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

  “Sorry. You just caught me off-guard.” I chew, swallow, and then clear my throat. “Sarah,” I start, “that’s a pretty big step.”

  “I know it is. But so is living together, and working together, and co-owning a business,” she counters. “And we both know that our house right now is too small for the both of us and two animals. You’ve been saying that stupid joke for months, ‘Is it just me, or did the house shrink?’”

  “Hey, I don’t sound like that.” And that joke is hilarious, regardless of what she says, but I keep that to myself.

  “Just take a look around with me.”

  “Okay,” I concede. I glance around and note, “I’ve seen the kitchen.”

  She rolls her eyes and tugs on my arm. “Come on, doofus. Let me show you around.”

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  Sarah takes me on the tour of the home, and I have to admit, I like what I see. First she shows me the den, which could double as a home office, and a half-bath downstairs for guests, and the dining room with the French doors and a very nice hardwood floor.

  “And look over here! A wood stove, for those balmy Maine winters…” With the same eagerness, she shows me the upstairs, the master bedroom, the full bathroom, the partially finished attic. Then she shows me the back of the house, with a fenced-in yard and a decent sized deck.

  “It’s a pretty big yard. There’s plenty of room for Rowdy to run around. And look, there’s a little mudroom off the back door, so when the dogs come in—”

  “Dogs?” I ask. “Plural?” Far as I know, we have only one dog.

  “You know, when we get a second,” she says offhandedly. “Or more.”

  I shake my head in dismay. “Sarah Cummings, are you trying to use my own weakness against me?” She knows darn well that if we had the room, I’d get more dogs in a heartbeat.

  “Me? Never. But… I figure I should mention that the shelter has a new pup.” How Sarah still finds the time to volunteer at the local animal shelter, I have no idea. I guess when something’s important to you, you make the time.

  “Oh?” I ask. “What sort of new pup?”

  “Will,” she says somberly, “he’s a puggle.”

  I suck in a sharp breath, trying to mask my gasp. See, when I was a kid, my family’s first dog was a puggle named Bailey. If you’ve never heard of it, it’s a half-pug, half-beagle mix. The pug in them dials down the excitability and energy of the beagle; the beagle in them assuages a lot of the genetic issues that purebred pugs tend to have. Practicality aside, and despite the fact that I’m a pet shop guy and try not to be partial to any particular beast or breed, puggles are about the most adorable thing on the entire planet.

  And Sarah knows darn well of my love for puggles. They’re not particularly common, and almost never get sent to shelters. I told her about my childhood dog late one night while we were lying in bed talking. Bailey passed away when I was nine after he got into something he wasn’t supposed to. It was my first real heartbreak, and the scar never fully healed.

  Naturally, my right brain is forming an equation that goes something like, “buy house = get puggle,” but then that annoying logical left brain kicks in. What a pain. I hold up both hands to symbolize that I’m about to rain on her parade a little—a drizzle on her parade, if you will.

  “Sarah, this is all really great. Truly. In fact, as I was coming in here, thinking that you might have been kidnapped or something equally terrible, I was also thinking, ‘Boy, this is a nice house, the kind of place I’d like to live.’ And a puggle? Yes, please. But… how can we afford all this?”

  “That’s the best part,” she tells me. “We can! Look, I know you’ve been busy, but the Pet Shop Stop is doing well—really well.”

  “…Seriously?” It’s not that I don’t believe her; I have no doubts that she poured over the numbers carefully. My disbelief stems more from the fact that Sarah is doing a much better job at running the pet store than I did (which, to be honest, shouldn’t really surprise me).

  “Seriously. We have enough for a down payment. We’d probably have to cut back here and there, and I know you want to replace your ancient SUV, but if we put that on hold for a little while… we could do it.”

  “Wow.” I lean against the banister. I owned a house once before, when Karen and I were married, but I lost it in the divorce and she ended up selling it. I’ve never minded renting, but the thought of owning my own home again is appealing.

  “We could do it,” she repeats.

  “I think it’s a terrific idea,” I tell her. She squeals with delight and claps her hands together. “But—” Her hands fall to her sides and she frowns. “This is a big decision, and I think we should really think about this. Let’s sit down and go over the numbers together.”

  “Okay, that’s fair,” she relents. Then she sticks a finger in my face and warns, “But we can’t wait too long. This place has only been on the market for three weeks, but I don’t think it’s going to be available much longer. And if we lose it, I’m blaming you.”

  “Fair enough.” I clear my throat. “So, uh, when do I get to meet this pup?”

  “Tomorrow, if you want. I already told them we’re interested.”

  I do my very best not to bounce on my heels. “What’s his name?”

  “Bark Wahlberg.”

  “Shut up.”

  “James Earl Bones.”

  “Sarah!”

  “Just kidding. His name is Spark.”

  “…Spark? Not Spark-y?”

  “Just Spark.”

  “Huh.” Spark the puggle.

  “Come on.” She links her arm in mine. “Let’s go get some food, and talk more about this tomorrow.” We head toward the kitchen together. “Those feta-stuffed olives are calling my name.”

  “Ew,” I wrinkle my nose. “You’re the only one in the world that likes those.”

  “Not true,” Sarah protests. “They’re delicious.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Yeah-huh—hey.” We get to the kitchen and Sarah stops abruptly. “Where’d they go?”

  “Where’d what go?” Dennis asks, a cracker topped with some sort of pate halfway to his mouth. Dennis is Sarah’s younger brother by more than a decade. He’s lived in Seaview Rock for about a year now, and aside from working occasionally at the pet shop, he writes some online comic (which I keep promising to read and haven’t yet. Shame on me). He’s a tall, lanky kid that’s almost always wearing a black beanie over his mousy brown hair. Recently he took to growing out a mustache, which (in my humble opinion) makes him look sort of like a felon, but I keep that to myself.

  “My olives,” Sarah says, searching the table. “I only put in a small order because I didn’t think anyone else liked them…”

  “Oh, that dude over there was munching on some olives a few minutes ago.” Dennis points out a newcomer to the party, a brown-haired man in a suit with his back to us, chatting with Karen and Anna.

  Sarah sticks out her lower lip. “We were gone for like five minutes. Who does this guy think he is? I ought to give him a piece of my mind…”

  “Uh-oh. Hold her back, Dennis,” I warn, only half-jokingly. “I’ll go smooth this over.”

  “Here, sis, try some of the hummus,” Dennis says behind me, trying to placate her.

  “That monster,” I hear Sarah murmur as I head to greet the newcomer.

  “Truly monstrous,” Dennis agrees. “I bet he doesn’t even like puppies.”

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  As I approach the trio of Karen, Anna, and this new olive-eating fellow, Karen looks up at me and says brightly, “Will, come meet Ben. This is Anna’s new squeeze.”

  Anna winces. “Don’t say ‘squeeze.’”

  “Ben,” Karen continues, “this is Will, our excuse for getting together and eating free food.”

  “Nice to meet you,” this Ben guy says, shaking my hand heartily. He smiles wide, show
ing dimples. I know it’s petty, but with his square jaw and his nice hair and his well-tailored suit, I kind of dislike him a little.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says. “Sorry about the suit; I didn’t mean to overdress. A deposition ran late and I didn’t have time to change.”

  “Oh, are you a lawyer?” I ask him.

  “Ben is a criminal defense lawyer,” Anna cuts in. “He’s representing Raymond Bertrand. It’s a very high-profile case.”

  “Oh, I remember hearing about that on the radio,” I tell him. “He’s a, what, a kidnapper from Portland, right?”

  “Alleged kidnapper.” Ben corrects me.

  “How can you say that?” Karen interjects. “There are three women that say he did it.”

  “Even so, there’s only one halfway reliable testimony, and no solid evidence,” Ben says with a small shrug. “Also, it’s kind of my job to say he didn’t do it.”

  “Some job you got there,” Karen mutters.

  Ben smiles sheepishly and pretends to admire the carpet. “You know, I shouldn’t really be talking about that. Besides, Will, this is your party. So, a private investigator, huh? That’s really cool.”

  “Thanks.” I’m not the best in social situations, especially small talk—as I’m sure it’s easy to tell.

  “Hey, maybe we’ll end up in court together sometime,” Ben says with a broad smile. “Though probably on opposite sides. I hear you’ve helped out the police… oh.” Suddenly he grimaces, and one hand goes to his abdomen.

  “Are you okay?” Anna asks, concerned.

  “Yeah… I think so. Uh, excuse me,” he says, “I need to visit the restroom.” He hurries away, the other three of us watching him with raised eyebrows.

  “Something he ate must have disagreed with him,” Karen says with a smirk.

  “So, uh, Anna, how have you been?” I ask politely.

  “Better,” she answers simply. Almost two years ago now, Anna’s husband, Jeff, was killed by his best friend over (what else?) money. Never mind that the two were on the verge of divorce anyway; trauma is trauma, plain and simple. “In fact, I had just decided to get back into the dating scene when I met Ben. It’s only been a couple months, but he’s a really good guy.”

  “Yeah, seems it.” That’s me, the scintillating conversationalist.

  Karen, sensing my awkwardness, jumps in to save the day. “You guys want to hear a real estate story? A couple weeks ago I was showing a house to this young couple, right? We go through the kitchen, and the living room, up to the master bedroom. I show them the walk-in closet… and there’s a woman sleeping in there.”

  “You’re kidding,” I say. “Why?”

  “Get this: she used to live there. Her key to the back door still worked. I asked her why she came here, and she said she has four kids and just needed a quiet place to get some sleep.”

  I chuckle. Anna snorts and shakes her head.

  “Oh, here’s another one. Just a few days ago, I was prepping an open house for my boss. I’m cleaning the place up here and there, putting out cookies… I glance out the window, and I see this guy picking flowers in the backyard. So I go out there and I say, ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ And he says, ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t think anyone lived here, and these flowers were just so pretty.’ Like, he just decided to wander into someone’s backyard and steal flowers. Who does that?”

  Karen regales us with a couple more real estate stories—which, I have to admit, does sound more interesting than being a loan officer. I’m not sure how long we’re talking, but it must be at least ten minutes before Sarah approaches the three of us and clears her throat. “Hey, that guy has been in the bathroom for a while, and there are like three people waiting. Is he okay?”

  “I’ll go check on him,” Anna offers. I follow her; not to see if Ben is okay, but to grab another deviled egg. Those things are perfection.

  From my vantage point by the kitchen island, I watch Anna knock on the closed bathroom door. “Ben?” she calls out. “Are you okay in there?”

  No answer.

  Behind her, Patty Mayhew—apparently waiting for the bathroom to be available—raises an eyebrow. She glances at me and I shrug back at her.

  “Ben? Sweetheart?”

  Nothing. She turns back to us with an expression that asks, What should I do?

  Patty steps forward and tries the knob. It’s locked.

  At the same time, Karen comes around the corner. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  “Ben’s locked himself in the bathroom and he’s not answering.”

  Karen snorts. “He probably fell asleep in there. Just like that woman in the closet…”

  Patty shakes her head. “If he’s not responding, I’m going to have to force it.”

  Karen suddenly turns pale. “No, no, please don’t do that.”

  She rears back with one heavy boot in the air.

  “Seriously, Patty, please do not kick that door—”

  Boom! With one well-placed boot, just below the knob, Patty kicks it in. The jamb splinters and the door swings open so hard the knob punches a hole in the drywall behind it.

  “Stay back,” Patty tells us as she enters. A moment later: “Will, call an ambulance.”

  “What’s wrong?” Anna cries.

  “He’s not breathing.”

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

  “I don’t feel a pulse.”

  “Oh my god, Ben!”

  “I’m at 1442 Sandbar Avenue. There’s a man here, he’s unconscious and not breathing…”

  “We’ll send someone right away. Does anyone there know CPR?”

  “Starting chest compressions…”

  CHAPTER 5

  * * *

  This is ordinarily the point where I’d say something like, “and then the cops came,” but the cops were already here. But the EMTs do come, and a short time after them, the coroner.

  So much happens between Patty breaking down the bathroom door and finding myself in the quiet, almost empty house that it feels like only minutes pass. First the ambulance comes and the EMTs attempt to resuscitate Ben—unsuccessfully, as you might have guessed.

  Then the coroner comes and takes away the body. By that time, Karen has taken a thoroughly distraught Anna home. Sarah quickly and quietly ushers the other guests out, including Dennis, despite his protests. Patty and Tom head to the police station to file a report, and then Karen comes back, leaving her, me, Sarah and Sammy as the only ones left.

  “Well,” Karen sighs glumly, “this will have to go on the seller’s disclosure.”

  Sammy claps a hand on my shoulder as the four of us stand around the kitchen island—not a single one of us daring to touch any of the food. “Sorry about your party, Will. For what it’s worth, it was fun… for a while there.”

  Sarah shakes her head sadly. “What do you think could have caused that? Food poisoning, maybe?”

  “I’ve never heard of food poisoning working that quickly,” Sammy notes. “Can olives be tainted?”

  “I don’t know,” Sarah answers, “but cheese can, and those were stuffed with feta.”

  “You would think the guy would’ve noticed something wrong with them and, you know, stopped eating them,” Karen says casually.

  I scoff at her. “Too soon, Karen.”

  “Just saying.”

  “Hey,” I tell everyone, “let’s just get this all cleaned up and get out of here, yeah?”

  Karen motions to the abundant amount of food left. “What do we do with all this?”

  Sarah, Sammy and I all say it at the same time: “Garbage.”

  ***

  “I’m so sorry, Will,” Sarah says as we ride toward our house on Saltwater Drive, Rowdy and Basket snoozing in the backseat, oblivious to what happened this evening.

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault,” I tell her. “Everything was wonderful… you know, up to the death.”

  “Poor
Anna,” she murmurs.

  “Yeah, poor Anna. But… I hope you realize that if you’d eaten those things, people would be saying ‘poor Will’ right now.”

  “Yeah. I know. I think it’ll be a long time before I eat another olive.”

  “Can’t say I blame you. Who were the caterers, anyway?”

  “They’re a fairly new company, based in Bridgeton, called the Shrewd Food Dudes.”

  “I’m not sure it’s the best time to make a joke—”

  “I’m not joking; that’s really what they call themselves. It’s a couple of young guys, both former chefs. All their reviews were really positive, too. Can they be held liable for something like this?”

  “I have to imagine so. Even if not, it won’t be good for business.”

  “Shame. They were really nice.”

  ***

  The next morning is Saturday, which means we get a whole extra hour of sleep before we open the Pet Shop Stop at nine. The four of us—Basket, Rowdy, me and Sarah—pile into my SUV and head downtown to Center Street. Basket and Rowdy prefer to hang out in the shop during business hours, either socializing with the kittens and pups we keep in the kennels for sale, or otherwise napping on the round doggie bed behind the counter.

  Dennis meets us at the door and we set about our opening duties—and by “we” I mean Sarah boots up the POS system and counts out the register while Dennis feeds the animals and changes bedding. Me, I stand around like a lump. I’m out of practice at my own business, and every time I jump in to help out, it just seems like I’m getting in the way.

  “What can I do?” I ask Sarah.

  “Nothing,” she smiles and shrugs. “We got it covered.”

  I can’t help but feel like a stranger in my own shop, but I don’t say anything about it for fear of sounding ungrateful that they’re so capable without me.

  And I know how all this might sound—us going about business as usual when someone died in our midst just the night before—but don’t think we’re callous or anything. What happened to Ben is certainly tragic, but to be fair, we didn’t really know the guy and, perhaps even more unfortunate, we’re no strangers to the occasional close proximity to death.