Puzzles, Puggles and Murder (Pet Shop Cozy Mysteries Book 9) Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PUZZLES, PUGGLES 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

  Puzzles,

  Puggles,

  and

  Murder

  A Pet Shop Mystery

  Book Nine

  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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  PUZZLES, PUGGLES, AND

  MURDER

  A Pet Shop Mystery Book Nine

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  Things change. It’s an inevitable fact of life. Call it what you want—adaptation, evolution, transformation, whatever—it all boils down to the same thing. If you can’t accept change, you’re bound to have problems.

  I mean, just look at the animal kingdom, natural selection and all that. Out there, in the wild, if you can’t adapt, you don’t survive. At least here, in the civilized world, you just get left behind.

  For a long time, I was guilty of being resistant to change. I liked my cozy life. I liked my job, owning and operating the Pet Shop Stop. I liked my town of Seaview Rock, which remained practically unchanged since the mid-nineteenth century. But sometimes, as will happen, change is foisted upon us. In my case, a series of unforeseen circumstances came along and threw so many wrenches in my gears that I finally realized the very thing I’m ranting about right now: change is important. Change is necessary.

  And although it’s not always for the better, change can bring new, exciting opportunities—as long as you can recognize them.

  I unlock the front door to my rented house on Saltwater Drive and the first thing I notice is that there are no lights on. The second thing I notice is that there’s no dog bounding over to greet me and no cat ramming into my shins for affection, which means that Rowdy and Basket aren’t home—and by extension, Sarah.

  “Anybody home?” I call out, just to be sure. No answer.

  I sigh and click on the living room lights. It’s after eight; Sarah should have closed up the Pet Shop Stop by now. Moreover, I was hoping that she’d be home so we could celebrate.

  The last year or so—fifteen months, to be exact—have been tough. They’ve also been pretty great. Two Aprils ago I finally decided to go back to school, a decision that I’d been putting off for some time, to pursue my license as a PI. Luckily, some of my old college credits transferred and after a pretty heavy course-load over summer, fall and spring semesters, I managed to finish all of the required work.

  And today, as of just a few hours ago, in fact, I completed and passed the exam to be a licensed private investigator in the state of Maine.

  I have to admit, it feels pretty good.

  I just wish someone else was here to celebrate.

  I drop myself into my favorite armchair and recline back, truly relaxing for the first time in what seems like a long time. After so many months of late-night study sessions, writing papers, sitting in lectures with kids almost half my age, it feels nice to just… sit.

  It’s a wonder I haven’t gone gray yet.

  Of course, I don’t yet have any idea what I’m going to do with my newly acquired certification, but I’ll figure that out tomorrow. I’m sure Sarah would appreciate having me back at the pet shop full-time, at least for a little while. She’s been handling almost all of the responsibilities of running the business—which she’s taken to with zeal ever since I made her co-owner, right before I started classes. Her little brother Dennis has been a big help, too, putting in part-time shifts a few times a week when he’s able.

  Like I said, things change. A little more than a year ago, I was afraid of what the future might hold. Now, it’s funny how different things are. Sarah and I have been living together, so now we share more than just the Pet Shop Stop—though, admittedly, the two-bedroom house has felt a bit small since we decided to cohabitate. Just another change to address in the near future, I suppose.

  Of course, there’s the other thing, that big, big step that neither of us are really talking about. I’ve discovered the hard way that when two people live together and they’re not married, people tend to say silly things like, “So when’s the wedding?” or “Do I hear church bells?”

  No, sorry. It must be a ringing in your ears.

  The thing is, I’ve been married before, and even though I’m now on good terms with my ex, it did take a solid four years to get to that point. In short, it ended badly. Sarah knows this, and she knows that I’m not in any rush to take the leap. Neither is she, it seems; either that or she’s just supportive enough not to pressure me into it.

  I pull my cell phone from my pocket to give her a call and see where she is. But instead the phone rings in my hand, startling me.

  I don’t recognize the number, but it’s local.

  “…Hello?”

  “Hello. Is this Will? Will Sullivan?” The voice belongs to a woman speaking in an urgent, hushed tone.

  “Uh… yeah. Who’s this?”

  “Mr. Sullivan, I need your help. Please, my baby is missing. I last saw her this morning, when she went outside to play. Her name is Muffy. She’s four years old, with short brown hair and a bow—”

  “Ma’am, hey, slow down a second,” I interrupt. “I’m sorry, but how did you get my number? Why are you calling me?”

  There’s a moment of confused silence on the other end, and then the woman tells me, “Aren’t you Will Sullivan, the private investigator?”

  “Well, I…” I mean, technically, she’s not wrong. I’ve been Will Sullivan, private investigator, for a few hours now. “Yeah, I guess I am. But how could you know…?”

  “Mr. Sullivan, I’ll do anything to get her back. Please.”

  “Listen, ma’am, you should really call the police, not me.
File a missing person report—”

  “Person? No, no, no. Mr. Sullivan, Muffy is a Yorkshire terrier.”

  “A dog.”

  “Yes.” The woman sighs sharply and asks, “Good lord, did you think I was calling you about a missing child?”

  Well, now I’m a little offended. Does she think I couldn’t find a kid?

  “Listen, ma’am, I’m not really, uh, established yet, you know. I just passed my license exam today.”

  “Congratulations,” the woman says flatly. “Listen, Mr. Sullivan—”

  “Will, please.” I’ve never been entirely comfortable with people calling me Mr. Sullivan.

  “Will, I believe you can find Muffy, and I’m prepared to pay whatever you believe is fair to do so, as well as referrals, whenever you’re ready to get established.”

  “To be honest, I have no idea what’s fair,” I tell her candidly.

  “Fine.” I can hear the impatient edge in her voice. “Let’s say five hundred dollars if you can find her in the next forty-eight hours.”

  Five hundred bucks for two days’ work? Count me in. “Alright, deal. I’ll find your Yorkie.”

  “Great. I’ll text you pictures and my address. Thank you, Mr. Sull—Will.”

  “Thank me when it’s done. Wait, who are you?”

  “Oh, right. My name is Strauss. Georgia Strauss.”

  “Alright, Ms. Strauss. I’ll be in touch.” I hang up.

  Well, that was strange. I know I’ve heard the name Georgia Strauss before, but I can’t seem to place it. I’ll have to ask Sammy Boy; he knows everyone around here. But how on earth does she know that I’m sort-of-official now? How did she get my number? And why does she seem so confident in my ability to find her dog? I’ve never had to find a missing dog before. Sure, I did help the police solve a few murders here and there, but that was a while ago now; there hasn’t been a murder in Seaview Rock for more than a year—and furthermore, as far as I’m aware, very few people are privy to the fact that I helped at all on those cases.

  “I’m calling her back,” I mutter to no one in particular, but once again my phone rings in my hand, and for the second time I jump a little in the otherwise silent house.

  “Sarah? Hey. Where are you?”

  “Will, I need you to meet me.”

  “Are you okay? You sound out of breath. Where are you?”

  “I’m at 1442 Sandbar Avenue. How fast can you get here?”

  “Uh, five minutes, tops… but what’s going on? Are you okay?”

  “Just get here, quick.” She hangs up.

  That’s never good.

  I grab my keys and, without a second thought, head out the door.

  CHAPTER 2

  * * *

  I drive a little faster than I should along the suburban streets of Seaview Rock. Yeah, I’m abusing my privileges a little bit—I’m good friends with the chief of police, Patty Mayhew, so it’s not likely I’d get a ticket. In fact, Patty helped me out quite a bit by vouching for me to her friends with the state police and managed to fast-track me in taking the exam to get my license. I insisted that she didn’t need to do me any favors, to which she simply replied that it was mutually beneficial; she didn’t want to have to arrest me the next time I meddle in an open investigation.

  I screech to a halt outside of 1442 Sandbar Avenue and jump out of my SUV. The house is dark and silent, a two-story colonial-style with a wide front yard and dark shutters. It’s a nice place, actually; exactly the kind of house I’d like to live in someday.

  And Sarah’s car is parked in the driveway.

  As I approach the front door, I try to call her again, but it goes to voicemail. That’s probably not a good sign either. Jeez, not even one full day of being an investigator and I already have a case of a missing dog and a case of a distressed girlfriend. My cup runneth over.

  I glance up and down the street; it seems like a quiet, decent neighborhood. No dogs barking. No kids shouting. I poise my fist to knock, but then I think the better of it; what if Sarah is in some kind of trouble? What if she’s not the only one here?

  My heart pounding in my chest, I try the knob. The door is unlocked, so I give it a gentle push. It swings open without a sound. I take a step into a foyer; to my left is a pair of French doors leading to a dining room. To the right, a staircase leading up, and straight ahead, a short corridor that looks like it opens on a kitchen, though it’s hard to tell in the darkness.

  I try Sarah’s phone again. As it rings on my end, I listen in the silent house—and I hear it. Her ringtone, a pop song from the nineties that she likes, echoes from somewhere in the darkness.

  Straight ahead—the kitchen.

  Slowly and carefully, I walk toe-heel down the short hall, trying not to make a sound. I peer around the corner; I can’t see much. I feel for a light switch and, finding one, flick it on.

  “SURPRISE!”

  Sarah jumps.

  Everyone jumps.

  I jump.

  “Ohmygod,” I stammer as I stumble backwards. No fewer than a dozen people suddenly leap up from their hiding places, wearing enormous, jubilant grins. Stretched over the kitchen island, which I can now see in the sudden light is adorned with finger foods, is a banner that says, CONGRATULATIONS WILL!

  Sarah, who was holding onto Rowdy’s collar, releases the hound and he dashes over to me, his tail swishing dangerously fast. Sarah gives me a tight hug.

  “Did we surprise you?”

  “Pssht, no way,” I say, trying to sound casual as I swallow my heart, which has somehow made its way into my throat. “I totally knew this was a surprise party.”

  She smirks and raises an eyebrow. “Sure you did, Mr. Detective. You put it all together, didn’t you?”

  “Elementary, my dear Sarah. But… how did you know I passed the exam?”

  “I told her.” Patty Mayhew, still in her police uniform, steps forward and shakes my hand briskly. Of course; she probably found out from her friends in the state police. “Nice work, Will. I guess now you can legally do all the things you’ve been doing this whole time.”

  I can’t help but grin. “Thanks, Patty.”

  I glance around and acknowledge my guests. It seems that Sarah’s invited all our friends: Sammy, Karen, Dennis, Patty, Officer Tom, and Anna Abernathy, to name a few.

  “Gang’s all here.” To Sarah, I ask, “You did all this for me?”

  She shrugs. “You worked hard. You deserve it.”

  I’m about to remind her that she’s been working just as hard, if not harder, than me; not only has she been running the Pet Shop Stop, but she’s also been serving on Seaview Rock’s town council, so a lot of those late-night study sessions for me were proposal-writing and budget-reviewing for her.

  But before I can say all that, Sammy comes up and gives me a great big bear hug. Sammy, also known as Sammy Boy or, sometimes, Samwise the Brave, is my best friend of nearly two decades and our town’s best barber.

  He’s also a convicted criminal, on account of having blackmailed a couple of town council members a while back. But he turned himself in, took his licks, and was assigned a thousand hours of community service over a three-year period, in and around the town, and he’s doing it all without complaint.

  “Looks like all that hard work is going to pay off,” he tells me. “I’m really looking forward to seeing you do what you do best.”

  “Thanks, Sammy.” At the mention of work paying off, I suddenly remember the odd conversation I had earlier with Georgia Strauss. If anyone would know who she is, it’s Sammy, but I figure it’s not the time or place to ask, with all these people around.

  Instead I go about the room, greeting guests and thanking them for coming. It seems like everyone brought their pets along too; Anna Abernathy brought her two dogs, Cheese and Crackers. Basket, my and Sarah’s three-legged cat, plays in the adjacent living room with her mother, Pookie, Karen’s cat.

  A thought o
ccurs to me as I shake hands and exchange pleasantries; I know all these people, and none of them live here. When I make my way back around the room to Sarah, I lean toward her and half-whisper, “Whose house is this?”

  Before Sarah can say anything, Karen Bear sidles up to the kitchen island and says, “Oh, don’t worry about that.” She picks at the finger foods and adds, “Sarah made us wait, by the way, but you’re here so I’m eating.”

  Karen is my ex-wife, but we’ve managed to put that aside and be friends, though she does have a somewhat brusque way about her that most people translate as gruff or even rude—which is why it was very amusing to me when, about eight months ago, she decided that being a loan officer at the bank just wasn’t fun anymore and got her real estate license. Real estate agents, in my book, tend to be somewhat histrionic people-pleasers, which Karen is anything but.

  I smirk at her and ask, “Karen, is this a vacant house?”

  She shrugs. “I’m calling it an open house. If anyone asks, every one of you is interested in buying.”

  “Sure.” I shake my head. Leave it to Karen to offer up a house for sale as a party spot.

  “Just don’t tell my boss,” she adds as she stacks a plate.

  Seeing Karen dive into the food reminds my stomach that I haven’t eaten since this morning, so I, too, start picking at various trays. Everything is so well prepared and arranged nicely, I can’t help but wonder if Sarah hired professionals for this party.

  As I pop a deviled egg into my mouth, Sarah puts her hand on my shoulder and says, “Actually, Will…”

  “Did you have this thing catered?”

  “I did. Listen, I was thinking…”

  “Yeah?” I ask, my mouth half-full.

  “I was thinking that maybe this could be our house.”

  I almost choke. I cough a couple of times to dislodge the hard-boiled egg from my throat before I can manage, “Say what?”

  Sarah crosses her arms. “That’s not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”