A Hiss of Murder (Pet Shop Cozy Mysteries Book 7) Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  A HISS OF MURDER

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  A Hiss

  of

  Murder

  A Pet Shop Mystery

  Book Seven

  By

  Susie Gayle

  Copyright 2017 Summer Prescott Books

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication nor any of the information herein may be quoted from, nor reproduced, in any form, including but not limited to: printing, scanning, photocopying or any other printed, digital, or audio formats, without prior express written consent of the copyright holder.

  **This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places of business, or situations past or present, is completely unintentional.

  Author’s Note: On the next page, you’ll find out how to access all of my books easily, as well as locate books by best-selling author, Summer Prescott. I’d love to hear your thoughts on my books, the storylines, and anything else that you’d like to comment on – reader feedback is very important to me. Please see the following page for my publisher’s contact information. If you’d like to be on her list of “folks to contact” with updates, release and sales notifications, etc…just shoot her an email and let her know. Thanks for reading!

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  http://summerprescottbooks.com/book-catalog/ for some truly delicious stories.

  A HISS OF

  MURDER

  A Pet Shop Mystery Book Seven

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  “I miss the beach,” I grumble as we enter Maine, heading northbound on the highway, our epic road trip home finally coming to a close.

  “We live near a beach,” Sarah replies.

  “I mean a real beach. A warm one, with sand and umbrellas and sunshine.”

  “That’s the thing about vacation,” she says with a smile. “At some point, you’ve got to go home.”

  “Meh.”

  Sarah and I just finished spending a whole week at a North Carolina beach house—well, almost a whole week. There were two nights that we had to stay in a motel on account of finding the bodies of a woman and her lover, who were killed by her twin sister, who then masqueraded as the deceased twin for three years until we came along and figured her out.

  Despite that tiny little hiccup, it was a good trip. The last three days were especially great, basking in the sun and eating good food and generally being as lazy as humanly possible.

  I even rode a jet ski. Those things are awesome.

  And now I’ve learned the hard way that just about the worst way to end a wonderful vacation is with a fifteen-hour car ride back home. I guess it never occurred to me as we were driving down the coast that we’d have to eventually drive back; it was okay then because we were heading for an exciting destination and going in a direction that got warmer and more pleasant.

  The ride back, of course, is the opposite.

  Don’t get me wrong; I love Maine, and I love my little coastal town of Seaview Rock. It’s not the going-home part that bothers me. It’s what’s waiting for me when I get there.

  The two reasons we drove to North Carolina lay in the backseat. Rowdy, a former shelter dog that’s part-terrier, part-mystery lies in a nest of blankets we’ve made for him, and curled up tightly at his side is Basket, our three-pawed shop-kitten that arrived on the doorstep of the Pet Shop Stop (that’s my store, by the way) one morning in a basket. Our weird little family—me, Rowdy, Basket, and Sarah, my business manager and girlfriend of just over a year—enjoyed our time in the sun, and now it’s back to reality.

  I’ve decided reality sucks.

  I know what you’re probably thinking: “Why does reality suck, Will? You’ve got the love of a great woman, two adorable pets, your own business, and you live in a pleasant coastal town that looks like something off a greeting card.”

  Yeah, at a glance, things look pretty great. But there’s just one thing standing in the way of all that, and unfortunately, it’s a great, big, giant, monolithic roadblock of a thing. The shortest version possible is that my best friend and barber, Sammy Barstow, has been blackmailing two-thirds of the three-person town council into pushing particular projects through that he thinks will benefit Seaview Rock. I sort of got involved, just on the fringe of things, so now those two council folks think I’m in on the scheme. And the cherry on this awful sundae is that my ex-wife and now-friend Karen knows just enough to pique her interest and has been knocking on doors and snooping around, trying to find out what’s going on.

  So yeah, if not for that one thing, life would be peachy.

  There was one big benefit of our vacation—no, make that two. The first is that it took my mind off all this nonsense, even if just for a few days. The second is that it gave me a stronger resolve, renewed vigor to once and for all extricate myself from whatever it is that’s going on. (Because truth be told, I don’t know the whole story. And frankly, I don’t want to know.)

  “Oh, finally.” Sarah breathes a sigh of relief as we enter Seaview Rock. Despite my grumpiness over the long car ride and the thoughts swimming around in my head, I can’t help but realize that I missed it.

  Seaview Rock is a lovely town. About a hundred and fifty years ago it was little more than a fishing village, and then a few big hatcheries opened and the local economy boomed. We haven’t changed much since the mid-nineteenth century, and that’s by design—even new construction projects around here are done in a style that maintains that old-world charm.

  I was born here. I grew up here. And as trite and hackneyed as it may sound to anyone who’s nomadic or lives in a city or whatever, I’ll probably die here (hopefully a long, long time from now). I love this town, and after thirty-seven years here, I have no problem calling it “my town.”

  And there is no way that I’m letting anyone do anything that might be harmful to it, even if that person is my best friend, a guy who’s always been there for me. Like I said—renewed vigor.

  ***

  I drop Sarah off at her apartment first, leaving the boys in the car while I help carry her stuff up the stairs. We share this awkward kind of pause before I go; we don’t live together, though she spends a fair amount of time at my place, and now that we’ve spent a straight week coexisting and sharing the same bed, it feels really weird to just drop her off.

  “I, uh, guess I’ll see at the shop in the morning?” she asks.

  “Yeah. Of course. You want me to call you later?”

  She shrugs. “Only if you want to.”

  After a hug and a kiss and a few goodbyes, I get back in the car and head to my rented two-bedroom house on Saltwater Drive. Once upon a time I owned my own house in Seaview Rock—but then came the divorce, in which Karen got the house and promptly sold it. It’s okay; I like my little place, even if it’s not actually mine. Some people say renting is throwing your money away, but I disagree. I’m not the one that had to shell out five grand when the roof leaked last fall.

  I bring the boys in first, carrying Basket as Rowdy t
rots in alongside me, and then I get my bags from the back of my SUV. I set them on my bed and I unzip them, and then I just kind of sit next to them for a while.

  It’s funny, and maybe stupid, but I just dropped her off fifteen minutes ago and I already miss her.

  I put on some music, just to alleviate the silence, as I unpack my stuff. I try to watch some TV, but there’s not much on. Finally, unable to stand just being here alone, I grab my keys and promise the boys I’ll be back shortly.

  CHAPTER 2

  * * *

  By the time I get to the Pet Shop Stop, the sun has set and night starts to settle in. I find myself pulling on a zip-up sweatshirt I keep in the backseat—which, by this point, smells thoroughly of dog, but as a pet shop guy, that’s just fine by me.

  The shop is just a quaint little storefront on Center Street in downtown Seaview Rock. I’ve owned and operated it for going on nine years. There have been ups and downs, of course, but it’s more than just my livelihood; it’s my passion. When I was about ten, I wanted to be a veterinarian, right up until I realized that they have to do things like euthanization and handle poop samples. From age eleven on up I wanted to own a pet store.

  One of my favorite things about Seaview Rock is that you won’t find any outlets or big-box stores or corporate chains within the town limits. People around here love shopping mom-and-pop; we get our groceries from Miller’s, our coffee from Better Latte Than Never, and our dog food from… well, me.

  I push the key in the lock and turn the deadbolt. I don’t have an alarm system mostly because I’ve never needed one. In nine years I’ve never had a break-in or even an attempt. Our crime rate is unusually low—as long as you discount the handful of murders we’ve had in the past year.

  While we were away, I had Sammy feed and tend to the animals. Regardless of whatever illicit activity he might be involved in, he’s still the most reliable guy I’ve ever known (not to mention the only one with a key to the shop besides me and Sarah).

  The reason I came here has nothing to do with mistrust; a quick survey of the place tells me that not only has Sam kept everyone well fed and cared for, but he also seems to have cleaned up a bit here and there, straightened some shelves and swept up. He really is a good guy. But you know what they say about the best intentions.

  No, if I’m being honest with myself, the only reason I’ve come to the pet shop is to get out of the house for a little while. It’s way too quiet there. I have to laugh at myself, because I was barely home for an hour before realizing how alone I felt.

  Since I’m here, I check on all the critters, even though I’m sure they’re all fine. We carry a pretty good selection of pets for being a small shop; we’ve got a handful of pups, a few kittens, a pair of ferrets, some rabbits, guinea pigs, hamsters, gerbils, turtles, parakeets, an array of small fish, and a few breeds of lizards.

  This is normally the part where I would declare that “I don’t do snakes.” I have a serious phobia of serpents, and I’ve never, ever carried them in my shop. But just last month, by way of a “gift” from a town councilman, a snake happened upon my store—a tiger rattlesnake, to be precise, named Petunia.

  We can’t sell her, because she is very venomous, none of the local shelters take snakes, and to be perfectly candid, I’m not even sure how legal it is for us to have a tiger rattlesnake. Sarah, being the more compassionate of our dynamic duo, decided we would hang onto her for just a little while until we can decide how to properly find her a good home, so she lives in a very secure glass habitat (with a locking lid) on the front counter of our shop. Customers get a little thrill out of seeing her, and we’ve gotten several offers to purchase her, all of which—sadly—had to be refused.

  My fear of Petunia is such that I have a hard time even looking at her. Those beady black eyes seem like they’re staring into my soul. That forked tongue inspires suspicion. Oh, and the fact that she almost bit me once doesn’t help.

  Even so, I check on her, if for no other reason than to make sure she hasn’t gone anywhere. I step cautiously up to the glass cage, as if she might burst forth at any moment, and I peer inside. I see her there, coiled up underneath the gnarled log propped in the sand against one side of the cage.

  “First, I’m going to take care of this blackmail business,” I murmur to the snake. “Then, my very next priority is going to be getting rid of you.” I narrow my eyes at her so she gets the idea, but she doesn’t move or acknowledge my presence in any way—which is good, because usually she tracks my movements behind the glass as if plotting how best to do away with me.

  Just to make sure, I give the lid a tug to make sure it’s locked on tight. It is, but as I tug it I jar the glass habitat a bit.

  The snake doesn’t move.

  I peer closer. Something’s not right.

  It’s not uncommon for the snake to just sit there, unmoving, but as I stare at her, it occurs to me that something’s off. I could swear her coloration was darker before, her markings more pronounced.

  I take my cell phone out and turn on the flashlight app and shine it into the cage. Petunia’s skin is… translucent. Almost see-through.

  “Oh no,” I whisper to myself.

  What I’m looking at isn’t a snake—it’s snakeskin. She’s shed.

  Petunia is gone.

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  I whip my head around in all directions, my gaze directed at the floor as if the snake might be somewhere nearby, biding its time to take advantage of the moment of dread when I discover she’s not in the cage.

  Then I realize that it’s very possible that she really is elsewhere in the shop, even if not stalking me, and I do the logical thing: I get the heck out of there. I almost trip over my own two feet scrambling for the door. Once it’s closed and locked behind me, I lean against it from the outside and take a deep breath, trying to calm my rattled nerves.

  Okay, I tell myself. Relax a second. Think.

  The door was locked. The lid was secure. The snake is gone. All that leads to only one possible outcome: Sammy, for some reason, removed Petunia and took her… somewhere.

  “Obviously that’s what happened,” I say aloud. “Nothing to worry about.” Even so, I cup my hands around my eyes and peer into the empty store, looking for signs of a slithering something. Even with the very off-chance that Petunia really is somewhere in the store, I don’t have to worry about the other animals; she’s too wide to fit into any of the other cages or crates.

  I call Sammy. It rings once, twice, a third time, and then goes to voicemail. “Hi, you’ve reached Sam. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as—”

  I end the call. The barber shop is just a few blocks away; I could get there just as quickly as leaving him a frantic voicemail about the missing snake. I half-jog to the intersection and hang a right.

  Sammy’s shop has been a Seaview Rock establishment for going on fifteen years, ever since he struck out on his own when his former employer (our town’s former barber) hung up his shears. It’s the best place to go for local gossip, evident by the retirees who like to mill about pretending to read the newspaper while they eavesdrop on whoever’s in the chair at the time. It’s a classic sort of place, with one of those spinning candy-cane-type signs out front.

  I tug on the door, but it’s locked. Inside the lights are on and I can see Sammy, in his starched white shirt and slicked-back hair, sweeping up. I knock a few times, perhaps a bit more urgently than I intend.

  “Hey, Will,” he greets me warmly as he opens the door. “You’re back! How was vacation? I want to hear all about it.”

  “Vacation was great. Beach was nice. Rode a jet ski,” I tell him. “The snake is missing.”

  His smile evaporates. “No, it’s not,” he says matter-of-factly. “I was just at the shop this afternoon, probably around two or so. She was in there. I checked the lid, just like you asked me to. It was locked tight.”

  “Are you sure you saw her,
and not just her… skin? It looks like she finished shedding.”

  “I’m sure. I saw her, and I saw the skin. I would’ve taken it out, but I really didn’t want to go sticking my hand in there—”

  “So, you definitely didn’t move her or take her anywhere?” I ask as a shiver goes up my spine.

  “I definitely did not. And she was definitely there this afternoon.”

  I sink into a red cushioned guest chair and cover my face with both hands. “You’re the only one that has a key. The door was locked. She couldn’t have gotten out on her own.”

  “Hey, relax.” Sammy puts a hand on my shoulder reassuringly. “I’m sure we’ll find her. Besides, what does it matter if she’s gone? You hate snakes. Good riddance, right?”

  “Yeah. Good riddance,” I murmur. Even as I say it, all I can imagine is Petunia coiled up somewhere in the shop. Maybe she’s hiding behind some bags of cedar chips. Or she could be nestled under a shelf of cat food. Or curled up in the dog bed we keep behind the counter for Rowdy and Basket…

  “Hey, um, listen,” Sammy says slowly. “I know you just got back and all, but since you’re here, there’s something else I need to say.”

  I look up at him between my fingers. “About Karen?”

  He nods solemnly. “I would say she’s been snooping, but snooping implies some degree of discretion.”

  I snort a little. “Karen doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

  Karen Bear used to be Karen Sullivan—when we were married. For a while, I was happy. I had my own business, a wonderful wife, a house, all that grown-up jazz. Then Karen went and had an affair with some guy from Portland and it all came crashing down; all except the pet shop, that is, which is what I clung to in those dark days.