Pugs, Thugs, and Murder (Pet Shop Mysteries Book 6) Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PUGS, THUGS, AND 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

  Pugs,

  Thugs,

  and

  Murder

  A Pet Shop Mystery

  Book Six

  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!

  Also…

  …if you’re looking for more great reads, from me and Summer, check out the Summer Prescott Publishing Book Catalog:

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

  PUGS, THUGS, AND

  MURDER

  A Pet Shop Mystery Book Six

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  It’s a funny thing when someone says they live “on the beach,” because what they really mean is they live near the beach. But what they really, really mean is they live near the beach somewhere warm.

  Alaska has beaches, but nobody there is saying, “Oh yeah, I live on the beach.”

  Maine has beaches. My hometown of Seaview Rock has a very nice beach (though, admittedly, it’s more rocks than sand and it’s not really ideal for sunbathing) but I still don’t say that I live on or near the beach. I’d be more likely to say I live on the coast.

  “That’s weird, right?” I ask Sarah as I relate my thought to her, which I think is a great topic of conversation, but apparently she doesn’t because she sighs heavily and gives me the most sidelong of sidelong glances.

  “And another thing,” I continue, since that doesn’t pique her interest. “When people live in a city, they just say, ‘I live in the city,’ and even though they don’t usually say which city, you just kind of know. I guess it’s based on proximity or something. But what if you’re close to two cities? Then you’d have to ask, ‘Which city?’ and—”

  “Will,” Sarah says sharply. “I love you, but we are eleven hours into a fifteen-hour car ride, and I’d really like to not strangle you before we get there. So let’s just play the quiet game for a little while, ‘kay?”

  “‘Kay,” I mutter. Well, I thought it was an interesting thought. Guess not.

  Don’t get the wrong idea about Sarah; she’s a lovely, pleasant person almost all of the time. But in hindsight, I have been talking nearly nonstop since we left Seaview Rock last night, and I guess I could see how that might be a little, tiny bit annoying.

  Where we’re headed is North Carolina, to a small shore-side town called Angler Cove. And we’ll actually be on the beach, in a beach house—exactly the kind of place where someone can accurately and justifiably say, “I live on the beach.”

  This is all thanks to the generosity of a young lady named Anna Estes, who is now the heiress to the million-dollar estate of her grandfather after her uncle murdered her father.

  See, most of the time I’m a fairly unassuming, mild-mannered guy who owns and runs a pet shop. But every once in a while, someone gets murdered, and I sort of have this way of getting involved—usually by accident, honestly—and in Anna’s case, I might have helped figure out that her uncle, Leo, murdered his brother, Mario, the motive of which was the very beach house that Sarah and I will be staying in for a week.

  And if you can believe it, all of that is barely in my top-five for “weirdest things to happen to me this year.”

  Hence the vacation. We both really needed to get out of town for a little bit and, for me at least, out of my own head. There’s been a lot going on, and warm weather and sandy beaches sounds like the perfect way to escape myself, even if just for a short while.

  In the backseat behind us, Basket yawns and punctuates it with a tiny squeak. Basket is our shop-cat (though I guess when he’s not in the shop he’s just a cat), a tiny kitten who was born with only three paws. He showed up on the doorstep of the Pet Shop Stop one morning in—you guessed it—a basket, and once Sarah saw his missing paw she pretty much decided we were keeping him around. She’s a very compassionate woman, which is one of the things I like most about her (but also tends to be one of the things most likely to get us involved in something we shouldn’t).

  Basket is also the reason we’re driving instead of flying, and though I can’t put too much blame on something so adorable, it’s still totally his fault for being so young and dependent. Sarah didn’t want to put that responsibility on anyone last-minute, so her decision was easy; just take him with us.

  And of course where Basket goes, Rowdy goes too, so we ended up packing them both up, lining the backseat of my SUV with a nest of blankets for them to be comfortable on the long ride down the coast. Rowdy is my dog, a former shelter pup that I adopted after he helped solve the murder of the CEO of a chain of pet stores. (See? I told you it’s been an interesting year.)

  Rowdy is the smartest dog I’ve ever met. I’m not entirely sure what his breed is outside of “mixed,” but I’m pretty sure he’s part terrier, part Einstein. His very name was based on his seemingly boundless energy and rambunctiousness, but ever since we took on Basket he’s calmed down quite a bit, and now plays mama to the tiny kitten, making sure he doesn’t get into trouble or wander off.

  And so the four of us, our bizarre little family unit, packed up the car and headed out of Seaview Rock last evening, driving through the night in an effort to reach our destination by noon-ish today. The weather is already noticeably warmer—April in Maine is not unpleasant, but spring is sort of on delay up there—and I’ve noticed with our occasional stops for bathroom breaks and food that there seems to be a direct correlation between weather and attitude. It’s as if the nicer it gets outside, the nicer people in general become. If that’s true, the people of Angler Cove should be downright charming.

  As much as I’d love to share this theory with Sarah, I think she’s heard enough out of me for now. It’s probably best to just focus on getting us there in such a way that we still like each other when we arrive.

  CHAPTER 2

  * * *

  If you’ve taken a long road trip recently, you probably used GPS, and if you used GPS, you know that there are five magical words that, after fifteen hours of driving, are better than all other magical words combined, including “please,” “thank you,” “I love you,” and “you’ve just won the lotter
y.”

  And those five words are, “You have reached your destination.”

  Angler Cove is a beautiful town, and that’s coming from a guy that grew up in Seaview Rock, the most idyllic of ideal towns. In fact, Angler Cove reminds me a bit of home, at least in that its main streets are lined with curious little mom-and-pop shops and that the central architecture of it all is largely similar, done up in a clapboard style that gives it the impression of being both classic and amiable at the same time.

  The buildings have all been painted in fun, light colors evocative of warm weather and proximity to the sea—yellow and cerulean and seafoam green—and the scent of the ocean is present everywhere.

  Sarah glances out the window and points at things here and there, noting with enthusiasm all of Angler Cove’s highlights for me as I keep my eyes on the road. “Ooh, look, a cute little diner! I wonder if they do brunch. Oh, and a gift shop! We should get something for Sammy. Will, look, a horse-drawn carriage! Can we do a ride?”

  Maybe it’s because I’ve been behind the wheel for so long, but her sudden energy is contagious and I find myself squirming in my seat, eager to be on my feet with toes in the sand and a drink in my hand.

  We drive through town, noting some of the things we’d like to see and do, and then up a long, winding road that turns to gravel before we hear those five magic words. Beyond my windshield, we can see the vast, blue ocean and a crescent of golden sand, and then: “You have reached your destination.”

  I put it in park and we both get out, stretching our legs as we stare up at the place we get to call home for the next six days.

  “Oh, wow,” Sarah whispers. “It’s beautiful.”

  The Estes vacation house is not large or grand—in fact, the best way I could describe it is a cottage on stilts. The property is level with the beach, so it’s elevated about eight feet to avoid potential flood waters, with a wooden staircase that leads up to the small teal house atop it, its roof pure white and shining in the sunlight.

  Sarah’s right. It’s stunning.

  Beyond it is the beach, and about fifty feet beyond that, the ocean. I take a deep breath of warm, salty air and stretch. The weather is fantastic, in the mid-seventies, and for the next week I don’t have to do anything or think or worry. I have nowhere else to be, no one looking for me or waiting on me. For the first time in a long time, I don’t care one little bit what’s going on back home eight hundred and sixty-five miles away (thanks, GPS).

  This moment, right now, is perfect.

  Sarah opens the back door and lets Rowdy out, and then scoops Basket into her arms. Rowdy immediately goes on a sniffing spree, his tail swishing excitedly in the air. He glances up at me quizzically, his head cocked slightly to one side.

  “Go ahead,” I tell him, and he takes off down to the beach in a furry blur, kicking up sand behind him as he goes. In seconds he plunges without hesitation into the ocean, biting at waves and rolling in the surf.

  Sarah laughs at him. “I guess we’ll need a few towels.”

  “Anna said everything we need besides clothes and food should be inside,” I tell her. “Come on, let’s have a look.” I dangle the key to the beach house in front of my face.

  Inside, the house smells like clean linen and I notice right away that everything looks immaculate; there’s not a speck of dust.

  “Wow, look at this place,” I tell Sarah. “Anna must have called ahead and had a cleaning service come in or something.”

  It feels larger than it looks from outside. There are two bedrooms, each around the same size, one outfitted with a queen-sized bed and the other with two full-sized ones. There’s one bathroom, and a large open-concept area that encompasses the kitchen, dining room and living room together, separated by a marble counter lined with four stools.

  “Cozy,” Sarah notes. “Oh, look!” Right off the kitchen is a pair of French doors that open to a small balcony that faces the beach. She opens the doors and steps out, and then beckons me to do the same. From up here we can see what seems to be a mile in each direction, and below us, Rowdy terrorizing a small crab in the surf.

  “Come on, Ro!” I call out to him. He perks up, confused, so I wave to him. “Up here!” His doggie tongue hangs out the side of his mouth and he takes off again, sprinting up toward the house. “I should grab a towel.”

  As I head back inside and search for something to dry Rowdy with, I call out to Sarah. “So what do you want to do first? I saw a naval museum back in town; that could be cool. Or we could grab some lunch at that Mexican place we passed.” I locate a beach towel in a bathroom cabinet. “Of course, I should grab the bags first, so we can unpack. And we should probably find a grocery store, so we have some snacks and drinks—”

  I leave the bathroom and almost bump right into Sarah. She puts her finger to my lips. “Will. Hush. This is vacation; we’re supposed to relax, and we’re not going to do that by planning every minute of our day.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I can see I’m going to have to teach you how to chill out. Lesson one: Grab my bag, if you would be so kind. I’m going to change into a swimsuit, you’re going to put some sunscreen on my back, and then we’re going to go lay on the beach for as long as we darn well please.”

  “Can I at least call Sammy and make sure everything is okay?”

  “No, you may not. Sammy is trustworthy and he knows what he’s doing.” She’s not wrong; Sammy is my best friend, Seaview Rock’s best barber, and this isn’t the first time he’s looked after the pet shop and animals while I’ve been away. Despite some recent weirdness between us, he’s still dependable, and he’d definitely call me right away if anything was amiss. “We are going to live in the now, and only make decisions as they require being made,” Sarah tells me. “Am I clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Fifteen minutes later the two of us are lying on our backs on the beach, mere feet from gently crashing waves, warm sun shining down on us as Rowdy tries to dig a hole in the sand.

  I think Sarah’s on to something here, I say to myself as I close my eyes and let the rhythmic sound of the rolling surf lull me to sleep. This is going to be the perfect vacation.

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  We catnap on the beach for about an hour, until I wake to the sound of Sarah laughing as Rowdy tries to bury me in the sand. Then we decide to take a walk down the beach with our feet in the surf, holding hands as the chilly water laps around our ankles. Rowdy runs ahead, pausing every now and then to let out a couple of yips in our direction, as if to say, “Come on already! Why would you walk so slowly when you can run?”

  Sarah pauses every now and then to pick up a seashell. She rinses the sand from it, turns it in her hands, shows it to me, and then puts it back where she found it. Twice she picks one up inhabited by a tiny crab, each time letting out a small shriek of surprise, laughing it off, and apologizing to the probably annoyed crustacean.

  Look, I’ll be the first to admit it; yeah, I’ve thought about taking our relationship to the next level. Sarah’s an amazing woman, smart and compassionate and beautiful. We’ve been together a year now. We share a lot of the same passions. In a few years we’ll both be considered “over the hill” (is forty still over the hill? Or is forty the new thirty? I have trouble keeping track), so if we ever wanted to consider the next next step, we’d need to first take the next step. You follow that? Good.

  Here’s the problem, and it might sound silly to some, but… I was married once before. It ended badly. And even though I’ve reached a place of amiability with my ex-wife, even friendship, the memory of the pain of that split lingers, and I’m not sure it’ll ever go away.

  It’s probably a little less than fair for Sarah. They’re obviously two completely different people and almost nothing alike, outside of both being strong-willed women. Even so, when you’ve been burned like that before, you think twice. Or three times. Or three hundred times.

&n
bsp; When we get back to the beach house, we rinse the sand off, shower, and get dressed before Sarah tells me, “Okay. Now we can make the next decision.”

  “Mexican?”

  She nods, “Mexican.”

  We promise Basket and Rowdy that we’ll be back soon as we head out to hit up the pink-stucco Mexican restaurant we’d passed on the way in.

  Before we get in the car, Sarah says, “Hold up a second,” and she takes a photo of the beach house with her phone. “I want to send it to Karen,” she tells me as she gets in, and with a grin she adds, “I hope she’s a little jealous.”

  “Ha, yeah,” I say halfheartedly. I had managed to go a few hours without thinking about what might possibly be going on back home, but the mention of Karen brings it straight to mind. It’s not Sarah’s fault; she doesn’t actually know about it. Or she doesn’t know much, I should say, mostly due to my telling her that it’s best if she doesn’t.

  See, a little while ago I discovered that my best friend, Sammy, is blackmailing a member of Seaview Rock’s town council into pushing revitalization projects to inspire tourism. Now, that might not sound that bad, but blackmail is still illegal, regardless of the outcome.

  More recently I found out that those opposing the efforts were doing so because the projects are costly and could possibly threaten to bankrupt our town. And even more recently I learned that there is yet another council member in on the scheme, and they think that I’m involved.

  Like I said, it’s been an interesting year.

  If all that isn’t bad enough, my ex-wife, Karen Bear—who is now BFF’s with Sarah—knows at least a little bit about what’s going on. I don’t know all of what she knows, and I’m not sure what she can find out, or what she’ll do with that information, but I do know that it spells trouble for Sammy if it gets out to the public (and possibly even me, since the key players think I’m in on it when I most assuredly am not).