Mutts & Murder: A Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery

by Meg Muldoon

  I forced a smile, surprised at Rachael’s sudden friendly turn.

  Since working at The Chronicle, Rachael hadn’t made much of an effort to be all that welcoming. For the first two months of my employment, she referred to me as whatchamacallher, my name somehow eluding her every time she spoke to or about me.

  I’d taken offense to it. I’d also taken offense to the fact that her position in the company was a product of nepotism. And to the fact that she seemed to dress however in the hell she wanted to and didn’t see any ramifications for it.

  But maybe I’d been too quick to judge Rachael Chandler. Maybe she was just a gal with a bad memory who didn’t make much of a first impression.

  Either way, I was just happy that this would save me from writing about The Pit Stop and their dog biscuits.

  “Well, thanks for the compliment, Rachael,” I said.

  She smiled, then winked at me. A gesture that put me on edge a little bit, though I couldn’t think of any reason why.

  “Thanks, Freddie.”

  She got up off my desk and walked away down the hall back to her cubicle by the owners’ offices.

  At least she’d finally learned my name.

  Chapter 16

  I got back from lunch at The Barkery to find a mysterious Post-it note taped to my keyboard.

  I had stopped over at my sister’s bakery with the intention of having a nice, peaceful, healthy lunch. Instead, what I got was the most awkward hour of my life, a direct result of Lou’s clumsy, third-degree attempts at matchmaking.

  Lou had been “too busy” to sit down with me at lunch, she had said. Though I quickly realized that this meant she was sending out one of her employees to take my order and deliver my Caesar salad. That employee was none other than Milo Daniels, the guy with the tattoo she was so keen on fixing me up with.

  Milo was a nervous type. The salad had nearly ended up all over my lap thanks to his butterfingers. Then he’d taken a seat across from me, no doubt at Lou’s encouragement, and we had spent the entirety of my break making awkward small talk.

  Not that Milo wasn’t a nice guy. In fact, he was a lot more interesting than I had initially thought. But he was a few years younger than me, and in some ways, it felt like the age gap was even bigger than that. He was still working toward his Associates degree at Dog Mountain Community College and still didn’t have a clear direction about what he wanted to do with his life. He said he liked science, but beyond that, he didn’t know. Additionally, he liked talking about himself an awful lot – about his interests in snowboarding and making homemade craft beer. About his dog. He talked about himself a little too much for my liking. But then again, maybe he was just nervous.

  Either way, I left The Barkery that afternoon wicked pissed at Lou.

  I treasured my lunches, my little moments of solitude away from the job where I could just sit quietly and enjoy a meal. It was just the kind of thing I needed in my line of work. My days were filled with talking to all sorts of folks and then churning out copy on deadline. I savored moments where I could actually sit and think in peace. And Lou had gone and bulldozed any notion of that today.

  Needless to say, I was actually happy when 1 p.m. rolled around and I could head back to the newsroom.

  I tossed my purse onto my cubicle desk along with the leftovers of my salad that I’d brought back. I hardly got to eat any of it because of all the small talk I’d had to make. I took a seat in my chair and started rolling up the sleeves on my white blouse. It was hot and suffocating in the newsroom. Kobritz had said they were going to get the air conditioner fixed this week, the same thing he’d been saying for the past three weeks, ever since that late spring heatwave hit. But despite his assurances, I was fairly certain me and my fellow reporters would be sweating out the long days of summer for the foreseeable future.

  I pulled up my email inbox on my computer, noticing that the cops’ news release about Myra Louden’s death was still MIA, even though I had left several messages with various officers at the station, including the chief of police. They were sure taking their sweet time with it.

  I started typing the TV news station’s web site into my search engine to see if they had gotten something we hadn’t, when I suddenly noticed the Post-it note stuck to my keyboard.

  I’d been so distracted that I hadn’t noticed it sitting there.

  I peeled it away, lifting it close to my face to get a better view of the hard-to-read scrawl.

  She didn’t die of natural causes.

  I immediately stood up and looked around the newsroom, searching for the person who left the note.

  Scott Appleton was sitting at his desk across from me, using chopsticks to shovel away reheated Thai noodles that I recognized as having been sitting in the newsroom fridge for at least five days. On the other side of the quad, Jennifer was hunched over her desk, on the phone again with her ex. I could tell because of her strained, barely-keeping-it-together tone. Overhearing Jennifer fight on the phone with her former husband had become something all of us in the newsroom expected to hear at least twice a day lately.

  I glanced over at Kobritz. He was sitting at this desk, his back to me, pouring out a couple of vitamins from a bottle with the words Stress Reliever written across it.

  The other reporters seemed to be out of the office.

  “Did you see who left this for me, Scott?” I said, holding up the note.

  He looked up from his freezer-burn feast for a moment, several of the noodles hanging out of his mouth.

  He shrugged.

  “Didn’t see a thing,” he said.

  Then he went back to eating, slurping loudly.

  I thought about asking Jennifer, but thought better of it. She was muttering obscenities under her breath, and I figured that it was best to leave her be when she was angry.

  “How’s that Myra story going?” Kobritz shouted without turning around.

  I furrowed my brow.

  Had he left the note?

  When I didn’t answer he glanced back at me. I looked at him for a long moment, but there was nothing in his expression that gave anything away, if he had indeed been the one to leave me the Post-it.

  “Uh, good,” I finally said. “The cops still haven’t sent a news release, but I got a hold of Myra’s sister out in Minnesota this morning. She confirmed that Myra did pass away yesterday. The funeral’s set for Thursday.”

  “Good,” Kobritz said. “You might need to hound the cops for that news release, though.”

  “I’m on it,” I said.

  I could have just called again, but I figured it was early enough in the afternoon. I already had ten inches for the story and figured I could sacrifice the time it would take to drive over to the police station if there was something worthwhile at the other end.

  Which, as I carefully folded the mysterious Post-it note and stuffed it in my pocket, just might ring true.

  I picked up my bag and walked quickly out of the newsroom, the phrase rolling around in my head like so many marbles.

  “She didn’t die of natural causes.”

  It only confirmed what my story meter had told me the day before.

  That there was more to Myra’s death than it seemed.

  Chapter 17

  The officer at the front desk greeted me with a smile and a friendly expression when I walked into the station.

  And he kept smiling, that is, until I told him I was with The Dog Mountain Chronicle and that I wanted to speak to the chief of police.

  He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, the smile fading from his face.

  “He’s out,” he said, sharply. “I’m sure you already know that.”

  “Then I’ll speak to whoever is in,” I said.

  “What’s this regarding?”

  “Myra Louden.”

  “Well, ma’am, I’m afraid that everyone’s out on calls right now. If you had phoned ahead, then we could have—”

  “I did call,” I said, curtly. �
��Several times.”

  “Well, if you want to take a seat over there, you’re more than welcome to wai—”

  “I’ll take care of it, Ben.”

  I lifted my eyes to find a pair of dark ones staring back at me.

  “You don’t have to,” the desk cop said, turning back to look at the man standing behind him. “I know you’ve just finished your shift.”

  “No, it’s okay,” he said.

  My breath caught in my throat a little as Lt. Sam Sakai came around the front desk to meet me.

  He was wearing jeans and a casual t-shirt. His black hair was glossy and even from a distance, he smelled like he’d just stepped out of the shower.

  “I left you two messages,” I said.

  “I know,” he said.

  I leaned back on my heels.

  “Well, were you going to call back?”

  “Yes. At some point.” he said.

  He didn’t appear to feel guilt of any sort about not returning my calls.

  I readjusted the shoulder strap of my bag.

  “Where’d Myra’s puppy end up?” I asked.

  He looked surprised.

  “Do you really care?” he said. “Or is that your way of making small talk?”

  “You boys sure dislike reporters,” I said, glancing at the desk cop who was still glaring at me.

  “Well maybe we’ve got our reasons,” the lieutenant said. “Now there’s nothing I can tell you about the body we found in the park yesterday, Winifred. The chief hasn’t authorized me to release any information. That’s why I haven’t returned your calls. But if you’d just be patient, then we’ll have a news release out to you later tonight.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “I think I’ve been plenty patient, Lieutenant,” I said. “You tried to sell me that line about sending the news release out yesterday. I’m not buying it again.”

  He looked at me, something like amusement drifting across his face.

  “Besides,” I said. “I have it on good authority that Myra’s death wasn’t of natural causes, Lieutenant. So if I were you, I’d—”

  Something flashed across his eyes at the mention of that.

  “Where’d you hear that?” he said in a low voice.

  Sakai stepped closer toward me. I caught a whiff of his aftershave. He smelled like a waterfall. Like those commercials for Irish Spring soap.

  It made me feel kind of weak in the knees for some reason.

  “A little birdie told me.”

  He didn’t seem to like my response much. He thought I was keeping my source a secret when, in actuality, I didn’t have any more of a clue who left that Post-it note on my desk than he did.

  “This isn’t even your beat,” he said. “Isn’t there a kennel fundraiser you should be covering?”

  I stared him down, quelling the feeling of anger that was rising up inside me.

  When it came to cops, I knew it was important not to lose your cool. No matter what low blows they might take.

  “You don’t know me, Lieutenant,” I said. “And you don’t have any right to demean what I do. Now, tell me. Was Myra Louden murdered?”

  He met my hard stare, not flinching. I found myself falling into those dark eyes of his. Deep, deep, down.

  “No comment,” he said.

  My heart sank.

  I had known that was going to be his answer, but part of me had hoped that my strong showing would have bullied him into revealing something of substance.

  Still, I wasn’t going to give up on this.

  I rummaged around in my purse and pulled out one of my business cards.

  “Well, when you do have something to say, call me,” I said.

  “Now why would I call you and not Rachael Chandler?” he said.

  “Because you like me better. That’s why.”

  He smirked and didn’t say anything, looking briefly at the card before placing it on the counter.

  I started walking away, but then stopped.

  I turned around.

  “Tell me the truth,” I said. “Is that puppy really okay?”

  That amused expression came across his face again.

  But then he saw that I was being serious.

  It wasn’t just small talk, like he’d thought.

  He nodded.

  “The dog’s just fine.”

  “Where is he?”

  He cleared his throat.

  “I, uh, I took him home,” he said. “I’m keeping him until we can find him a permanent owner.”

  I nodded, thinking about that sweet, scared little mutt face from the day before.

  That strange feeling welled up in my chest again when I did.

  “That’s good of you,” I said.

  I turned on my heels and walked away, through the station’s entry door and out into the hot afternoon sun.

  Maybe I was just imagining things, but I felt Sakai’s eyes on me the entire way.

  Chapter 18

  I waited patiently while Richard Kline did what he could to regain his composure on the other side of the line.

  “It’s just…” he started again, but he paused as his voice grew thick.

  He sounded like he was choking on honey.

  My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I waited for him to start speaking again.

  “It’s just that she was such a lovely woman.”

  Myra Louden had been a lot of things. Lovely hadn’t been one of them.

  Richard Kline, the humane society shelter manager who was Myra’s fellow dog board committee member, had been emotional after hearing that Myra was dead.

  “Mr. Kline, can you speak to Myra’s impact on the community?” I said, trying to redirect him to an easier line of conversation.

  I heard some sniveling.

  “Where… where can I even begin? Myra was…”

  He trailed off again, and I was forced to stifle another sigh.

  Not that I didn’t feel for Richard – because I did. For all I knew, the two of them were great friends. But the man wasn’t doing Myra any favors by blubbering like this to me.

  I wondered if thinking such thoughts made me callous and cynical. Maybe I’d lost all sense of compassion in this line of work.

  I cleared my throat, trying to be more sympathetic.

  “How long did you know Myra for?” I asked.

  “Almost two decades,” he said. “My wife and I… we met Myra at a fundraising event for the humane society. We’ve all been such good friends since.”

  I typed out his response, asking the next question before my hands had finished hammering it out.

  “Can you speak to Myra’s work on the dog board, specifically? I know that she had a significant hand in its establishment.”

  Richard sniveled some more.

  “Yes,” he said. “Myra loved dogs, but regulations surrounding dog ownership were always important to her. She believed in justice. And she believed that everybody should be subjected to the same standards.”

  “How would you describe Myra as a person?” I asked. “I mean, since you knew her so well.”

  “Well, I would say my wife knew her better, but…”

  Just then, I noticed a new email had popped up in my inbox. The subject line read “Re: Deceased body found in Dog Mountain Dog Park.”

  I immediately clicked on it, letting most of Richard Kline’s mumblings about Myra’s tenaciousness and honesty go by the wayside. My eyes scanned over the short news release, which had been written by none other than Lt. Sam Sakai himself.

  Most of it was stuff I already knew. Police responded to a medical call yesterday afternoon. The woman, later identified as Myra Louden, had collapsed on the dog park grounds while walking her dog at 2:30 p.m. She was found deceased of an apparent heart attack and efforts to resuscitate her failed.

  All of that I already knew.

  What really interested me, though, was the last line of the news release.

  Louden’s official cause of death is
pending.

  That kind of line didn’t show up on a news release when the victim died of a simple heart attack or stroke.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said.

  “Excuse me?” Richard Kline said, stopping mid-monologue.

  “No, no, I didn’t mean you,” I said, backtracking.

  Richard paused, the kind of pause that told me he was wondering if I was really listening and whether or not this interview was worth his time.

  I cleared my throat.

  “I’m sorry. Please, continue what you were saying, Mr. Kline,” I said.

  His types always responded best to being called respectfully by their last name.

  After a moment, Richard continued his blubbering, over-the-top, mostly inaccurate descriptions of what a good woman Myra Louden had been and just what a loss to the community her passing was.

  My hands flew across the keyboards, capturing his words, but I was already thinking of my next question.

  I had to interrupt him to ask it.

  “Mr. Kline,” I said. “Was there anybody that you knew of who didn’t get along with Myra? I mean, anybody who might have had an issue with her?”

  There was a long pause from the other side of the line.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” he said, coldly.

  “What I mean to ask is whether Myra had any enemies.”

  “I don’t know why you’d ask that,” he said, his tone having taken a sharp, chilly turn for the unpleasant.

  “Did she, Mr. Kline?”

  He paused a long, long time. To the point where I thought he might have put the phone down.

  “Mr. Kline?”

  “Myra Louden was a living saint,” he said in a trembling, angry voice. “You can quote me on that.”

  I heard a click and the dial tone took the place of Richard Kline’s voice.

  Maybe it was because I had touched a nerve with Richard. Maybe it was because the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up on end again. Or maybe it was because I knew for a fact that Myra Louden wasn’t any saint.

  But I was sure now.

  Myra Louden had been murdered.