Paws For Murder

by Annie Knox

  For some reason, my comment must have touched a nerve, because Carla’s fair skin colored like a late-spring strawberry.

  Stilted small talk and Rena’s chocolate raspberry tart filled the next hour, until Sean finally suggested he and Carla should hit the road. Carla extended one pale, bony hand to both me and Rena. Sean, much to Carla’s obvious annoyance, pulled us both into big hugs.

  “Thanks for the grub, ducks,” he said to Rena.

  He wrapped his arms around me, enveloping me in his warmth. I’d known him most of my life, and seen him dozens of times in the last few weeks. I’d alternately loved him, scorned him, shied away from him, and grown to find him both charming and intriguing. Still, until that moment, he’d been as much an idea as a person, a symbol of a path not chosen rather than a flesh-and-blood human. But that hug made me suddenly aware of him as a man, a man with strength and gentleness, with broad shoulders and just a hint of softness at his waist. And I had a sudden desire to know about every experience that had changed him from the boy beneath my apple tree to the man standing in my living room.

  As he gave me a tight squeeze, he mumbled into my hair. “Glad to have you back, Izzy.”

  CHAPTER

  Seventeen

  The next night, Rena, Lucy, Dru, and I took Xander out for his birthday. Since Rena still seemed to be under suspicion, we kept it low-key. Dru and Lucy punched out of their day jobs; Rena, Xander, and I locked up our stores, and we met at the Grateful Grape.

  Virginia Harper had turned a Victorian row house into a quaint little nook for sipping wine and noshing on tasty treats. The Grape didn’t serve dinner, but provided a “build your own” cheese board and delectable desserts.

  Our table settled in with a board of French bread, a truffle-laced cheese, good old-fashioned Wisconsin cheddar, brine-cured olives, and a zesty horseradish-and-goat-cheese dip. With a couple bottles of merlot—far finer than what I’d served at dinner the night before—we were ready to toast the birthday boy.

  “How old are you now, Xander?” Dru asked.

  It was hard to tell. While we counted him among our circle of close friends, Xander had managed to maintain an air of mystery.

  Xander Stephens had moved to Merryville five years before from Milwaukee. His grandmother had passed away, leaving him enough money to live out his dream of opening a record store, and for some reason he’d settled on northern Minnesota as the place to do it. The Spin Doctor relied on the wealthy tourists who passed through Merryville and a thriving online business to sell everything from vintage vinyl LPs to concert T-shirts to books on the history of rock and roll. In a day when record stores were giving way to digital downloadable music, Xander had carved out a niche for himself that kept him solvent.

  Merryville isn’t an easy town to crack socially, but since Xander had opened the Spin Doctor in the building immediately behind mine—what was then Ingrid’s Merryville Gift Haus—and Rena was Xander’s first employee, he had an entrée into our little circle, and we were happy to dote upon him. A six foot three long-distance runner with a pale complexion and a military-short haircut, he perpetually looked like he needed to be fed, and the McHale sisters were prone to taking in strays.

  By silent agreement, the topic of Sherry Harper’s murder was off limits, but all other manner of gossip flowed about the small group.

  We discussed, for instance, Hal Olson’s run for mayor.

  “The development platform will serve him well,” I said.

  “Maybe for some voters,” Xander replied. “But I moved here to get away from cookie-cutter suburbs and urban sprawl.”

  “Development doesn’t have to mean sprawl,” Dru countered. “Still, he’s going to have to be a lot more specific about what he has in mind before he wins my vote.” My older sister hated change with a flaming purple passion. Her accountant brain may have favored economic growth, but her heart wanted her hometown to remain untouched.

  “I don’t care about his politics,” Rena said. “Man skeeves me out. He’s just too . . . I don’t know . . . too something.”

  “Too smarmy,” Lucy offered. The two exchanged a high five across the table. “Yeah, at Izzy’s party last week he told me I looked tense and asked if I wanted a back rub. A, we were in the middle of a party, B, his wife was right across the room, and C, when have I ever looked tense?”

  Everyone at the table laughed . . . except Xander, whose brow wrinkled above his big, dove-gray eyes. I had a niggling suspicion Xander was sweet on Lucy, and the thought of any man hitting on her would give him fits, especially one so age-inappropriate and decidedly married.

  I nudged Xander in the ribs. “Lucy’s a big girl,” I murmured. “She can take care of herself.”

  Lucy must have heard me, because she lowered her head and looked coyly through her lashes at her would-be Galahad. “Would you have saved me from pervy Hal?”

  Xander blushed, a wildfire licking from his neck right up to his hairline.

  While Xander had a crush on Lucy, Lucy seemed to be clueless. My sister could trade barbs with the best of them, but she was rarely deliberately cruel. Besides, I figured one of the reasons Lucy teased Xander so often was that she, too, was infatuated. Apparently, her tactics had not developed much since the grade school playground. If she realized how much her teasing hurt Xander, she would stop it. And if she realized how much Xander was into her, she’d have asked him out long ago.

  Lucy laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Rena punched Lucy in the arm. “Why don’t you put this boy out of his misery and ask him out, already?”

  The corners of Lucy’s lips curled up in a knowing little smile.

  “Xander’s a big boy,” she said, echoing my own comment. “If he wants to go out with me, all he has to do is ask.”

  Xander crossed his arms and ducked his head. As shy as he was, actually asking Lucy out would require a heroic effort.

  All the girls laughed. But I began thinking I might be wrong about how oblivious Lucy was. How much of the teasing was really teasing? I wondered if Lucy was actually putting her line in the water hoping to catch Xander . . . and whether Xander might actually take her bait.

  “Sounds like you all are having a good time.”

  Virginia Harper had wandered up to our table as we laughed. She laid one hand on Rena’s shoulder and the other on Xander’s.

  “How is everything tonight?” she asked.

  “Wonderful,” I answered. “This is the perfect place to celebrate Xander’s birthday.”

  I didn’t know it was possible for Xander’s blush to deepen, but he flushed scarlet at the attention when Virginia turned a thousand-watt smile on him. “Birthday? I’ll have to have the kitchen put together a pastry sampler for you all. On the house.”

  A chorus of demurs rose from our crew, who wouldn’t dream of accepting such a generous gift from a fellow small-business owner.

  “Oh, really—”

  “We couldn’t—”

  “Thank you. That would be lovely,” said Lucy, her casual acceptance of Virginia’s largesse drowning out the rest of us. Leave it to Lucky Lucy to take such a show of generosity as her due.

  Virginia laughed. “It’s really my pleasure. I have a new pastry supplier, and I think you’ll be impressed.”

  I watched as she walked down the back hallway, sticking her head in the kitchen for a minute, and then disappearing out through the rear fire door.

  “Where’s she going?” I wondered aloud.

  Xander glanced over his shoulder to follow my line of sight.

  “Probably out for a smoke. She’s got a terrible habit.”

  “Why go outside in this frigid weather? After all, she owns the place.”

  “State law. No smoking in restaurants and bars.”

  “Really? How long has that been in effect?” I had strong memories of coming home from a night on the town smelling like an ashtray.

  “Only about five years,” Xander said, showing an uncharacteristic
streak of humor.

  “Huh. Shows you what kind of social life I’ve had.”

  Diane Jenkins, the Grape’s bartender and general town busybody, delivered a plate of pastries to our table: a small stone fruit tart, a wedge of chocolate cake, and a perfect, golden flan. “Compliments of Virginia,” she said as she set it down with a flourish.

  Lucy leaned in to talk to Diane in a conspiratorial—though not particularly quiet—whisper. “It’s quiet tonight,” she said. Indeed, there was only one other couple in the bar.

  Diane rolled her eyes. “Quiet every night.

  “I love Virginia. She’s the best boss I’ve ever had. Why, after she went and celebrated her birthday with her family, she came back here to celebrate with us. After Carla and Sean had left, she still hung out with us. Waited until closing time, then treated us all to a couple of bottles of our most expensive vintage.”

  “That was generous of her,” I said.

  “Sure was. If anyone could make a go out of this business, it’s Virginia. She’s such a great hostess. But I just don’t think Merryville is a wine bar type of town. When the tourists come in, most of them are looking to let their hair down, drink some beer and do some shots. Sure, we get a few of the hoity-toity people from the big cities, the ones who rent lakeside homes for the whole summer.” She dropped her voice. “Honestly, though, I don’t think our selection of wine meets their standards, you know. Basically, there are two markets in this town, and Virginia’s managed to fall smack between them. If things don’t pick up, I’m going to have to look for another job. I can’t make enough in tips to support myself.” She suddenly colored and raised her hands as though to stop us from jumping to conclusions. “Not that you need to . . . I mean, I wasn’t trying . . .”

  Lucy cut her off. “Don’t worry. I know you weren’t fishing for a tip. But rest assured, most of us have waited tables at one point or another. We know where you’re coming from. And we won’t say anything to Virginia.”

  “Thank you,” Diane breathed. “Sometimes my filter just turns off and I say the most inappropriate things.”

  I was pretty sure Diane didn’t even have a filter. She could be counted on for the most no-holds-barred gossip in town.

  With one last thankful smile, she made her way to the other couple in the hopes of peddling another cheese platter.

  “If things are as bad as Diane says, I wonder how Virginia stays in business,” I whispered.

  “She’s not just staying in business,” Xander said. “She’s been making all sorts of improvements. One of my buddies just installed a new furnace here, and this artist friend of mine is going to paint a mural on that wall. She’s paying him really well for the job.”

  “Not to mention the new pastry person,” Lucy said, forking up another bite of flan. “This stuff is killer.”

  She was right. My bite of tart had been sinfully delicious: just the right crispness to the crust, a filling of crème Anglaise perfumed with vanilla, and a perfectly balanced glaze coating the apricots and peaches that formed mesmerizing swirls across the tart’s top.

  I put down my fork and pushed the tray of dessert in Xander’s general direction. “No more of this for me. Between that meal at the Mission and tonight, I’ll be lucky to button my pants tomorrow.”

  I excused myself to use the restroom.

  A few minutes later, as I emerged from the ladies room, I caught sight of a familiar face heading into the kitchen.

  Ken West.

  CHAPTER

  Eighteen

  “Ken,” I called.

  He stopped, looking over his shoulder sheepishly. When he saw it was me, he relaxed a bit, but I could still tell he was itching to get away.

  “I didn’t know you were working here,” I said.

  “I’m not.”

  “But you . . .” I waved in the direction of the kitchen door, clearly labeled STAFF ONLY.

  He sighed. “If you must know, I’m an independent contractor.”

  That’s what the manager at the Mission had called Ken: an independent contractor.

  “What exactly does that entail in the restaurant business?”

  “If you must know,” Ken said, “I’ve been reduced to working as a pastry chef.”

  “Wait. The desserts are yours? They’re wonderful!”

  “Well, of course.”

  “But you sound like you’re ashamed of them.”

  “I’m not ashamed of the quality of my product, I’m ashamed that my product is dessert. There’s a distinct pecking order in the culinary world, and pastry chefs are far below chefs de cuisine. It’s paying the bills, but I’d rather not become known for pastry.”

  “That’s what you were doing at the Mission, wasn’t it? Delivering pastry?”

  “My, my, my. Have you been spying on me, Izzy?”

  “Actually, no.” I wasn’t quite sure how to play this, but decided to go for up front and honest. “I was tracking Sherry Harper’s movements. We knew she’d had dinner there, and we went to ask the staff if they remembered her.”

  “Ah, and I assume they did. Sherry Harper’s rage was sharper than a serpent’s tooth.”

  “Yeah, they said she was already pretty worked up when she saw you, and then all heck broke loose.”

  He winced. “I suppose I should have been flattered to provoke such strong passions in anyone. But I had to do some fancy talking to keep the manager from sending me and my profiteroles packing after she made such a scene.”

  “You realize that gives you yet another reason to want Sherry dead, right? She knew your secret life as a pastry chef and she almost cost you your contract with the Mission.”

  He sighed. “We’ve been over this already, haven’t we? Even if I wanted Sherry dead, I didn’t have the opportunity to poison her.” I started to interrupt, but he held up a hand to stop me. “And if I had had an opportunity to poison her, you can bet I wouldn’t use something like hemlock. I’m not a locavore chef like those guys at the Mission. I don’t know about all the local flora and fauna. If I wanted to poison Sherry, I would have used something a bit more classic and a bit more reliable, like arsenic or cyanide.”

  I wasn’t sure I trusted him—especially since it seemed like he’d given the whole matter some serious thought—but I had little choice but to let the matter go.

  “Listen, what we were really interested in at the Mission was the identity of Sherry’s dining companion. The manager seemed to think you recognized him.”

  Ken narrowed his eyes and studied me for a second. “No. What with all the commotion, I didn’t even see him.”

  I still wasn’t sure I trusted Ken when he said he had nothing to do with Sherry’s death. That night, though, I had no niggling doubts: For some reason, Ken West was lying to me. He knew who Sherry’s lover was, but he wasn’t going to tell me.

  • • •

  The next day, I found myself back at the Grateful Grape, meeting Virginia Harper to discuss her role in the upcoming Halloween Howl.

  We sat at a table near the front of the bistro, midmorning sunlight pooling on the distressed oak of the table and bringing out the warm tones in Virginia’s skin and hair. She wore one of her signature flowing dresses, this one in a shade of deepest amethyst, which brought out the violet tint in her hooded blue eyes.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” I said as we sat down.

  “Think nothing of it,” she said, waving her hand dismissively.

  “Oh dear, what happened to your finger?” I pointed to her index finger, wrapped in a giant Band-Aid. “I didn’t notice that last night.”

  She moved quickly to tuck her hands under the table, as though she was embarrassed by them. But she stopped herself short and brought them back to the tabletop.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “Almost healed, actually. I cut myself on the blade of my wine key. Happens all the time.” She held up both hands, palms out, as though to demonstrate how nicked and scarred her hands were.

  “Well, I’m
glad it’s nothing serious. I’m such a klutz, the last time I tried to peel an avocado I nearly sliced off my thumb.” She laughed. “The pageant should be fairly straightforward. We’ll collect the entry forms by the band shell and give out numbers to each animal in the pageant. At nine o’clock, we’ll have the animals parade past the band shell, and you can make note of the numbers of the winners.”

  “Do you think the turnout will be very big?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Pris has been keeping count of the actual preregistrations, and that woman holds on to information like Scrooge held on to his gold. But she’s indicated that things are going well. And if the number of people coming in to Trendy Tails to buy costumes is any indication, the event will be a huge success.”

  “So, are there categories or something?”

  “Yes. You’ll choose one winner from among the dogs, one from the cats, and one from the other pets—assuming we have some. Each winner will get a twenty-five dollar gift certificate to Prissy’s Pretty Pets and one to Trendy Tails.”

  “I don’t suppose Sir Francis can enter the contest.”

  “No, I don’t think that would be fair. But by all means bring him out for the festivities, get him a costume, and have him join you on the stage. He can be our Canine of Ceremonies.”

  “Oh, perfect. Sir Francis loves to be the center of attention.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to judge for us,” I said. “You’re already doing so much by providing the beverages for the event, and this is such a terrible time for your family.”

  “Honestly, it will be good to do something to get my mind off of Sherry’s death,” Virginia said, her voice cracking with emotion.

  “You two were close, huh?” I asked. Sherry had been the black sheep of the Harper family, but with Sherry living just a couple of blocks from Virginia’s business and Virginia herself being a bit of an outlier in the Harper clan, it seemed they might have forged a bond . . . two earth mothers among the patrician Harper kin.