Ruffed Up Murder (Pet Shop Cozy Mysteries Book 10) Page 5

  “You know, maybe I wouldn’t be so uncomfortable about it if it didn’t feel like you were sneaking around behind my back,” I counter.

  “No one is sneaking! We don’t have to tell you what we’re doing in our free time. And it doesn’t help that Sam doesn’t even feel like he can talk to you about it.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “He’s your best friend, isn’t he?” Karen asks. “So when’s the last time you showed a genuine interest in what’s going on with him? When’s the last time you came to him as a friend, and not someone with a problem? God, you’re so wrapped up in your own stuff all the time—”

  “My own stuff?” I almost shout. “Karen, a man was killed last night, and Sarah’s brother is at the police station right now being questioned.”

  “Oh.” She softens a bit. “Well… I’m sorry. I didn’t know all that.” Then she bristles again. “But still. You need to make more time for the people that are supposed to be important to you.”

  “Fine.” I shrug, conceding. “Then just tell me what this is.”

  “Uh-uh. You’re not getting off that easy. You do what you need to do as a friend.” She turns and walks briskly back into the coffee shop.

  CHAPTER 12

  * * *

  “Who does she think she is?” I complain to Rowdy in the car. “I’m a great friend. Me and Sammy went to the Runside just last week, and we…”

  And we spent the whole time talking about the new house and my relationship.

  “But he came to the pet shop a few days ago, and we…”

  And we talked about Georgia Strauss’s odd infatuation with missing pets.

  We talked about Dennis’s Bill Mulligan comic and how funny it was that it was based on me. We talked about me, my problems, my stuff.

  “Rowdy,” I say quietly, “I think I might have become a bad friend.”

  In response, my pup leans forward and licks my hand.

  “Oh, you have to say that. I feed you twice a day.”

  I make a turn at the next light, driving out toward the Blumbergs’ home. I’ve already been to Miller’s, the grocery store in town, and got a similar story as the coffee shop: sorry, sir, but Mr. Miller has been home sick with the flu for the last couple of days.

  Strange that the same people who seemed to care so much about whether or not Kyle Morse would sign the sale agreement have sudden, convenient alibis for the last forty-eight hours.

  No sooner do I pull up in front of the cottage-style home than my phone rings again. I consider not answering for a moment, but inevitably I do.

  “Hi, Strauss.”

  “Will, I texted you that address. Have you followed up on the German shepherd yet?”

  “No. I told you, I have other things going on right now—”

  “This is important, Will.”

  “It’s just a dog!” As soon as I say it, I regret it. “I didn’t mean that. Of course it’s not just a dog.”

  “I’m going to chalk that up to stress,” Georgia says. “Check it out, and soon.”

  “Fine. As soon as I’m done here, I’ll head right over there.”

  “Thank you.” She hangs up.

  I groan. Beside me, Rowdy wags his tail and whines softly. I scratch him behind the ear as I tell him, “You know I didn’t mean that. All this is just getting to me, that’s all. I’m happy to find missing dogs for people; I just don’t know why she’s pushing so hard.” Rowdy licks my hand. “You stay here in the car. I’ll only be a minute.”

  I knock on the door several times before old Mrs. Blumberg answers, squinting up at me with her nose wrinkled.

  “Mr. Sullivan, what brings you back so soon?” she asks pleasantly.

  “Hi, Mrs. Blumberg. I was just hoping to chat with you for a minute, if I may.”

  “Of course! Please, come in. Did you try the pickles?”

  “I did, and they’re delicious,” I lie as she opens the screen door.

  She leads me to the kitchen as she asks, “Can I get you something to drink? We have, let’s see, water, iced tea, milk… I think maybe some orange juice…”

  “No thank you, Mrs. Blumberg, I’m fine.” I can’t help but notice the overpowering scent of something in the oven, edging out the mothballs. “It smells great in here.”

  “Just doing a little baking.” She pulls out a chair at the dining table and slowly lowers herself into it with a sigh. “Well then, what can I do for you, Mr. Sullivan?”

  “Please, call me Will. Um… when I was here yesterday, you said something sort of odd about Sarah and her work on the town council. You said that she should be careful, and that you’d hate to see anything happen to her. What did you mean by that?”

  Mrs. Blumberg scrunches up her nose and says, “Did I say that? I’m sorry, I don’t recall.” She chuckles softly. “I suppose that’s just a symptom of getting old. Call it a ‘senior moment.’”

  Seriously? She’s going to play the old-woman card on me? “Mrs. Blumberg, I say this respectfully, but—I think you do remember, and I don’t think it was just a ‘senior moment.’ I think you meant something by it, and it’s not the kind of thing you can just say. If I’m being honest, it sounded like a threat.”

  I stare her down. She stares back at me, the smile on her face slowly dissipating, but she says nothing.

  “Where’s your husband?” I ask her. “Where’s Mr. Blumberg?”

  “He’s out in the garden, laying traps for the mice.”

  “May I speak with him?”

  “By all means.” With a grunt and some effort, she rises from her chair and opens the back door, through which I can see a wizened old man in overalls stooped on his hands and knees in their small patch of vegetables. “John,” she calls out, “this young man would like to speak with you.”

  “One moment, dear.” As I watch, he tears off a small piece of bread from a loaf, and then dips it into an ancient, half-rusted steel container of rat poison. It looks like the sort of thing they bought thirty years ago and kept in their shed for eons.

  I shake my head; naturally, I’m a proponent of non-lethal means of getting rid of pests.

  John Blumberg tugs off his gloves and enters the house, wiping his boots on the small mat and then leaning against a chair back, looking me over.

  “Hello, Mr. Blumberg. My name is Will Sullivan—”

  “I know who you are.” He smiles politely. “We have something of a history together.”

  “We do?”

  He nods. “Your store. Before it was a pet shop…”

  “It was… Blumberg’s.” I can’t believe I didn’t make that connection before. More than a decade ago, well before the Pet Shop Stop opened its doors, that location was a clothing store. “Your store.”

  “That’s right. So, what can we do for you, Will?”

  “You knew that Logan Morse was going to sell his land to Sprawl-Mart, and you told Sammy Barstow not to worry, that it was never going to happen. How did you know that?”

  “Did I say that?” Mr. Blumberg raises an eyebrow. “Hm. I suppose I just meant that the town would never let it happen.”

  “Really? Because Logan Morse is dead, and that seems like a heck of a coincidence.”

  Mrs. Blumberg covers her mouth with one hand. “Oh, dear. What happened to him?”

  “He was murdered.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t just an accident?”

  “Yeah. Pretty sure.”

  “Well,” Mr. Blumberg says, “these things have a way of working themselves out.” He smiles.

  “Working themselves out? I’m not sure you understand: a man was killed.”

  “Will, I’m not sure I quite understand your motivations,” Mr. Blumberg replies. “You’re a business owner here. We’re all on the same side.”

  “Side?” I say, exasperated. “There are no sides, other than right and wrong. I can’t believe I have to say this a third time, but a man
was murdered. And by what I’ve heard from you two, I think you might know more than you’re letting on.” No way I’m not falling for this “sweet old people” act.

  “Us?” Mrs. Blumberg looks up at her husband questioningly. “We’re retired.”

  “But you still go to the town council meetings every month.”

  “Well, yes,” she says. “We still care deeply about this town. We just want Seaview Rock to be kept simple, safe, and stable.” She smiles.

  Simple, safe, and stable. Sure. I swear I’ve heard that somewhere before. “Who told you that Logan Morse was selling?” I ask Mr. Blumberg.

  “Logan told me himself.”

  “When?”

  He chuckles softly. “You sure do have a lot of questions.”

  “And you don’t seem to be offering a lot of answers.”

  A timer dings in the kitchen and Mrs. Blumberg rises again to her feet. “Excuse me, I have to take the cakes out of the oven.”

  Mr. Blumberg narrows his eyes at me. “I saw Logan two mornings ago at Miller’s. That’s when he told me. I suggested that it would be best for him to keep his mouth shut; telling too many people would make him some enemies. Seems it did.”

  I hold the old man’s gaze and nod. “Seems that way.” Interesting that Blumberg found out about Logan’s deal on the same morning the police estimate he was killed.

  “I think you should go, Will.”

  “Okay.” I rise from my chair and head toward the entrance. Mr. Blumberg follows me and opens the door for me. Before I can leave, he grabs my arm, gripping it harder than I would think he’d be able.

  “Look around you,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “You think a place like this happens by accident? That this day and age, a town could be frozen in time like this? Don’t be naive. There are sides, Mr. Sullivan. Choose yours wisely.” He releases my arm and holds the door open for me.

  “You shouldn’t use poison on your mice,” I tell him. “Especially if your cat gets out again. Have a nice day.”

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  Back in my car, still parked outside the Blumberg home, I grab my cell phone. I need to call someone, Sarah or Sammy, and talk this out. There must be something I’m missing.

  Before I can make a call, I notice I have a text message. It’s from Georgia Strauss. Right, the address of the missing German shepherd that I promised to check out.

  I groan. “Fine, I’m doing it,” I say to no one in particular.

  The address she sent me isn’t far from the Blumbergs, so a few minutes later I pull up in front of a yellow two-story split-level with a wide bay window. There isn’t a car in the driveway, so part of me hopes that whoever lives here isn’t home and I can just come back later.

  As soon as I knock on the door, a deep woof bellows from somewhere inside the house. A few seconds later, a big furry brown and black head appears in the bay window, a few feet to the right of the front door… a German shepherd.

  The dog barks and barks, perturbed by my presence. For a moment, I just stare at it, confused; why would Georgia send me here if the dog isn’t missing? Maybe they found it in the time it took me to get here.

  I knock again anyway. The dog continues to woof at me, but no one answers. I glance up at the second floor, the windows, and for just a brief moment I see the blinds part slightly.

  Someone’s home.

  “Hello?” I call out. “I know you’re in there. I just want to ask you a question.”

  I wait out there for at least a full minute, but no one comes to the door. Fine. Obviously you have your dog back, so case closed, I guess.

  I head back to my car, but then I pause for a moment, thinking. I open the mailbox and pull out a letter. It’s addressed to Sylvia Garner.

  Sylvia, the owner of Better Latte Than Never. The one that’s supposedly out of town. Sylvia, whose dog is decidedly not missing.

  “What is going on here?” I mutter to myself. I put the letter back and get into my car. “Think, Will.” Rowdy watches me from the passenger seat watching me. “The Blumbergs used to own a store in town. They obviously know more than they’re letting on. Two other business owners have odd alibis, one of which I know isn’t true. But I’m a business owner in Seaview Rock, and I don’t have the foggiest. For that matter, so is Sammy. And Holly, and Mr. Casey…”

  I trail off as I make a stark realization. Mr. Blumberg said something about choosing a side, and while I’m not yet sure what to make of that, if there were sides, we’d all be on one together for sure.

  And on the other… well, who knows, but obviously Miller and Sylvia.

  “But where’s the distinction?” I ask Rowdy. Clearly he doesn’t know by the way he cocks his head at me. “Morse was killed because of his deal with Sprawl-Mart; I’m certain of that. But by who?” I shake my head, as if an idea might dislodge itself from my brain. “I need to talk to Sarah.”

  I race back to the Pet Shop Stop, eager to share my new information with Sarah and get her take on it, but much to my chagrin, Mayor Sturgess is there. Rowdy lets out a soft growl. He’s an excellent judge of character, that pup.

  “Hello, Bill,” he greets me.

  “It’s Will,” I mutter.

  “Right, sorry.” He smiles. “Will, Bill… all the same, huh? Anyway, I just stopped by to offer my sympathy to Sarah.”

  “For what?”

  “They’re detaining Dennis for forty-eight hours,” Sarah tells me quietly.

  “Why?” I exclaim.

  “I should probably go,” the mayor says. “But if there’s anything at all I can do, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  I wait until he leaves, then I give Sarah a tight hug. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Dennis claims that he was at home, by himself, yesterday morning before he came here. But apparently someone told the police that they saw him at Miller’s.”

  “Who? Who said that?”

  “I don’t know. They’re keeping it anonymous. That, plus the comic and the fact that he was at Sockets & Sprockets two days ago… seems enough to keep him temporarily, until something else comes to light.”

  “And if someone is trying to frame Dennis, something else will come to light. I’m sure of it.”

  Sarah looks at me with hope in her eyes. “What did you find out? Anything?”

  “Yeah, but it’s a bit of rabbit hole, to be honest.” I tell her about the sudden alibis of Miller and Sylvia Garner, and then my strange conversation with the Blumbergs.

  “Pick a side? What sides?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. But it seems that there are people in this town that know what’s going on and aren’t saying a word.” I shake my head. “That’s going to have to wait, though. The most important thing right now is figuring out who killed Logan Morse before some other piece of evidence suddenly crops up against your brother.” I sigh. “We need help. I think I should take all this information to Patty, see if she can make any sense of it. Maybe the threat of police interrogation will get someone to talk…”

  “And if she knows that you’ve been investigating this yourself, you could lose your license.”

  “True, but that’s better than Dennis getting accused of murder.” I shake my head. “I’m going down there to talk with her.”

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  I walk down to the police station instead of driving. It gives me more time to think about the ways in which I might be able to spin this to make it look like I wasn’t investigating. I’m just a concerned local business owner who happened to talk to a few people.

  Sure, Patty will buy that, I think bitterly.

  Less than a block from the station a man comes out of an office building and cuts me off on the sidewalk, almost bumping into me.

  “Excuse me,” he says softly.

  I stop and stare. The man is tall, and thin, with brown hair pulled into a ponytail.

  “You,” I say.


  Ponytail Guy. The dog-napper.

  He looks at me quizzically. “Do I know you?”

  “No,” I tell him, “but I know you.”

  “Um… okay. Did I deliver to you or something?”

  “What? No! You stole a dog!”

  The man appears thoroughly confused. “No I didn’t.”

  This is by far the most frustrating conversation I’ve ever had with a criminal. “Last month, you stole a Yorkshire terrier from right here in town!”

  “Oh, that?” He laughs a little. “Muffy, right? Nah, man, I didn’t steal her. I just did what that woman asked me to do.”

  “…Huh?”

  “The gray-haired lady, looks kind of like a hawk? I delivered flowers to her, and she asked me to take her dog.”

  “I am so confused right now,” I admit. Then I shout, “You’re a dog-napper!”

  “Dude, I’m a florist.” He reaches into his pocket and hands me a business card that says, “Fred Hicks, Flowers-to-You.” He scrutinizes my face and adds, “Hey, I think I remember you. Aren’t you the guy that chased me?”

  “Yeah, and you ran away. Like a criminal would.”

  “All I did was what that woman paid me to do. I took her dog and kept it in a motel for a night. She said that if anyone approached me, I should just get out of there.”

  “I…” I’m almost at a loss for words. “But… you were going to sell it. You emailed a breeder.”

  “Man, I don’t know how many ways to tell you that I just did what she paid me to do.” He shakes his head. “Look, it was definitely the weirdest thing I’ve done for a client, but she offered me a decent chunk of change. I was never going to sell the dog. I mean, if I was really a criminal, would I give you a card with my name and phone number on it?”

  “I… guess not.”

  “Look,” he says, “I have like three more deliveries to make, and only a couple hours to do them, so why don’t you talk to the lady and find out for yourself?” He nods to me and moves along toward a car parked nearby at the curb.

  “Yeah,” I murmur. “I guess I’ll have to do that.”