Puzzles, Puggles and Murder (Pet Shop Cozy Mysteries Book 9) Page 4

  * * *

  Bridgeton is a town about twenty minutes west of Seaview Rock, a tad inland and nearly double the size of our little burg. It’s also mostly commercial; if you want to go to a mall or a chain restaurant or the Sprawl-Mart, you’d go to Bridgeton.

  I’ve never actually been to their police station before, but the GPS app on my phone gets me there without incident. I head inside, sign in at the front desk, and a uniformed officer leads me toward the rear.

  All the while my heart is pounding in my chest. Of course this ain’t my first rodeo when it comes to being face-to-face with murder suspects, but it is my first time officially working with police on an investigation, and I gotta say, it’s pretty exciting. But that’s not why my heart is beating like a snare drum. No, that’s because a thought occurred to me on the drive over here.

  And I really, really hope I’m wrong.

  The uniformed cop leads me wordlessly to a closed door and then knocks twice on it. A moment later it opens and a stout man with a graying buzz cut and a mustache like a push-broom comes out. He looks me up and down.

  “You the PI from Seaview Rock?” he asks. He seems to me like the kind of guy that used to be a drill sergeant.

  “Yeah, Will Sullivan.” We shake hands.

  “I’m Chief Nance. Those two boys are in there now, but they’ve asked for a lawyer. They’re not saying a word.”

  “Do you mind if I try to talk to them?” I ask him.

  His mustache twitches. “Sure, give it a go, if you think it’ll make a difference. Supervised, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Chief Nance opens the door and lets me in first, and then closes it behind us. I take a seat at a brown melamine folding table across from two guys, each probably a decade younger than me. The chief stands behind me, folding his large arms over his chest.

  “Hi guys,” I say as warmly as I can muster. “My name is Will. I own a pet shop.”

  The two guys glance at each other, confused. The one on the left has long, dark hair pulled into a man-bun on the top of his head and a wispy beard. The other wears thick black-framed glasses and a collared flannel shirt. I’m not exactly on the up-and-up with the trends of today, but I’m fairly certain both of these fellows would fall squarely into the “hipster” category.

  “I know we’re waiting for your lawyer,” I continue, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t get to know each other in the meantime. I told you my name. What are yours?”

  No one speaks for a long moment. Then, finally, the guy in the glasses clears his throat and says, “Gus.”

  “Aaron,” says man-bun guy.

  “Aaron and Gus, the Shrewd Food Dudes, right? I like it. That’s a fun name. Where are you from?”

  “Seattle,” says Gus.

  “Portland,” Aaron says.

  “And you were both chefs?”

  “Yeah. I drove a food truck,” Aaron tells me.

  “I worked in a bistro,” says Gus. “Hey, do you really own a pet shop?”

  “Yeah, I do. It’s called the Pet Shop Stop.”

  “Then why are you here?” he asks. It’s a valid question.

  “I’m also a private investigator.” I leave out the “as of yesterday” part.

  “That’s… pretty cool,” Gus admits.

  “Thanks. So what about you two? You guys got together, decided to open a catering company, right? How long have you been in business?”

  “About four months,” Aaron says.

  “Four months. Hmm.” I spread my hands flat on the table and lean towards them a bit. “Here’s the thing, guys: the police don’t think this was an accident. Neither do I. But… I also don’t think you did this.”

  They glance uneasily at each other again. “You don’t?”

  “No, Gus. I don’t. Let me tell you why. It doesn’t make sense. Couple of guys, out to make a name for themselves, only in business for a few months, getting good reviews… I’m guessing your clientele was picking up. Makes no sense.”

  “That’s what we were trying to tell him!” Aaron says, gesturing toward Nance behind me.

  “So listen,” I continue, trying to keep my tone conversational and light, “you don’t have to tell me anything until your lawyer gets here. But I don’t have a lot of time, and there are only two things I want to know. The first thing is… did anyone else have access to your food from the time you prepared it to the time it arrived? Anyone at all?”

  I lean back in my seat, giving them time to mull it over—not the answer, but whether or not they’re going to tell me anything. The two guys look at each other as if they’re having a conversation with their eyes.

  Aaron gulps, and then says, “We’ve been busy lately. So we hired a few guys on a per diem basis to deliver food when we don’t have time to do it ourselves. They get a couple hours’ work, and we pay them under the table.”

  Bingo. “Okay. Thank you. Now here’s the second thing: do you remember the woman that placed this order?”

  Gus looks up at the ceiling as he tries to recall. “It was, uh… um… Sarah, something or other?”

  “That’s right,” I tell him. “Now, please, think hard. Do you remember anything specific that she mentioned about this particular order?”

  Gus sighs. “She said it was for a party, for her boyfriend. He graduated school or something like that. The food itself was pretty standard; finger foods, cheeses, charcuterie.”

  Aaron snaps his fingers suddenly. “Wait, I remember something. Gus was the one that talked to her on the phone, but when he shared the order with me, I thought it was weird that she only ordered a handful of olives for a party.”

  “Right,” Gus agrees. “She said they were just for her.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere, I think. “Guys, did either of you write that down anywhere?”

  They both shake their heads. “I don’t recall,” Aaron admits.

  “Okay. That’s fine. These guys you hired to do the delivery—you have contact info? Names, addresses, stuff like that?”

  “We have names and phone numbers, that’s it,” Gus tells me. “Like he said, we’ve been paying them under the table. But… if I could make a call, I could get you that info.”

  I glance back at Nance, who sighs and shrugs.

  Ten minutes later, the chief and I leave the small room with the two hipster guys in it. As soon as the door is closed again behind us, Nance spins on me.

  “What was that all about?” he demands. “You can’t tell murder suspects that you think they’re innocent!”

  “Sure I can,” I reply. “I’m not a cop.”

  “That’s for sure,” he mutters.

  “Hey.” I wave the sheet of paper in front of my face, on which is written three names and three phone numbers. “I got this out of them, didn’t I?”

  “We would’ve gotten it eventually.” He tries to grab it from me, but I pull it away.

  “Make me a copy. Please.”

  He breathes a long breath through his flared nostrils. “Fine. Bring it to the desk.”

  A few minutes later I get back into my car with a copy of the phone numbers. Rowdy licks my cheek, his tail beating against the passenger side window.

  “Hey, pal. We have leads. But…” I trail off, because I don’t even want to say it out loud.

  Because if I’m right, that poison wasn’t meant for Ben Simms.

  Which means someone might have been trying to kill Sarah.

  CHAPTER 9

  * * *

  On my way back to Seaview Rock, I call Patty Mayhew.

  “Nance already sent me a copy of the list,” she tells me. “Out of the three, one lives in Bridgeton, so he’ll follow that lead. The other two are in Seaview Rock. Tom is running background checks on both, and I’m on my way to talk to the first one, Zimmerman.”

  “Great,” I tell her. “I’ll follow up on the other.”

  “No, you won’t. We don’
t know who we’re dealing with here.”

  “Not my first time,” I remind her.

  “Will, I’ve got a gun and training. You have a certification to stick your nose in other people’s business. No offense.”

  “Thanks, Patty,” I say flatly. “But I can handle it.” Look, I’m not a tough guy, and I haven’t been in a fight since I was in the eighth grade, but if I’m even partially right and someone might be gunning for Sarah, I want to be involved in finding them.

  Patty sighs. “Why do I get the feeling you’re going to do it anyway, no matter what I say?”

  “Because we’re such good friends and you know me well?”

  “Be careful, Will.” She hangs up.

  At the next red light, I unfold the sheet of paper. “Zachary Franco,” I murmur. I don’t recognize the name, but I plan to get to know him real well.

  ***

  I pull up to the curb outside the Pet Shop Stop and Rowdy and I both jump out. Upon entering, I’m glad to see that Mayor McJerkface is gone.

  Sarah looks up at me from behind the counter and smiles. “Hey,” she says brightly. “How’s the case of the missing pup going?”

  “Never mind that right now,” I tell her, “I need to talk to you—”

  “Hey, Will,” Dennis says behind me, “I made those calls like you asked. Funny thing, one of the breeders…”

  “Sorry, Dennis, hold that thought. Sarah, listen to me. Ben Simms was not an accident. He… what is that?” I point to the plain white box on the counter in front of her.

  “Cupcakes. You want one?”

  “Where did they come from?” I ask warily.

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. A courier dropped them off. He said they were sent anonymously. There wasn’t a name, but there was a note thanking me for all the work I’ve been doing with the council.” She lifts the lid to show me. Inside the box are five pink-frosted cupcakes—and a noticeably empty spot where a sixth would be.

  “Sarah… did you eat any?”

  “Yeah, I had one.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Will, what’s going on?”

  “How long ago did you eat one?” I demand.

  “Just a few minutes.”

  “How do you feel? Are you okay?”

  She laughs nervously. “I feel fine. A bit of a headache, if I’m being honest. Will, what is this about?”

  “Sarah… Ben Simms was poisoned. And those olives were meant for you, weren’t they?”

  “I…” Her face slackens and she stares down at the cupcakes. “No.” She shakes her head adamantly. “I don’t believe that. No one could have known they were for me.”

  “I talked to the caterers. You told them on the phone that they were your favorite.”

  “And you think the caterers want to kill me?”

  “No… I don’t know. But I think someone might.”

  She holds one hand over her stomach. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Come on, we’re going to the hospital.”

  ***

  Dennis and I sit in the waiting room of the ER while Sarah gets checked out. I hope against hope that her sudden nausea was just a result of me telling her that someone might be out for her, and not a symptom of whatever extra ingredient might have been in those cupcakes.

  “I don’t get it,” Dennis says quietly. “Why would someone want to kill Sarah?”

  “I’m not sure,” I tell him. All I can think about is the anonymous note mentioning her work with the council. “She’s done nothing but good for this town.”

  He sighs and adjusts his hat. “By the way, I know it’s not the best time, but I called those breeders, and—”

  “Will.” Patty Mayhew strides over to us, concern etched in her face. “Sorry, that protest downtown had me tied up for a bit. I came as soon as I could. How is she?”

  “We don’t know yet.” I quickly tell her about the cupcakes and the note. “I think you should notify the other council members, tell them not to accept any food or gifts from anyone.”

  She nods. “Good idea.”

  “Did you talk with that Zimmerman guy?”

  “I did. He’s clean as a whistle—no priors, no motive, no connection. He told me it was just him and that Franco fellow that delivered the food to the party; the guy from Bridgeton wasn’t available. He also said everything was sealed up tight. There was no way for them to know what was what.”

  “Did the other delivery guy, Franco, ever leave his sight?”

  She shakes her head. “He says no.”

  “Great. That’s a whole lot of nothing.”

  She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Will, let me go talk to Franco. You’re needed here.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. I have the rest of those cupcakes back at the shop. Do you think you can send them to the lab, see if there’s anything in them?”

  She nods. “It’ll take a couple weeks, though. Bring them to the station later, and keep me posted on Sarah, okay?” She pats my shoulder once and heads back out through the sliding doors.

  “Mr. Sullivan?” I turn to see a doctor in a white coat with a grim expression on his face. A heavy pit forms in my stomach.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your wife’s condition is far more serious than we thought. She’s going to need emergency surgery.”

  CHAPTER 10

  * * *

  “What?” I stammer. “How? Why? What’s wrong with her?”

  “Well, X-rays are showing that Danielle has a—”

  “Wait,” I interrupt. “Who’s Danielle?”

  The doctor consults his chart. “Aren’t you Mark Sullivan?”

  “No, I’m Will Sullivan.”

  “I’m Mark Sullivan,” says a man behind me.

  “Oh.” The doctor turns to him. “Then I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mr. Sullivan…”

  “Will?” Behind the doctor, the double doors to the ER swing shut as Sarah blinks at me. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, just a mix-up. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” She smiles. “Totally fine; clean bill of health.”

  “…Really?”

  “Yes, really. I think you’re worried over nothing. Come on, let’s go back to the shop.”

  In the car on the ride home, my mind reels. Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad that Sarah is okay, but it just doesn’t add up.

  I groan in frustration as we hit some traffic coming through town. “What is going on here?” I ask. “What’s this protest thing about?”

  “It’s that kidnapper, Raymond Betrand,” Sarah tells me. “His legal team, Ben’s office, is requesting a mistrial in light of Ben’s death.”

  “Can they do that?”

  “Sure,” she shrugs, “they can request it. Doesn’t mean it’ll be granted.”

  “Can’t they protest somewhere else?” I mutter.

  “One of his victims is originally from Seaview Rock. People are angry.” She shrugs.

  “I don’t want anyone else eating those cupcakes,” I tell her and Dennis as we clear the traffic. “Patty is going to have them tested.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit of an overreaction?” Sarah asks.

  “No, I don’t.”

  From the backseat, Dennis pipes up. “Hey, now that everyone’s fine, can we talk about the missing dog?”

  Oh, right. I only have about thirty hours left to find Muffy inside Strauss’s forty-eight-hour window. “Sure, Dennis. What’d you find out?”

  “I called around to the breeders in your binder. None had heard anything. So I went online and looked up some others in the area. There’s one woman, she specializes in small breeds as show dogs, and she said she was offered a purebred Yorkie this morning for two grand.”

  “Huh. Nice work. How did they contact her?”

  “By email. She forwarded it to me. It’s a dummy account, probably set up just to sell t
he dog, and it was sent from a mobile device.”

  “So it’s a dead-end,” I say glumly.

  “Not exactly. As long as they didn’t delete the account, I can use their email to trace the IP address. If we’re lucky and they were on a Wi-Fi network at the time they sent it, it’ll give us a physical location.”

  I twist in my seat. “You can do all that?”

  He shrugs. “Sure, it’s not that hard. Anyone with an internet connection could do it.”

  Personally, I think that’s a bit of an overstatement—I have an internet connection, and I wouldn’t even know where to start with something like that. I guess I have to get with the times. Or just keep Dennis around.

  “Soon as we get back,” he says, “I’ll get on it.”

  Once we arrive at the shop, I put the remaining cupcakes in a plastic bag and triple knot it, just in case anyone gets any ideas about eating one.

  “So,” Sarah asks, “did Patty bring you in on this, or are you just being nosy?”

  “Nope, she brought me in officially.”

  “Will, that’s great! Two cases already!”

  “No, Sarah, it’s not great. I really think that you might be in some kind of trouble.”

  “I told you, I feel fine. The doctors tell me I’m fine. Are you sure you’re not thinking too much into this thing? Honestly, you sound kind of paranoid.”

  “Well, if my paranoia saves your life, you owe me an apology.”

  She scoffs. “Sure. And if your paranoia turns out to be nothing, you’re getting a big fat ‘I told you so.’”

  “Deal.”

  “And don’t forget,” she adds, “that we’re supposed to meet that puggle at the shelter.”

  “Oh, right.” I groan. “I’m sorry, but that might have to wait a day or two.” Besides, the pup’s would-be new home is currently a crime scene.

  “Uh, Will?” Dennis calls to me from behind the counter, tapping away at the computer. “I got it...”

  “Already?”

  “Yeah, I told you, it’s not hard. But you’re not gonna believe this.”