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

  So instead of helping out, I decide to leash up the handful of kennel pups and take them down to the small park a couple blocks away. Sometimes it’s tough being a pet shop owner and an animal enthusiast at the same time; I don’t believe in crates, and our kennels are fairly large, but even so every dog needs to run around in the fresh air every now and then.

  Once the gate is firmly latched behind us, I let our five current for-sale dogs off their leashes, along with Rowdy (who walks off-leash with me often) and they take off in every direction. I notice the man mending the park benches at the same time Rowdy does, and we both head over to say hi.

  “Hey, Sammy,” I greet him.

  “Morning, Will,” he answers without looking up. He grunts as he affixes a wooden slat to the concrete end piece of the bench. “Sorry again about what went down last night.”

  “Trying not to dwell on it,” I tell him. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you: do you know a Georgia Strauss?”

  “Hmm.” He stands and puts one hand on his chin. “Take a seat.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Will it hold?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  I carefully lower myself onto the bench. It creaks a little under my weight, but it holds.

  “Perfect. And yes—I know her. Strauss is a county judge. She lives on the outskirts of Seaview Rock, up on the hill.” “On the hill” isn’t literally a hill; it’s just what we locals call the ritzy part of town where the houses get bigger and spread further apart.

  “A judge, huh? Interesting.” I wonder if Strauss heard about me from Patty Mayhew, or maybe she just stays up-to-date with what’s going on around here.

  “Why, what have you got to do with her?” Sammy asks.

  “She wants me to find her dog.” And it’s not lost on me that according to Strauss’s offer, I now only have about thirty-five hours in which to do so. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a Yorkie with a pink bow running around, have you?”

  He shakes his head. “No such luck. But I’d play this carefully if I were you. Strauss has a reputation; she’s tough. A job gone wrong with her could be bad news if you’re trying to start a business out of this thing.”

  “Sammy Boy, I don’t know what I’m going to do with it just yet. But hey, a job done right would be good, wouldn’t it?”

  He shrugs. “You’d hope.”

  Yeah, I’d hope. If Sammy’s right—and he usually is—that means I’d better get started.

  CHAPTER 6

  * * *

  It seems that Sarah and Dennis are holding down the fort just fine without me, so after I bring the kennel dogs back to the shop I let Sarah know that I’m heading out for a short while.

  “Where you headed?” she asks.

  “I… have an investigation, actually. Nothing major; just finding a lost dog.”

  “Really? That’s great, Will!”

  “I guess so. Figure I better get started. I’m going to take Rowdy with me.”

  “Good idea. Hey, by the way, when do you want to go to the shelter to see the new pup?”

  Right, the puggle. I can’t believe I’d nearly forgotten. “Let’s see how today goes, and we’ll play it by ear. Come on, Ro.” Rowdy jumps up from his bed and happily follows me out of the shop.

  ***

  It takes me longer than usual to get to the address that Strauss gave me, on account of some sort of protest going on outside of town hall. Nearly two dozen people with signs picket and chant and pump fists in the air, but I don’t get the chance to see why as I roll by.

  Sammy was right; the address that Strauss gave me is indeed on the hill, a large, beautiful house with impossibly perfect front hedges. There’s no car in the driveway, but, since it’s a weekend, I assume that Strauss is utilizing her three-bay garage and I ring the doorbell.

  While I wait, I can’t help but think that I should’ve thrown a figure out there over the phone with her. By the look of this place, five hundred bucks must be a drop in the bucket.

  The woman that answers the door somewhat resembles a hawk. She has a slightly hooked nose, small dark eyes and a pointed face below closely cropped gray hair. One of her eyebrows rises about a millimeter as she sharply says, “Yes?”

  “Ms. Strauss—er, your Honor? I’m Will Sullivan.”

  “Ah, Will. Thank you for coming.”

  “And this is my, uh, partner, Rowdy.”

  “Please come in.” She glances left and right before stepping aside and letting us pass.

  The inside of her house smells like leather—apt, since all of her furniture is such. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they decorate. Right away I can tell that Strauss is a sensible woman of simple but refined taste. There’s nothing ostentatious about her home; everything is earth-toned and the only things that I would describe as décor are a couple of vases and house plants.

  “So, Will, what would you like to know?”

  As I glance around her home, I ask, “You last saw Muffy yesterday morning, right?”

  “That’s correct. There’s a doggie door in the back; she comes and goes as she pleases.”

  “Your yard, it’s fenced in?”

  “I’ll show you.” She leads me to the backyard, which is indeed enclosed completely (and also home to the greenest grass I’ve ever seen). “I saw her go out,” Strauss tells me, “but when I glanced out the window a few minutes later, I couldn’t find her. I came out, and she was gone.” Although Strauss’s general demeanor is very direct, there’s a hint of sadness when she talks about Muffy, and I wonder if she has anyone else. I haven’t seen any signs of a husband or kids.

  I walk the perimeter of the yard, checking for holes in or under the fence and find nothing. In my pocket, my cell phone rings, but for the sake of looking professional I let it go to voicemail. “Was the gate open?” I ask the judge.

  “It was definitely not.”

  “Then… how did she get out?”

  “Mr. Sullivan…” Strauss crosses her arms. “Will, I don’t believe that Muffy ‘got out.’ I believe she was taken.”

  “Taken,” I repeat. Sheesh, she could have mentioned that over the phone. A runaway dog and a kidnapped dog are two very different things. “You’re certain that the gate wasn’t open?”

  Strauss stares me down evenly. “Yes. I’m certain.”

  “Okay.” Rowdy’s sniffer goes a mile a minute in the grass as he picks up Muffy’s scent. “Can we take a look in your front yard?”

  “Of course.”

  The latch to the gate is about chest height on me, and when I swing it open I see that there’s no latch on the other side; it can only be opened from within the yard, so whoever took the dog (assuming someone took the dog) must have been around my height, about six feet tall, maybe more. “Rowdy, come.” He bounds into the front yard with me, followed by Strauss. “Find her.” My pup sticks his face in the grass and starts sniffing like he’s part-vacuum cleaner.

  “What’s he doing?” Strauss asks. “She only ever went in the backyard.”

  “Right. See, a lot of people think that only male dogs are territorial, but that’s not at all true. If Muffy got out on her own in some way, the first thing she’d likely do is… urinate.” For some reason, I’m not comfortable saying “pee” to Georgia Strauss. “If Rowdy doesn’t find her scent, that’ll be a strong indication that she was carried out. How was she around strangers?”

  Strauss winces slightly. “Please don’t say ‘was.’”

  “I’m sorry. How is she around strangers?”

  “Untrusting, but not openly hostile or aggressive.”

  “So it’s unlikely that someone slipped into the yard and grabbed her.”

  “She’s very nimble,” Strauss tells me. “They would have had a tough time. Besides, she tends to bark at strangers, and I didn’t hear a peep.”

  My cell phone rings again, and again I ignore it. Rowdy looks up at me and lets out a little whine. I pet
him on the head. “Good boy.” Rowdy is a former shelter dog that I rescued more than two years ago. It didn’t take me long to realize that he’s smarter than most people, and I’ve tried to spend as much time as I can training him. Lately we’ve transitioned from games and tricks to some real training, using some of the same tactics that cops use to train K-9 units and bomb-sniffing dogs. It’s called scent training, and it’s actually not all that difficult—it just takes some time and dedication.

  To Strauss, I say, “She wasn’t in the front yard, which means there’s a good chance you’re right… she was taken.”

  Georgia Strauss closes her eyes and sighs through her nose.

  “Was she purebred?” I ask.

  “Yes, of course. AKC-certified.”

  Hmm. A purebred Yorkie with a pedigree could go for two grand or more to the right people—a crooked breeder, for example, or worse, a puppy mill. But I don’t tell her that. I also don’t tell her that the chances of finding Muffy at this point are bleak.

  As I prepare to leave, I promise Georgia Strauss that I’ll keep her updated as I continue the search for her dog, though to be honest I’m not sure where to go from here, other than making some calls to breeders I know and asking them to be on the lookout for a purebred Yorkie that answers to Muffy.

  “Ms. Strauss, is there something that belongs to Muffy that I can take with me? A toy or blanket, preferably something she slept on?”

  “Sure. There’s a stuffed toy she’s quite fond of in the house.” She leads me back inside and seeks out the toy, a pink bear missing one eye. “I’ll need that back when you find her.”

  “Of course.” Before I go, I do ask her the one question that’s been on my mind: “Why me? How did you know that I was licensed and all that?”

  To which Strauss simply shrugs and tells me, “I didn’t know, until you told me. But I’m well aware of what you’ve done around here. In fact, I’ve admired your work on more than one occasion. I figured if anyone could see this through, it would be you.”

  Great. Now I feel even worse about not having any other routes to explore. “Why not call the police? Technically Muffy is stolen property.”

  Strauss smiles for the first time since I’ve been here, though it’s thin and sad. “We both know Seaview Rock doesn’t have the resources to go tracking a lost dog. Besides…” She motions to Rowdy. “Would you want your dog reduced to ‘stolen property’?”

  “No,” I tell her, “I wouldn’t.” Despite my doubts, I hear myself telling her, “Don’t worry, Ms. Strauss. I’ll find your dog.”

  CHAPTER 7

  * * *

  Back in my car, Rowdy jumps into the passenger seat and I get behind the wheel. No sooner do I close the door than my cell phone rings for the third time in fifteen minutes. I check it; it’s Patty Mayhew calling.

  “Will,” she says, “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “Sorry, I’ve been busy. What’s up?”

  “I have news. Are you sitting down?”

  “Yeah…”

  “I just received a preliminary coroner’s report on Ben Simms. They’re saying the cause of death was cardiac arrest.”

  “A heart attack? He was kind of young, don’t you think?”

  “Not necessarily. We’re still waiting on a full report on toxicology. Unfortunately, that could take up to two weeks. Even so, the leading theory right now is that he was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned,” I repeat, thinking back to the conversation the four of us had in the house after the coroner came for Ben. “Like food poisoning…?”

  “No, Will. I don’t mean food poisoning.”

  I sigh heavily and lean my forehead against the steering wheel. “So what you’re saying is this was a murder.”

  “Looks that way,” Patty says.

  “Are you sure it couldn’t have been tainted ingredients?”

  “We don’t know for sure yet, but the current assumption is no.”

  “Sarah told me the caterers are based in Bridgeton,” I tell her.

  “Yup. I’ve already contacted local PD. They’re picking up the two owners for questioning. Now, that’s outside of my jurisdiction, but I’ve got a friend that’s not as bound by city limits as I am.”

  “Oh?”

  “You, Will.” I can practically hear Patty roll her eyes. “I’m talking about you.”

  “Oh. Are you saying…?”

  “As of right now, you’re hired. Go to Bridgeton. They’re expecting you as my liaison.”

  “…I can do that?”

  “You sure can.”

  “That’s really cool.”

  Patty sighs again. “A man died, Will.”

  “Right. Sorry.” Still, it is kind of cool—the part about officially working with the police, not the part about Ben dying.

  “Go to Bridgeton. Call me with updates.” Patty hangs up.

  Hey, look at me go. Not even a full day as a PI and I’ve got two cases—one of which I’m not the least bit sure how to go about solving, and the other that may be out of my depth. Still, two cases. Hooray for me.

  I try to call Sarah’s cell to let her know what’s going on, but she doesn’t answer, so instead I race back to the pet shop before heading to Bridgeton. I pull up to the curb, leave Rowdy in the car, and practically burst through the door.

  “Hey, Sarah, you’re not going to believe what… Oh. Sorry. Uh, hi, Mayor Sturgess.”

  Sarah shoots me a tight smile as the man beside her, standing near the front counter of the shop, nods to me. “Hello, Will. Nice to see you.”

  David Sturgess is Seaview Rock’s mayor, and has been for the last five years, serving his second term. Before Sarah became a town council member, I’d never met the guy personally, but in the past several months he’s been in our shop a bunch of times—which is kind of cool, I suppose, if you’re a fan of the mayor.

  Which I’m kind of not.

  Seaview Rock, like a lot of municipalities, runs on a mayor-council government system; that means the town council has most of the legislative powers, while the mayor oversees things like fire, police, transportation, education, and other stuff that Sarah told me that I don’t remember. The takeaway is that they’re two different branches of our little government.

  But every now and then, they have to come together on some matters—like when the blackmail scandal came to light and everyone found out that the town was nearly bankrupt. Good ol’ Mayor Sturgess, his immediate gut reaction was to raise local taxes. Sarah, on the other hand, put her big brain to work and came up with some really creative alternative methods to make the money back.

  Among other things in her thirty-two-point proposal were a slight increase in the cost of hunting and fishing licenses, an increase in the fine for parking violations, and a digital payment system for public transportation and parking passes—all of which, of course, have to go through Mr. Mayor, since he oversees all things transportation in and around town.

  But none of that explains why I don’t like the guy. That boils down to a single, irritating aspect of his character—simply put, the guy seems insincere. No, that’s not quite the right word. Sycophantic? No. Smarmy. Yeah, that’s it. He seems smarmy.

  David Sturgess smiles at me with a broad, smarmy smile and sticks out his smarmy hand to shake mine. “Did you need to borrow Sarah for a moment?”

  “Uh… no. Thanks, David. It can wait.”

  “Are you sure, Will?” Sarah asks. “You look like something’s wrong.”

  I fake a smile. “Nope, all good. Um, I have to run some errands. I couldn’t reach you on your phone. That’s all.”

  “Okay. No worries; I got everything under control here.” She smiles too, but her eyes tell me that she’s aware something more is up that I don’t want to say.

  I head back outside to find Dennis leaning against the hood of my SUV, a grin on his face. “Hey, Will.”

  “Hey,” I say cautiously. “What’s up, Dennis?”

&nb
sp; “Nothing. I just saw you dash into the pet store like a madman. I figured something was up.” He leans forward and lowers his voice a bit. “Are you on a case?”

  Dennis hasn’t been around Seaview Rock all that long, but apparently Sarah told her little brother about my “forays,” if you can call them that, into murder investigations. That, combined with the fact that his formative years were a bit sheltered thanks to an overbearing mother, makes him just giddy anytime he thinks I’m up to something.

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” I tell him.

  His eyes light up. “Can I help?”

  “Actually, you can.”

  “What’s the case?”

  I lean forward to match his conspiratorial spirit. “It’s the case… of the missing Yorkshire terrier.”

  His grin disappears. “Come on, man. Really?”

  “Yeah. Really. And if you really want to help, there’s a blue binder behind the counter of the shop with contact information for a bunch of dog breeders in the area. Give them a call, tell them you’re with the Pet Shop Stop in Seaview Rock, and ask them if they’ve heard anything about a purebred Yorkie in the last twenty-four hours. Answers to Muffy.”

  “Seriously?” he asks flatly.

  “Seriously.” I shrug. “Hey, nobody ever said this thing was glamorous.”

  He groans. “Fine. I’ll make your calls. Where are you going?”

  “I have to go to Bridgeton to follow up on a lead. Thanks, Dennis. Call me if you find anything out.” I get into the car and pull away from the curb, leaving the younger guy standing there frowning.

  I know he just wants to help—and this way, he is helping. Besides, I didn’t actually lie to him, not once.

  CHAPTER 8