Mutts & Murder: A Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery

by Meg Muldoon

  I swallowed hard as I heard another loud noise, and then something else more startling.

  A deep male voice.Coming from the meeting room down the hall.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered quietly.

  I strained to hear, but there was only the ceiling fan above me. The voice had stopped.

  Soon, the sound of my heartbeat fluttering wildly in my ears added to the constant humming of the fan.

  I took in a deep breath and slowly stood up. I grabbed my bag and stuffed the remaining dog hearing transcripts in it. Then I grabbed the only heavy, weapon-like item on my desk: a stapler. I slowly tiptoed down the hallway, ready to bash that old, broken stapler on the head of anyone who might try to stop me.

  I wished to God that there was a backway out of the newsroom, the way there was at my old paper. But as it was, there was only one way out. And the meeting room, where the noise had come from, had to be passed in order to leave.

  I walked slowly, and then picked up my pace as I got closer. My heart was thundering as loud as the McKenzie River by the time I approached the door.

  I paused for a second, stopping abruptly, straining to hear for more. Even though everything inside was telling me to make a run for it: to bolt for the parking lot and not look back.

  But my curious nature got the better of me.

  I heard the man’s voice again, and I felt my insides tremble. A second later, it was followed by a woman’s voice. Something that put me at ease a little bit, though I didn’t know why. A woman could be just as dangerous as a man.

  But after a few moments, that feeling of ease grew as I listened in on the hushed conversation.

  “Tell me. Tell me who you’re looking at for the murder now, on the record, or this little arrangement we have dies right here in this room tonight.”

  “Aw, don’t be that way, honey. If I tell you on the record, there’s no way this arrangement can go any further anyway. You’ve made me push the envelope one too many times as is. One more, and who knows if I’d still get to be chief. Someone would find out.”

  “Don’t touch me, Hal. You don’t get anything. You’re not keeping up your end of the deal.”

  “Oh, I’ll keep up my end, honey. You can count on me for that.”

  I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep from gasping.

  It took me a moment to realize what was going on, but when I did, the realization hit with all the force of a car going over the side of a cliff.

  That was the chief of the Dog Mountain Police Department in there: Harold Dunbar.

  And in there with him was—

  The realization was obviously too much for my hands, because a second later, I felt the stapler slip right out. A moment later, it hit the ground with such a loud thud, it seemed like the very walls of the newsroom shook.

  The voices immediately hushed.

  If I had the time I would have been kicking myself. But as it was, I knew I needed to get the hell out of there before they saw me.

  I didn’t know what would happen to me if I stayed behind, but I knew it wasn’t going to be good.

  I left the stapler where it was and took off down the long hallway. Passing the copy machine and the restrooms and Janet Chandler’s office until I made it to the front door.

  “Hey!”

  Rachael Chandler’s voice echoed down the hall after me, but I didn’t stop to hear what else she had to say.

  Chapter 38

  So Rachael was sleeping with the chief of the Dog Mountain Police Department to get the inside track on crime in Dog Mountain.

  The very thought of it made me nauseous as I drove through the crowded streets of downtown, heading back home.

  I felt that way not so much because Rachael was thirty years younger than Harold Dunbar, but because she’d stoop so low just to get an edge on the rest of us. Not to mention the fact that the chief of the police department, who was supposed to be a pillar of the community, would stoop so low himself.

  If any of this ever got out, it would be explosive. KTVX, our arch news rivals, would have a field day.

  I suddenly remembered the Post-it note that had showed up on my desk the afternoon before. The one that had said to be in the newsroom Saturday night, and that the ball was in my court.

  Now it made sense, though I still had no idea who left the note. Somebody had wanted me to see Rachael and the chief together, though.

  I wondered how many others knew about what was going on. Lt. Sakai certainly did, I realized. Hence that thing he’d said to me about disliking reporters who took the easy track and sacrificed integrity to get what they wanted. Though I imagined he was in a Catch-22 situation with the whole thing. Ratting on his boss and dragging Harold Dunbar’s name through the mud was something Sakai probably wasn’t willing to do. Not alone, anyway: it was a difficult situation that would require a delicate touch.

  I bit my lip, driving a little too fast along the highway for a Saturday night. But my thoughts were aflame, and my driving reflected the state of my mind.

  After getting over the shock of what I’d overheard, I felt perplexed about what to do with the information.

  Something like this could bring down the chief of police. But it wasn’t quite that cut and dry. Because something like this would also throw a good deal of scandal onto The Chronicle. It wasn’t just Rachael’s name on the line. It was all of ours. Any reporter from The Chronicle would have their credibility questioned from now until kingdom come thanks to Rachael’s little tryst.

  And that somehow just didn’t seem fair to me.

  I pulled into the driveway of our house, no closer to a solution.

  But I didn’t have to figure it out tonight: there were more important things to worry about than Rachael’s lack of scruples at the moment.

  I got out of the car, carrying the stack of dog board hearing transcripts inside.

  It wasn’t lost on me that the rose bushes in front of the house were a torn-up mess of dirt, broken branches and scattered yellow petals.

  I bit my lip, but continued up to the house without inspecting them closely.

  Ripped up rose beds seemed to be the least of my problems lately.

  Chapter 39

  My own voice jarred me awake.

  “She was there!” I rasped.

  My eyes flung open. I started coughing and choking, my throat so dry, I couldn’t breathe. Beads of sweat rolled away down the sides of my temples, onto my pillow.

  The image of the woman in the dream burned in my mind.

  So much so that I couldn’t get back to sleep that night.

  Chapter 40

  I sat across the street from Dog Mountain’s Astonishing Antiques shop, thinking about what I would do if I had a husband and knew he was cheating on me with someone like Myra Louden.

  Little old ladies in flower print cardigans shuffled in and out of the antique shop like the place was going out of style. A few of them with small runt-like, fluffy dogs paused outside the store, their hands on the doorknob. But after looking at the sign in the front window, they reluctantly let go and continued on their way down the sidewalk.

  Geraldine Kline’s antique shop was one of the few establishments in Dog Mountain that didn’t allow four-legged companions to accompany their owners into the store. There was a large sign hanging up in the shop window that told customers, in no uncertain terms, that dogs were not allowed.

  It was a bold, almost-blasphemous move for a downtown business owner to make in a town where Fido was practically worshipped.

  I wiped my hands off on my jeans and thought about how I was going to go about this. A few pangs of self-doubt crept in as I did.

  Had Geraldine actually been at The Barkery the afternoon of Myra’s death? Or had I just dreamed it? Was it just my subconscious grasping at straws? Making things up since I had so little to go on?

  I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was that I woke up knowing, without a shred of doubt, that Geraldine Kline, Richard Kline’s wife, had been at The Bar
kery the afternoon Myra died. Sitting at a back table. Wearing large sunglasses and a scarf around her head.

  Which, if true, meant that she was the only person in there that would have had a motive for murdering Myra. She could have slipped the poison into Myra’s coffee sometime when she wasn’t looking.

  I wasn’t positive. But my gut told me that Richard had been obsessed with Myra. And that that obsession hadn’t remained benign.

  And if I could tell that Richard was having an affair with her, then it seemed plausible to me that Geraldine had suspected that very thing as well. And maybe the jealousy and hurt over that had gotten to a point where she couldn’t take it any longer. To the point where she had to do something about it.

  I’d reached a point like that myself.

  Time could be running out for Lou. And I had to do something before it was too late.

  I stepped out of the car. A cool morning breeze loosened a few strands from my ponytail, blowing them across the back of my neck. I looked both ways, then crossed the street.

  Poisonings, after all, were often perpetrated by women.

  Chapter 41

  “Would you like some tea and biscuits, Winifred?”

  I shook my head a little too quickly. I hoped that Geraldine couldn’t read minds, because mine was practically screaming poison! as I refused her offer of food and drink.

  “No thank you,” I said. “I’m on a diet.”

  Geraldine was dressed in a flowing polka-dot dress and a lacy cardigan that looked right at home amongst the dusty armoires, vases, and china that filled her antique shop. Her dishwater blond hair was pulled back into a tight bun and she wore a pair of thick glasses. If I just saw her walking down the street, I would have pegged her as an antique shop owner.

  But probably not a murderer.

  She had a cool, steely expression on her face as she greeted me. She clearly knew who I was. Yet I kept up appearances, as if I was there to do a little Sunday morning shopping. I meandered down the crowded aisles, pretending I was actually interested in the stuffy trinkets on the shelves.

  For a while, I stared at an old antique table clock and listened as Geraldine helped one particular old lady who was debating whether or not to get a piece of vintage Waterford crystal.

  “I’m just concerned what my husband would do if he found out I spent this much on an antique,” the little old lady was saying, admiring the fine crystal in the muted light of the shop.

  “Well, Marianne, you know what I always say,” Geraldine said. “What husbands don’t know can’t hurt them.”

  That line seemed to please Marianne, taking some of the sting out of the price tag. But it sent shivers down my spine.

  Geraldine rang up the piece of glass at the cash register and then sent Marianne on her way.

  I took in a deep breath and grabbed the antique clock.

  “This is quite nice,” I said, going up to her.

  She nodded stiffly.

  “It’s German,” she said.

  She crossed her arms, and I suddenly felt as if Geraldine had seen through my ploy to casually size her up. After all, I hadn’t ever been in her shop before. And frankly, it was probably a rare day when someone in their late 20s came wandering down her aisles.

  I cleared my throat, placing the clock on the cash register.

  “I notice you don’t let dogs in here,” I said, changing the subject. “I’d think in a town like this that would hurt business.”

  She shrugged.

  “Maybe,” she said. “But you see, that’s where Richard and I differ. I never cared for dogs. And to have them in my antique shop would be disastrous.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  That was quite the revelation. Richard spent his days caring for dogs. Meanwhile, his wife seemed to loathe them.

  She stared hard at me for a moment.

  “I know you’ve been talking to Richard,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “For the articles I’ve been writing about Myra.”

  She sighed and suddenly looked very tired.

  “You don’t seem like a stupid girl, Winifred,” she said. “I’m sure you figured out that my husband was having an affair with Myra.”

  My jaw almost hit the ground at that remark.

  Maybe it was because I hadn’t expected her to know. Or maybe it was because of the way she freely admitted it. Or maybe it was the way in which she said it – without feeling. As if she was telling me the time of day.

  “I didn’t know for sure, but—” I started saying.

  “Well, I’ve known for a long time now,” she said, sighing.

  “Then how come you’re still…?”

  She shrugged.

  “I love him,” she said. “He stepped up and gave my son a father when his died. Richard’s been good to us. And I’m too old to start all over again.”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s not glamorous,” she said. “But I love him. So I stay.”

  The way she spoke was so honest and upfront, I was almost speechless. Here I was used to having to pry information out of people by almost any means necessary, and Geraldine had just offered up her story on a silver platter.

  “Did…” I said, finding my voice shaky. “Did you want Myra dead?”

  Geraldine smiled, a little too creepily for my liking.

  “You mean did I murder her?”

  I nodded.

  “I saw you at The Barkery that day she was poisoned,” I said.

  She smiled again.

  “I was in The Barkery that day because I’m addicted to your sister’s Apple Custard cupcakes,” she said. “Not because I wanted to murder Myra.”

  She rubbed her face.

  “Now if you were to ask whether I was happy she was dead, then the answer to that would be entirely different.”

  “But you didn’t do it?” I said.

  She shook her head.

  “What about your husband?” I said. “Could he have—?”

  “You saw him at the funeral, Winifred,” she said, cutting me off. “Did that sobbing, cave-in of a man seem like a murderer to you?”

  Mrs. Kline had a way about her that put me on edge, but inspired some sort of admiration in me as well.

  Most women in her shoes wouldn’t have carried the burden that she did with such grace. Let alone with such honest frankness.

  “Well, I’m sorry I had to ask you these questions, Geraldine,” I said.

  “Don’t be,” she said. “Besides, I saw you coming a mile away.”

  “How?” I asked.

  I wasn’t great at deception, but over the years I’d developed decent screening skills. Most of the people I interviewed didn’t see what I was after until it was too late.

  “A cop was in here earlier,” she said. “Asking those same questions.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Dark hair, tan skin.Hawaiian maybe.”

  So the lieutenant wasn’t just sitting around reading the paper this Sunday morning either.

  “Well, thanks for your time, Geraldine,” I said, heading for the door.

  “Uh, Winifred?”

  I stopped.

  “Yes?”

  “You haven’t paid for this clock yet.”

  She looked at me with both eyebrows raised. As if she was reminding a forgetful, senile customer that they had forgotten the item they set about getting.

  I could have continued on my way and pretended like I hadn’t heard her. But hell. I had come in here on a Sunday morning, accusing the poor woman of murder.

  Maybe I owed her a purchase.

  I moseyed back over to the counter and pulled out my credit card. She swiped it and started wrapping the ugly clock in tissue paper.

  “You’re lucky it’s just the clock,” she said. “The lieutenant had to buy a table lamp for his troubles.”

  I smiled.

  That gave me some satisfaction at least.

  Chapt
er 42

  When I got back to the house later that afternoon, Lou was sitting at the kitchen table. She was red in the cheeks and her face was wet with tears.

  The sight of that struck a chill so deep inside my heart, I almost didn’t notice how stifling it was inside the house.

  Lou was always the tough one. When our mother died, she’d been the one who immediately went about organizing the funeral and the memorial service. When she went through her divorce, she still maintained a cheerful demeanor, even though I knew she was hurting bad.

  She rarely cried, and when she did, she usually went for a drive or locked herself in her room until the tears passed.

  So to see her flat-out bawling the way she was terrified me.

  “Did the cops come back?” I said in a trembling voice.

  If they threatened her again, I was going to go down to the police station myself and—

  But Lou shook her head before I could finish the thought.

  “No,” she said. “I haven’t heard from them.”

  “Then what’s going on?”

  I swallowed hard as she dabbed at her eyes.

  “It’s Buddy,” she said. “One of our stupid neighbors set off a couple of fireworks this morning. It scared Buddy so bad, he busted through the loose screen in the front window.”

  She sniveled some.

  “I don’t know where he is,” she said.

  She looked like a woman who was being driven to her breaking point.

  “It’s okay, Lou,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll come back. He always does.”

  But she just shook her head.

  “No. I’ve been looking for him all morning and haven’t seen him. I mean, what if he got hit by a…”

  She trailed off.

  Buddy was an outdoor cat who could roam as free as he wanted. Though in his older years, he’d mostly just settled for sitting out on the porch in the sun, swishing his tail. He didn’t often go much farther than a couple houses down.

  He had never run away before, and the thought that something had happened to him put a pit the size of Alaska in my stomach.