’s murder.”

  “I understand,” I said, “but Oliver Browning just threatened me right to my face again, here in the police station. Surely you can do something about that. About him. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s the killer, but—”

  “Best I can say right now is that you should stay away from him. And don’t make any accusations you can’t prove. If you come up with any proof, of course—any evidence against Dr. Browning or anyone else—then come to us with it. Don’t confront him.”

  “And don’t tell him to stop making threats?”

  “Do you have any proof he’s the one who left that note against your dog?” The chief looked at me with her head cocked a little, which made me think she was just humoring me.

  “No, but he personally threatened me right here, as I just told you.”

  “Did anyone hear it?”

  “Probably. You can ask your officers who were around, and other people in the reception area.”

  But the chief slowly shook her head. “Sorry, Carrie. I have some business to attend to right now. If you want to ask around, go ahead.” She headed back toward the hallway where her office was located.

  I did ask a few people, including the officer behind the desk, if they’d heard Oliver’s threats. No one admitted it, despite the expressions on their faces indicating they weren’t telling the truth.

  Because they simply didn’t want to get involved? Maybe.

  But I already was involved. I wanted to find the killer. And even more, I wanted to find out who’d threatened Biscuit.

  What was I going to do?

  Well, for one thing, Biscuit and I had hung around the police station long enough. I was glad I’d driven there, since it was easier to watch for anyone attempting to get close to us as we headed back to my shops. Fortunately, I saw no danger—not even a hint that Oliver or anyone else I suspected was following us.

  Nor did I see anything unusual as I parked behind the shops, then walked around to the front slowly enough for Biscuit to do what she needed to do before I put her in her enclosure in the Barkery.

  I decided then that I’d be careful and concerned, sure. But I had to continue with my life—and ensure that Biscuit also continued with hers.

  Even so, I needed some friendly faces and ears—so, standing on the sidewalk in front of my shops, I called Reed.

  He didn’t answer, though. He probably was busy with a patient at the clinic, and that was fine.

  I went inside, and was waved at by Vicky. She was fortunately busy with customers. But seeing a hard-working assistant reminded me of the one who liked to write, Dinah, and I got an idea. Maybe there was something I could do to protect Biscuit and myself, particularly if I was correct in my suspicions about Oliver and perhaps Mickey.

  After settling Biscuit in her enclosure, I approached Vicky and asked her to keep a close watch on Biscuit. She didn’t ask why but immediately agreed and drew closer to my beloved pup. Then I hurried into the kitchen and back to my office, where I made a phone call and set up an appointment for tomorrow.

  That was when Reed called back—a good thing. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

  “Sure,” I said, sort of meaning it. “How’s the clinic today?” I wanted everything to be perfect there, particularly for the patients.

  We talked for a couple of minutes about the animals he’d seen that day.

  Then Reed asked, “Can we get together tonight?”

  “Why do you think I called?” I replied.

  We made arrangements that he’d pick up Hugo and bring him to my house. To keep things simple, he insisted that I just order pizza.

  G
ood. I didn’t have to go shopping, nor would I be out in public worrying about Biscuit. “Fine,” I said. “See you later.”

  Twenty-Seven

  I soon became even more glad that we’d decided to stay at my house for dinner that night.

  First, even though Neal realized I’d be there with Reed, he didn’t ask if I wanted him to hang out with Janelle at her place. Instead, he announced that he and Janelle would join us for dinner.

  He wanted some answers.

  In fact, shortly after I arrived home but before Reed got there, Neal brought Janelle over and they both began bombarding me with questions. Janelle had recognized how upset I’d been at the shops even though I hadn’t told her about the note, and she had alerted Neal. Now they both wanted to know what was going on.

  I decided to tell them—for Biscuit’s sake. And theirs. If whoever it was tried to do something horrible to my dog, I might not be the closest human around at the time. They needed to know—to protect themselves as well as Biscuit.

  And so we all—including Biscuit and Janelle’s dog Go—sat down in the living room. The humans all had glasses of beer. I’d avoided saying anything of import until then, but as I was about to start explaining, the doorbell rang. Biscuit and Go barked and ran toward the front door, and I dashed after them, picking Biscuit up and looking out the peephole before opening it.

  Of course, I wasn’t surprised to see Reed with Hugo there. I hadn’t ordered the pizza yet—and I doubted whoever had threatened Biscuit, even if they knew where we lived, would be polite enough to ring the bell. I opened the door. “Come in.”

  As the dogs all traded sniffs, I glanced past Reed’s back before he came in. Then we engaged in a brief kiss—after I’d closed and locked the door again.

  I motioned for Reed to follow me into the kitchen, where I got him a beer and we waited for the dogs to take a few laps out of the water bowl. Then we joined the others in the living room.

  That’s when I asked what everyone wanted on their pizza. After we reached agreement—cheese, pepperoni, and green peppers—I phoned the order in to the town’s closest shop.