by Arlene Kay
“I suppose Tully found out about your thefts,” I said. “Nurse Ross too. She was the real threat.”
Kate scoffed. “Nurse Ross—what a cow. She planned to contact the police, if you can believe it. As if those rich ninnies even missed their jewelry. I knew Magdalen didn’t eat chocolate, but Ross? That was child’s play. She couldn’t wait to stuff her fat face.”
How could that bland expression mask such evil? Why hadn’t I ever realized that? I liked Kate. Admired her. Considered her a friend. Obviously my powers of perception left much to be desired.
Kate reached into a small walnut writing desk. Against my will I had to admire the workmanship and delicacy of the piece. Cabriole legs and pad feet made the little desk a work of art. I gave myself a reality check. How crazy was I to obsess about furniture in what might well be my final hour on earth?
During this exchange Babette stayed preternaturally calm. I steeled myself for hysterics, tears, or other displays that never happened. Instead she seemed genuinely curious about Kate and her murderous spree.
“You fixed that other woman too, didn’t you? Sara Whitman.”
Kate nodded. “Sweet, sweet Sara. She was a sharp one. A little too sharp for her own good. Loved that emerald ring, she did. I had no choice about her. She actually threatened me. Can you believe that?” Kate flexed her left hand and gazed fondly at the emerald ring she now wore. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it? I sold the other items but just couldn’t part with this one.”
A shrink would diagnose my problem as a whopping case of cognitive dissonance. My mind refused to reconcile this complacent killer with the guitar-strumming, animal-loving librarian I thought I knew. “Why, Kate? You’re an accomplished woman with so many options.”
The look she gave me wreaked of pity more than anger. Kate twirled about, pointing her weapon at her treasures in a gesture reminiscent of a museum docent. “You just don’t get it, Perri. All my so-called accomplishments didn’t mean anything at the bank. The upkeep on this house alone is shocking, not to mention the things in it. I saw an opportunity and I seized it. Money. Filthy lucre. Don’t knock it.”
I dared not look at Babette. Only one outcome seemed certain and it wasn’t pretty. Kate intended to dispose of us as she had her other victims. I watched closely, hoping for an opportunity to spring at her. “Killing us here will mess up your pretty house. Bloodstains are impossible to remove.”
She paused to consider her options. That was when a miracle occurred. Babette leaped from the chair, clutched her heart, and collapsed, writhing on the floor into a heap. I played my part by screaming, “Oh my Lord! Help her. She has a weak heart!”
It was pure theater, but no one told Gomer that. The first instinct of therapy dogs was to comfort the afflicted. He bounded across the room at warp speed, pounced on Babette, and immediately applied his own brand of medicine: doggy kisses.
Kate lost focus, giving me enough time to spring at her and wrest the sword cane from her grasp. Deprived of her weapon, she imploded. When the police arrived they found a meek, cultured woman without a trace of malice. Just the type you’d want as a friend.
Chapter 31
My second phone call was to Pruett. He would never have forgiven me if a rival had gotten the big scoop and, in all fairness, he had been part of this story from its inception. His rendition of our exploits was masterful and before long the nation was enthralled by the tale of a literary quest, murder, and salvation by therapy dog. It earned him yet another Pulitzer Prize. Gomer, the hero of the day, basked in the glow of an adoring public and became the darling of the dog world. His goofy grin now appeared on posters and websites promoting therapy dog work.
Good fortune smiled on Magdalen Melmoth too. Sybil Vane, her father’s opus, became an international best seller and was optioned by a movie producer. I was thrilled for her, even though we never again renewed our friendship. I had served my purpose and Magdalen chose to focus on other things. C’est la vie, as they say.
Naturally Babette took bows all around. She was lauded for her bravery under fire and credited with unmasking a triple murderer. I could hardly protest because this time her claims were true. It was rude and possibly illegal for her to access Kate’s phone, but without that bit of nosiness we would never have solved the murders.
I was content to return to normal life, or what passed for it in Great Marsh. My business, pets, and friends meant far more to me than celebrity or fulsome praise. Besides, a spot of boredom was a welcome tonic. Of late adventure had sought me out unasked. Who knew what the future would bring?
If you enjoyed Murder at the Falls, be sure not to miss Arlene Kay’s first Creature Comforts mystery
Army vet Persephone “Perri” Morgan has big plans, as her custom leather leashes, saddles, and other pet accessories are the rage of dog and horse enthusiasts everywhere. But when murder prances into the ring at a Massachusetts dog show, Perri must confront a cunning killer who’s a breed apart.
Accompanied by her bestie, Babette, and four oversize canines, Perri motors down to the Big E Dog Show in high style. Perri hopes to combine business with pleasure by also spending time with sexy DC journalist Wing Pruett. Until a storm traps everyone at the exposition hall . . . and a man’s body is found in a snow-covered field, a pair of pink poodle grooming shears plunged through his heart.
Turns out the deceased was a double-dealing huckster who had plenty of enemies chomping at the bit. But as breeders and their prize pets preen and strut, the murderer strikes again. Aided by her trusty canine companions, Keats and Poe, Perri must collar a killer before she’s the next “Dead in Show” winner.
Keep reading for a special look!
Chapter 1
Road trips always rattled me. They carried me back to my army days in an airless transport truck, where I sat wedged between raunchy guys with mixed motives. I had to admit that they were expert practitioners of that international game—Russian hands and Roman fingers. In those times, a woman needed sharp elbows and an even sharper tongue to survive and thrive. Out of necessity, I had acquired both. They weren’t a bad bunch. Like me, most of my fellow warriors were actually scared kids buoying their courage with a show of false bravado. As soldiers, we served our country and learned invaluable life lessons that strengthened us—if we survived.
Things were different now, of course, but those memories still hovered about the recesses of my mind every time I took a road trip. I closed my eyes and made a wish.
Please. Whisk me away on a magic carpet and make me vanish.
Naturally that didn’t happen. We barreled down the highway in Babette Croy’s superduper Class A motor home at top speed without missing a beat. Then, for the hundredth time that day, I wondered how in the world I would ever survive the coming week. Seven whole days in close quarters with my best friend and several thousand dog enthusiasts. The possibilities for mischief were endless.
“Are you okay, Perri?” The dulcet tones of seven-year-old Ella Pruett revived me and brought me to my senses. A mini-frown marred the sweet face of the moppet I had grown to love, flooding me with guilt.
“Of course. Don’t worry about me. I was just dreaming.” I winked to show her that everything was fine. Hunky-dory. Peachy keen. My trusty Malinois Keats and Poe immediately went on alert. They were canine truth detectors who could sense lies—particularly mine—at ten paces. That was their job during a three-year stint in the army, and retired or not, they hadn’t lost a step. Most people confused Belgians like my boys with either German shepherds or shepherd/collie mixes. Nothing could be further from the truth, as police forces throughout the world now realized. Belgian Malinois are a distinct breed—streamlined, tireless workers with an unending appetite for action. I reached for them, looked into soulful doggy eyes, and gave each a nose kiss. In times of stress, nothing surpassed a furry embrace.
“Don’t mind Perri, sugar. She’s just a stick in
the mud.” Babette, my best pal and our designated driver, twisted around in the driver’s seat and rolled her eyes, ignoring the threat of oncoming traffic and the blaring horns of outraged drivers. “I know,” she said, “let’s sing a song. Road trips are supposed to be fun. Look at it this way. By leavin’ today, we’ll beat the snowstorm and avoid all that nasty winter traffic. Plus, that gives us plenty of girl time together.”
Babette was a guided missile—locked, loaded, and ready to fire. Fortunately, I distracted her by mentioning one of her favorite subjects: dogs. After all, canine competition was what had sparked our little caravan. Why else would two adults, one child, and four large dogs abandon Great Marsh, Virginia, and drive for six hours to the sooty embrace of the Big E Coliseum, also known as the Eastern States Expo Center, a carbuncle on the foot of western Massachusetts.
I didn’t mind roughing it. Four years in the US Army had cured me of needless luxuries, but Babette was a different story entirely. My friend considered anything short of full cable, Italian sheets, and catered meals an unendurable hardship. Great wealth does that to a person, I’m told, although in my case it was strictly a rumor. My business, Creature Comforts, provided me with a decent livelihood and a satisfying creative outlet. I left the opulence to Babette and most of my neighbors in Great Marsh. That explained the luxury motor home. There were more modest models available, but Babette wouldn’t hear of it. Second class was simply not in her vocabulary. This latest acquisition, the behemoth dubbed Steady Eddie, sported granite countertops, plush leather furniture, two steam showers, and accommodations for eight. At first, I’d been wary, but Babette surprised me. After all, not everyone could maneuver a metal monster through heavy traffic. My friend was petite but surprisingly adept at doing just that. Rule number one in the Croy friendship manual—never underestimate Babette!
“Miss your daddy, Ella?” Babette’s coy tone gave her away. “I know Ms. Perri does.”
Ella was the much-loved daughter of Wing Pruett, investigative journalist, hottie supreme, and my main squeeze. How to describe Wing Pruett? Sculpted features, thick dark hair, and a body most women (and men) could only dream about. No doubt about it. All six plus feet of my honey were as close to perfection as mere mortals could ever get. He was absent today but planned to join us later in the week after wrapping up his current assignment. He’d been uncharacteristically vague about the project, and that made me wonder. Despite Babette’s prompts and none too subtle hints, Pruett refused to spill the journalistic beans. I surmised, however, that it had something to do with dog shows. That was a real puzzler. Wing Pruett, the man who fearlessly confronted evildoers of all stripes, was terrified of dogs. Cynophobia was the clinical term for an ailment I simply could not understand. Still, he had made great strides, mostly due to Ella and his interaction with my own menagerie. Few men would admit, let alone address, such a malady, but then Pruett was not most men. I missed him like crazy but kept that feeling to myself.
I turned toward my dogs to avoid Babette’s scrutiny. Damn that woman. She sometimes knew me better than I knew myself. Truth be told, I missed Pruett every second that we spent apart. Simple logic told me that a country mouse like me was unlikely to hold his interest long-term, but raw emotion kept me firmly anchored to his side. After almost a year, things had only gotten better—for me at least.
“I see him every night on Skype,” Ella said with that unassailable logic small children often use. “He blows kisses to me and Guinnie.” Lady Guinivere, a champion pointer, was the love of Ella’s life. “Ms. Perri too. Daddy always saves a kiss for her.” I loved that child as if she were my own little girl. She wasn’t, of course. She was the offspring of Pruett and renowned photojournalist Monique Allaire and had the black curly mane and soulful blue eyes to prove it. Monique was mostly absent from her life, but Pruett was the ultimate Mr. Mom. I knew that allowing Ella to join our merry band proved his trust in me, but it also conferred an awesome responsibility. That’s what shattered my nerves and led to sleepless nights. Dog shows were busy places, and the Big E was cavernous—so many nooks and crevices where a little girl might wander off, get lost, or worse. Add a potential blizzard to the mix, and anything might happen.
“You won’t go anywhere without me or Ms. Babette. Right, Ella? Remember. We promised your dad that.”
She nodded solemnly. “I promise. Besides, Guinnie will protect me too.” Her eyes shone as she stroked the pointer’s silky coat. “And all the other dogs will help.”
I crossed my fingers and took a deep breath. Babette and her border collie, Clara, were focused on agility contests. Babette was obsessed with winning agility competitions, and border collies—those bright, stealthy herders—won top honors in most agility contests. My friend tended toward extremes, especially in times of emotional stress. Since she had recently divorced the cretinous Carleton Croy, Babette was temporarily man-less, and a lonely Babette was a fearsome thing indeed. Thank heavens for the presence of an innocent child. That shielded me from hearing a litany of praise for Carleton’s manly parts that Babette so desperately missed. She conveniently forgot that her ex had shared his largesse with any number of her friends and a few enemies as well. When it came to men, Babette had a fond but very selective memory.
Ella had her own dreams. She yearned to be a junior dog handler, a member of that select group of youngsters that dotted every dog show. After discussing the issue with Pruett, I promised to introduce her to some of the kids who participated in the sport. Fortunately, all juniors had to be at least nine years of age, so Pruett had two years to go before confronting the situation. Wing was ambivalent about animals, and I was certain that he hoped Ella’s interest would fade.
“Remember,” I told Ella, “I’m counting on you to help me with my store.” I am a leathersmith by trade, an occupation that requires both creativity and precision. After careful study at art school and an apprenticeship with a master craftsman, I focused on designing products for the creatures I most loved. The majority of my customers were dog and horse fanciers, although lately I’d branched out to custom belts with mother-daughter themes. Any event at the Big E was bound to bring in a slew of business. Snowstorms and other weather mishaps encouraged even more potential customers to attend the show. They chose to brave the elements rather than risk a bout of cabin fever. That pleased me since by necessity I kept my eyes firmly trained on the bottom line.
The little girl beamed. “Yep. See, I got my belt on.”
I nodded in appreciation of Ella, a truly wonderful child. I had never married, although I came close one time. Being childless wasn’t a problem for me since my biological clock simply did not tick. Before meeting Pruett, I lacked the maternal gene, or so I thought. An affinity for animals came naturally to me, and my menagerie included two dogs, one cantankerous feline, and an ornery goat with bad manners and a temper to match.
Once Ella stepped into the picture, that all changed. At thirty years of age, I had finally embraced the role of child nurturer and caregiver. Go figure.
Babette slowed the trailer and pulled into a rest stop parking lot. “Let’s take a break,” she said. “I need to stretch my legs, and I know the pups could use some potty time.”
Fortunately, we had the coach fully stocked with every possible type of provision, so food and drink were plentiful. Babette had made sure of that. After leashing the dogs, we stepped into the bright sunshine and walked toward the pet area.
“Heard they had some fireworks at last week’s show,” Babette said in a stage whisper.
I raised my eyebrows.
“Yep. A real dustup.” She watched as Ella disposed of Guinnie’s waste. “Yael Lindsay almost came to blows with that Bethany. You know her.”
My goal was to sell products, not become mired in scandals. “Nope. Can’t place either one.”
Babette puffed out her cheeks in a pout. “Oh. You’re no fun at all, Ms. Goody Two-shoes. Bethany is that
slutty one. Slinks around the arena in super-tight duds that show everything and pretends to be a pet psychic. Don’t see how that heifer can even move, let alone mentally communicate with dogs. Thinks she’s the queen of agility too.”
Something she said piqued my interest. “That’s odd. Yael rules the pointer world with an iron fist. Strictly conformation events. Why would she bother with an agility person? Besides she’s rather elderly for a fistfight.”
“Aha!” Babette pounced immediately. “You know more than you let on. I knew it.”
What could I do? I shrugged and gave her a guilty grin. Babette, master of trickery, had trapped me fair and square. “You know I steer clear of these feuds. At least I try to. Remember, I need to sell stuff to both camps.”
Sales were a foreign language to my pal. She never even bothered to balance her checkbook, whereas I accounted for each penny with nuclear precision. Call it a legacy from my life as a foster child or just plain business acumen. Either one worked for me. Pip had always urged me to ease up and enjoy life without going overboard. Balance was his watchword.
I snapped a leash on further memories lest tears flood my eyes. Pip, my late fiancé, was gone. Had been these three years since melanoma had stolen him from me. He still resided with me in the home we’d shared, in the pets we both had loved, and in the memories I cherished. Those were the hardest things to suppress because I simply refused to. No matter where things went with Pruett, the late Philip Hahn, DVM, owned a part of me and always would. I told myself that he wasn’t really gone. Pip had just left ahead of me.
“Hey, Earth to Perri.” Babette tapped me on my forehead. “Stop mooning and get movin’. We’ve got a show to get to.” She clapped her hands for Ella. “Right, Ella? Let’s roll.”
