TO FETCH
A KILLER
TO FETCH A KILLER
Four Fun “Tails” of
Chaos and Murder
Contributing Authors:
Maria Hudgins
Teresa Inge
Heather Weidner
Jayne Ormerod
Bay Breeze Publishing
Norfolk, VA
To Fetch a Killer
Four Fun “Tails” of Chaos and Murder
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Furthermore, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue, and opinions expressed are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Copyright 2021 by
Maria Hudgins, Teresa Inge,
Heather Weidner, and Jayne Ormerod
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.
Cover Design by San Coils at CoverKicks.com
ISBN 9798511607276
Published by
Bay Breeze Publishing
Norfolk, VA
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Wow. Four books. Four stories in each book. Too many dogs to count. That’s a lot of kibble handed out in hopes of making our story dogs behave! (Although sometimes they didn’t.)
What is the appeal of dogs in stories? Their loyalty? Their intelligence? Their intuitive desire to protect? Their excellent sniffers to help chase criminals? Or is it people and our universal love for our pets? Yes, to all. And more.
For those reasons, credit for the success of the series goes to the dogs. Their actions and attitudes brought so much to the water bowl. Some have made repeat appearances. Some were one-and-dones. Some are based on real canine companions—either fully or loosely—and others are pure figments of the author’s imagination. All are playful, loving, protective, and integral to the story. And all now hold a special place in our hearts.
As always, it’s you, our faithful readers, to whom we owe a tremendous amount of gratitude. We write for your enjoyment and momentary escape from reality. We are happy to have you along for the ride as killers are collared and peace is restored. Reviews are nice, too, and thank to those who do take the time to leave them.
We hope you’ve enjoyed these canine capers as much as we’ve enjoyed writing them. And it gives us warm fuzzies when we are able to donate a portion of the proceeds to organizations whose goal is to improve lives of all animals.
None of us expected the journey to create mysteries which include mutts as characters to last this long. But it has. And it’s been fun. But it’s time for each of us to move on to other writing adventures, many taking our fictional mutts with us. Don’t worry, we’re all still writing! Be sure and check out our individual websites to keep up with future releases.
As is fitting for the end of the Mutt Mysteries journey, we give the last word to the mutts.
Woof!
~Maria, Teresa, Heather, and Jayne
TABLE OF CONTENTS
SANDY PAWS By Maria Hudgins
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
A NEW LEASH ON DEATH By Teresa Inge
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
WAGS TO RICHES By Heather Weidner
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
BONE APPÉTIT By Jayne Ormerod
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BE SURE AND CATCH THESE OTHER MUTT MYSTERIES ANTHOLOGIES!
SANDY PAWS By Maria Hudgins
The Sand Fiddlers Writers group has rented a beach house on the beautiful Atlantic shore in Virginia. They insist the place they rent must be one that allows dogs. Jessica Chastain, deaf mystery writer who insists she is NOT the leader of the group, brings her service dog, Trey, and her adopted dog, Kim. Philip Carr brings his huge Briard, Atlas. Meals are provided by the author of The Mysterious Gourmet, Sophie Perone. Jessica is surprised when she gets an email from famous mystery writer, Olivia Sands, who wants to join them. They welcome her gladly and let her stay in the best bedroom.
Atlas, Trey, and Kim make themselves at home, exploring the beach, sunning on porches, and taking dips in the briny—except for Trey, whose little legs aren’t strong enough to keep his fluffy body afloat. All seems just about perfect, until the famous writer is found dead in her bedroom on the top floor, a lipstick-stained pillowcase on the floor.
_____________
MARIA HUDGINS is a mystery writer from coastal Virginia and a lover of animals. She writes the Dotsy Lamb Travel Mysteries and the Lacy Glass Archaeology Mysteries. Her short stories appear in such publications as Virginia is for Mysteries, Fifty Shades of Cabernet, Murder by the Glass, and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. The two dogs, Trey and Kim, featured in this story are based on Hudgins’ beloved Bichons, Holly and Hamilton, now gone but never forgotten.
Website: https://mariahudgins.com/
CHAPTER ONE
The beach rental house called the Osprey’s Nest was full of summer guests and should have been full of laughter and music but it wasn’t. It was dead quiet. In fact, it looked a bit like Gettysburg the day after the battle. In the big central living room people lay on the floor, sprawled across sofas, slouched in leather recliners, and slumped over laptop computers with hands hovering over keyboards. Crumpled paper dotted the floor. Glasses of iced tea and bottles of beer sat forgotten on tables. Flip-flops were scattered randomly around the room, but the people weren’t dead. They were writers.
They called themselves the Sand Fiddlers Writers Group and this was the week of their annual retreat. Sophie Perone, author of the popular Mysterious Gourmet books, had volunteered to do all the cooking and on this morning, Sophie had arranged her special cheese straws in tall glass tumblers and placed them all around the room so the writers could snack on them while they were working. Fresh from the oven, they smelled divine. The cheesy aroma wafted out through open windows.
With a bang, a screen door flew open and crashed against the wall behind it. A gigantic, wire-haired dog pounced in and circled the room, tables flying in all directions, baskets of shell collections and beach glass hitting the floor, iced tea and beer anointing the walls, the writers, and, most especially, their precious laptops. Screams an
d curses brought the whole soporific scene to screaming life.
“If my MacBook is ruined, I’ll—!”
“Get that dog out of here!”
The invader, now crunching a cheese straw, was Atlas, the Briard puppy belonging to Philip Carr, former Atlanta policeman and current writer of police procedural mysteries. Atlas was barely ten months old and already almost a hundred pounds.
Jessica Chastain had also brought her two little Bichons and was silently gloating over the fact that they—Trey and Kim—were so much better behaved. They may have been salivating from the smell of cheddar cheese, but they sat obediently by Jessica’s side. Jessica had handled the arrangements for the rental and she was aware that her name was on the papers that spelled out responsibility for damages to the house. The floor would be okay, she thought, but the furniture—soaked upholstery, broken table legs—she would have to check all this out later.
Jessica firmly refused to let anyone refer to her as the leader of the group, not out of modesty, but because she knew that with “leader” came responsibility and she would get less writing done. She had posted all the information guests might need beside the house telephone and made up her mind to deal with any and all housekeeping issues by simply pointing to the phone. Jessica—her friends called her Jessie—was totally deaf as a result of a medical mishap when she was in her twenties. “The best thing ever for a writer,” she often said. “I could write through a zombie apocalypse.” But her deafness did require her to bring her service dog, Trey, to act as her ears and generally look out for her as Jessica was prone to get lost in her work. By and large, she used text messages rather than phone calls to communicate. She did have a voice-to-text app on her computer and her phone, but she found that the tech world still had trouble with English idioms and it sometimes made for strange translations. For in-person conversation, she had no trouble with lip reading as long as Trey reminded others to face her when they were talking.
There was also her dear Kim, a much-abused female who had run away from a puppy mill. Kim had no responsibilities other than to serve as playful companion.
Jessica and her dogs shared the patio on the first floor with Philip and Atlas. Their rooms were separated by sliding glass doors from the fenced-in area on one side of the house. This, Jessie suggested to Philip, meant that they would be able to let the dogs out in the middle of the night without having to take them for a walk. Atlas was fun to watch because he was still learning how to control the huge frame Mother Nature had given him. The mess in the living room was proof that he still had a lot to learn. Jessica had, at first, been leery of how he would get along with her dogs, but after introducing the three, she found that Trey, like Mr. Carson of Downton Abbey, took over and established the rules for Atlas. Trey was definitely the alpha dog.
Ashley Fagen and Alex Archer, both writers, had been awarded the best room in the house because, as a married couple, they got the queen-size bed, two closets, a connecting bath with jacuzzi, and an ocean view second only to the one on the top floor. Ashley’s career still struggled to get off the ground with a couple of unpublished mysteries now consigned to drawers and one she had brought with her to try out on her housemates. Alex wrote international spy thrillers set in exotic places that required him to visit. All tax-deductible. Together, Alex and Ashley made a handsome couple.
Roly-poly Sophie Perone had the only bedroom on the middle level because she needed to be close to the kitchen, which was adjacent to the living room. She was in charge of the menu. Her last published book, Live Long and Prosper, featured Mediterranean cuisine and was ideal for using the fresh seafood that the Atlantic seaboard was famous for. Sophie had already made friends with local fish sellers and hinted that good service might earn them a mention in her blog.
On the top level, the “Master Suite” boasted a sitting room, a bath with a huge walk-in shower, and a porch. Jessica had assigned this room to their honored guest, who was not to be treated as an honored guest. The well-known contemporary mystery writer, Olivia Sands, though not actually a member of the Sand Fiddlers, had invited herself, using the excuse that she needed to get away from the hell-hole called Washington D.C. before she lost her mind. None of the Sand Fiddlers believed that was the real reason, but they were happy enough to have her. She could give them all good advice.
After Jessica had shooed the others out of the living room, she set about assessing the damage. Sophie returned to the kitchen. The aroma of deep-fried calamari wafted out and tempted Jessica to slip in and grab one of the rings off the paper towels where they were cooling.
“Don’t tell me,” Jessica called out, lifting an end table and checking its legs. “Dinner will be Mediterranean.”
Sophie shifted from the stove to the open kitchen door so Jessica could read her lips. “You got it in one. This whole weekend is Mediterranean, except for the crab pickin’ and oyster shuckin’. Gotta take advantage of that great picnic table we’ve got.”
Jessica wondered what she would do with the dogs when they smelled the crabs steaming. She stepped over to a window and spotted Philip trudging up from the beach with Atlas. Philip was in good shape for sixty-five, probably due to the strict fitness regimen he still kept. Atlas slipped repeatedly on the slanted dune, his chin hitting the sand with almost every step.
Philip was the current president of the Sand Fiddlers Writers Group. They met at a library in Norfolk once a month and usually had fifteen to twenty members present. Over the ten years of its existence, the group had seen most of its members join the ranks of the published. For their annual retreat, they always found a place where they could write in relative peace, away from the hustle and bustle and kids and neighbors. A place where they could get together, share their work, and still have privacy. Jessica told Philip she was sorry all their members couldn’t join them in this retreat but many of them had other obligations.
Following the near-tragedy caused by Atlas, they had all taken their work to their own rooms or outside where the peaceful ocean view might soothe or even inspire. This stretch of the mid-Atlantic shoreline bore remnants of old piers and bulkheads—even timbers from old ships. Now mostly submerged, they posed little danger except for changes they sometimes made in the flow of water with the changing tides. Philip and Jessica had agreed that fun in the water was not the purpose of this retreat so the water conditions weren’t all that important.
_____________
Ashley, a sun-bleached blond with a honey-brown tan, popped in at the exterior door nearest the kitchen as they were all gathering for the evening readings and said, “Calimari?” Behind her, Alex was using the garden hose to wash the beach sand off his bare feet. Several years older than his wife, he was rapidly balding and had to wear a hat now when he was on the beach. On the opposite side of the room, the screen door clattered back against the wall and Atlas burst in followed by Philip.
Sophie slipped in from the kitchen carrying a platter of lamb-stuffed grape leaves, all neatly rolled and arranged around a cup of garlicky tzatziki.
“When do we eat?” Philip said. He grabbed one of the grape leaf appetizers and bit into it, nodding approvingly. Atlas, his head even with the table top, followed suit and snatched four more off the platter. Too late, Philip pulled the dog away from the table and apologized to Sophie. He tried to rearrange the grape leaf rolls and cover the now-vacant side of the platter, but Sophie waved him away. She shifted the platter to the center of the table, beyond the reach of Atlas’s tongue.
Jessica looked out one of the windows above the parking area and identified all the cars outside. Olivia Sands wasn’t there yet, she saw. Jessica hoped the noted author would arrive before the food was gone so she could eat before the evening’s readings began.
Two more people, whom Jessica did not know yet, were supposed to arrive later and take the last two rooms on the first floor. A woman named Ruth Harlow had contacted Philip and said that she was moving to Norfolk soon and wanted to join a writing group. She said she h
ad met Jessica at a recent conference and it was she who had mentioned the summer retreat. “I could have my son drive me down—I don’t drive—and I can send you a check for the expenses. That is, if you still have room.”
Jessica told Philip she didn’t specifically remember a Ruth Harlow, but it was entirely possible that they had met and she had forgotten. “Tell her to come on down,” she had told Philip. “We do have a couple of extra rooms.” This was soon after Jessica had received the email from Olivia Sands. Everyone knew Olivia Sands. Jessica had heard her speak at a conference. Her topic had been, “Capitol Crimes,” and her signing line had stretched across the room and down the hall outside.
“Did all of you get my message that Olivia Sands is coming?” Jessica said. “She could be here any time.” Apparently, they all knew. “I thought we could put her on the top floor so she can have more privacy and the best view. I’m going to ask her to read something tonight. She’ll go first. But we are not going to compare our work to hers, are we?” She looked around. “Are we?”
“Of course, we are. How could we not?” Philip said, now resuming his assault on the calamari.
“We shouldn’t,” Alex said. “No two of us write the same way. Our styles and our stories are completely different. How can you compare my spies chasing each other across the Alps to her stiletto-heel chases through downtown Washington?”
“Be kind, Alex,” Jessica warned him. This was not the first time Alex had voiced disdain for women writers of the chick-lit variety. Jessica was glad he didn’t add, with a chihuahua in her purse. “Her royalty statements are bigger than all of ours put together. She’s doing something right.”
The members of the writers’ group filled their plates with Sophie’s tasty Mediterranean food and settled down on chairs, sofas and pillows all around the room. The three dogs lounged on pillows, two small and one large, near the west windows. Jessica noticed that several members had printouts of their work in hand. She had asked Olivia to read first, but beyond this she had not set up an order to their readings because that would make her the leader—which she insisted she wasn’t.
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