by Rickie Blair
“I made meatloaf,” I said, trying to cheer him up.
He brightened. “What’s the occasion?”
I took a step back, feigning disappointment. “Have you forgotten?”
“Ah… maybe?”
“It’s our four-month anniversary.”
“Oh.” His brow wrinkled in confusion. “Four months? Is that even a thing? Because—I didn’t get you a present.”
I heaved a sigh. “So much for the ‘love that shall not die.’”
“Shakespeare? Are things that bad?”
“Maybe not. I’m impressed you recognized that quote.”
“You used it at our three-month anniversary.”
“Which you also forgot. I’m detecting a pattern here—and it’s not good.”
Grinning, Jeff held up a finger. “I do have something for you.” He ran back to the truck and opened the back door. When he turned around, he held a wriggling tan-and-white bundle in his arms. Four tiny feet pawed at the air.
Arf-arf-arf.
“A dog? Seriously?”
“It belonged to Oskar York—it’s some kind of terrier. The shelter was full for the night, and I couldn’t leave him at the station.”
“Bring him inside. It’s cold out here.”
The little dog squirmed when Jeff handed him over, but once I had hold of him, he snuggled against me. “He’s shivering. Didn’t you have a blanket in the truck?”
“Yes,” Jeff patiently replied. “I wrapped him up in it, and I warmed the truck before I put him inside. He wiggled out of the blanket and tried to jump into my lap. To be honest, I think he’s a bit of a drama king.”
I chucked the little dog under his chin. A worn metal tag, Boomer, was riveted onto his frayed leather collar.
“Are we a widdle dramah king? Are we?”
Jeff cocked his head, appearing incredulous. “Is that baby talk?”
I ignored this silly question. “Are we a good boy? Are we? Yes, we are.” I turned my attention to Jeff. “Did you pick up dog food?”
“Sorry. You’ll have to make do for tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll try the shelter again. Oh. Wait.” He slapped his forehead. “I won’t have time. I have to leave first thing in the morning for that meeting in Strathcona. Can you—”
“Keep him an extra day or two? Sure. We’ll have fun. Won’t we, Boomer? He won’t be any trouble.”
And with those laughable words, my fate was sealed. After adopting a one-eyed tomcat with an attitude, followed by a vicious rooster with a mean right beak, I should have known better.
“Thanks.” Closing the front door, Jeff sniffed appreciatively. “Something smells good.” He wrinkled his nose. “And it isn’t that dog.”
I turned to the kitchen, snuggling Boomer’s face against mine. “It’s a good thing I made meatloaf. Isn’t it, Boo-Boo?”
“While you two”—Jeff shook his head, retrieving his parka from the armchair—“do whatever it is you’re doing, I’ll get started on the front walk. The weather’s only going to get worse.” He paused on the threshold to zip up his parka. “They’re calling it the—”
“Storm of the century. I heard,” I called from the kitchen door. “Let’s find you some food, Boomer.”
Keeping the door open with one hand, Jeff leaned in to call, “You’re not feeding that dog my meatloaf, are you?”
“Come on, Boo. Let’s see what we’ve got for cute widdle doggies.”
The door closed on Jeff’s audible sigh.
I turned toward the kitchen, holding Boomer, but stopped dead at a loud hisssssss. A throaty growl followed. I’d forgotten about General Chang. The scruffy tom was clinging to the top of an armchair with his back arched, channeling his namesake, a notorious Star Trek villain.
Hisssssss.
I’d seen the old boy angry, but never at me. In fact, he once thwarted an assailant who was threatening me. The General spent the bulk of his time snoozing atop the sofa and jonesing for liver treats, but he could move fast when circumstances required.
As, apparently, they did now. Canine interloper and all that.
“It’s only for tonight, honest,” I said, carefully giving the armchair a wide berth on my way to the kitchen.
Which was when the dear little terrier in my arms transformed into a deadly ninja dog, leaping from my grasp to lunge at the cat.
The blur of paws that followed could have been lifted straight from a martial-arts movie. No blows found their mark, however. This seemed to be more of a getting-acquainted bloodbath.
Within moments, the General had retreated to a safe perch atop the fireplace—after making a bold leap across the back of the sofa and scrabbling for purchase on the mantel’s edge.
It was not so safe for the framed photos and knickknacks on the mantel. One by one, they crashed to the floor. Boomer ducked each fresh missile, continuing to press his assault on the main target.
“Stop,” I yelled, worried someone would get hurt, and afraid it would be me. “Stop that.”
Atop the nearly cleared mantel, the General flopped down and stretched, reclining comfortably as if that had been his objective all along. Nonchalantly, he licked a paw, ignoring the frenzied dog at his feet.
Boomer darted back and forth, tongue lolling and tail wagging so hard his entire hindquarters shook. This was clearly the most fun he’d had in ages. Repeatedly, he leapt for the General’s swishing tail, which dangled enticingly over the edge. Finally, he sat, whimpering, urging the old tom to come down and continue sparring.
I decided not to chance a closer encounter for the time being. Scooping up Boomer, I hurried into the kitchen, kicking the door shut with one foot before placing him on the floor. Taking a step back, I studied the little animal.
His badly matted fur was a filthy white with brown patches. Despite the collar, he hadn’t had a bath in months. At least he wouldn’t have fleas, given the current weather. The shelter would have to bathe him, though.
Amazingly, he had no fresh scratches. Not one. The General had definitely pulled his punches.
“You got off lucky, Boomer. I’d watch that in the future, if I were you.” The meatloaf was in the oven, so I scooped a helping of cat food into a shallow dish before placing it on the floor. I figured the General wouldn’t object, since he hadn’t yet touched the food in his own dish.
Boomer tore into it. The cat food no soon disappeared than it reappeared.
I turned to grab paper towels to clean up the regurgitated meal. By the time I twisted around, it was gone again. Boomer stared at me with what amounted to a grin.
“Does that mean you’re not hungry anymore?”
He trotted across the floor, then started in on the General’s dish.
“No,” I shrieked, grabbing the cat’s bowl and holding it above my head. Boomer hopped energetically, trying to reach it. I placed it on the far end of the counter, next to the back door. “Let’s see about a bed. Shall we, Boomer?” I harrumphed. “A temporary bed.”
After tucking him into a blanket-lined box under the kitchen table, I heard the front door open. I ducked out of the kitchen, with one foot held up to deter the terrier from following me, and slammed the door shut.
As I passed the mantel, the General swished his tail and averted his gaze.
“Sorry, fella.” I stopped to chuck him under the chin. “Maybe tomorrow, too. But that’s definitely it.”
Hunching his shoulders, he shot me a look of pure disgust.
In the foyer, Jeff was taking off his parka and snow boots. Standing on tiptoe, I wrapped my arms around his neck for a quick kiss. “Thanks for clearing the walk.”
“No problem. I’d shovel a lot more than that for meatloaf.” He paused. “We still have meatloaf, right?”
“No, sorry. Boomer ate it all.”
Jeff paused with his parka in one hand and a coat hanger in the other, a forlorn expression on his face. “Really?”
I snickered. “You are way too easy. He’s a small dog, Jeff. He couldn’t pos
sibly eat an entire meatloaf in under ten minutes.”
That was an out and out lie, of course. That dog could eat an entire cow in under ten minutes. But why was I covering up for an animal destined for the shelter? It wasn’t like Boomer was listening. I gave the kitchen door a wary glance.
Jeff hung up his parka, then closed the closet door. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. I don’t think that animal has had anything to eat for days. The dish on Oskar’s kitchen floor was empty.”
“Was there water at least?”
He shrugged. “Toilet.”
“He gobbled down the food I gave him so fast that it came right back up. And then he ate it. Can you imagine?”
Jeff grinned. “You’ve never had a dog, have you?”
“Mrack.” The General hopped off the mantel onto the sofa, sashayed across the coffee table, and leapt onto the back of the armchair. “Mrack.” He lowered his head to be patted by Jeff, his second-favorite person in the world.
Who was I kidding? He was his most favorite person in the world.
Jeff scratched the General’s head. “How did the big guy react? Not happy, I bet?”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
General Chang head-butted Jeff’s arm. Jeff reached into his pocket for a liver treat.
“You’re spoiling that animal,” I said, grinning.
The General butted again, and was rewarded once more.
I rested one hand on my waist. “What about me?”
Jeff wrapped an arm around me, pulling me close. “Treats for you later,” he whispered into my ear, then lowered his face for a lingering kiss.
I melted into his arms.
“But first—” Jeff released his hold. “Meatloaf!”
Chapter Eight
“That was delicious.” Jeff held out his cup for coffee.
“There was supposed to be roasted daikon. Sorry.”
“I had it for lunch.”
“You did not.”
He leaned over to drop a kiss on my head.
I picked up the carafe, then moved to fill his cup. “You’re easy to please. It was only meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”
“I could eat that every night.” He raised an eyebrow over the edge of his mug.
This wasn’t a conversation about meatloaf. And it wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have. Not now, anyway. I replaced the carafe on the table.
“You know darn well you’re a better cook than me.”
“True.”
“Hey. You’re not supposed to agree.”
Boomer had been banished to the living room while we’d been eating dinner at the kitchen table. It was the only way we could get in a forkful without having a lap full of terrier.
He had been scratching at the kitchen door ever since, trying to pull it open. I assumed it was secure. Right up until the moment the faulty latch gave way. The door flung open with a crash, and Boomer burst through the doorway. He was moving so fast he skidded past the kitchen table and bounced off a cupboard on the far side of the room
“Oh,” I said, startled. “Is he—”
“Hurt? Not likely.” Jeff chuckled at the dog, who had whirled around and jogged back to the table, where he sat, looking expectant. “I think he’s indestructible.”
I mentally added fix kitchen door latch to Carson’s never-ending list of Rose Cottage repairs. And realized that would only matter if Boomer was staying.
With a yawn and a stretch, Jeff dropped a piece of apple crumble on the floor. Boomer snapped it up.
“I saw that.”
“Saw what?” Jeff sipped his coffee, innocence painted across his handsome face.
“Uh-huh. Okay, we’ve eaten—tell me what happened to Oskar York.” I eyed Jeff intently. “Was it really an accident?”
He settled his coffee cup on the table, absently running a thumb down its side. “We think so, but the ME said he’s been dead for several days, so we’re not sure. We’ll get a more detailed estimate for time of death after the autopsy. And the forensic team isn’t finished.”
“Could it have been deliberate?”
Jeff had been lifting his cup to his mouth but halted, arm extended, to give me one of those no-nonsense professional police looks I knew from experience.
I made a face at him.
His lips twitched in a smile. “You could be harboring the killer right now.” He inclined his head at Boomer, who matched the movement in an almost eerie way.
“You two could be twins,” I said. “And what do you mean, the killer?”
“I mean—Boomer’s excitable. He could have crashed into a stack of magazines and knocked it over. We found thousands of Canadian Geographics all over the floor and all over—”
“Oskar?”
He winced.
“Could old Geographics really have killed him?”
“One cubic yard of magazines weighs nearly a thousand pounds. So, yes, depending on how they were stacked and how they fell—they could. Easily.”
We turned our heads to study Boomer.
Shifting his glance between us, he raised a paw in that universal begging motion all puppies learn from television ads.
“You were kidding about Boomer, weren’t you?” I asked.
“You are way too easy.”
“But Jeff, seriously. It’s unlikely to be an accident. Oskar York lived for years with that stuff. Why would it suddenly fall over?” I frowned. “And don’t tell me the dog did it.”
“Verity—”
“I know. I’ve got murder on the brain. But there’s a story in the village that Oskar kept money and valuables in his home. Could it have been a robbery gone wrong?”
“Oskar York had nothing of value in that house.”
“It doesn’t have to exist. Just the rumor might be enough for someone to rob him. Maybe they tried to get Oskar to tell them where it was… and things got out of hand.”
“Verity. Leave the detecting to the—”
“Detectives. I know.” Rising to my feet, I picked up our dirty plates to take them to the sink.
Jeff pushed back his chair. “I’ll help.”
“No. I’ll take care of the dishes. You must be exhausted after all the hours you’ve been working. Sit. Finish your coffee. Why don’t you take it into the living room, where you’d be more comfortable?”
“I’d rather talk to you. We haven’t seen much of each other this week. And I’ll be gone for two days.”
“There is something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” After scraping the leftovers into the compost pail, I set the dishes in the sink and returned to the table. Sitting across from Jeff, I rested my chin on my hands and took a deep breath.
“That’s good,” he said. “Because I’ve been meaning to ask you something, too. But—you first.” He smiled, twisting the coffee mug handle in his fingers.
“You know I’ve been worried about my finances.”
“Yes, but there’s no need—”
I held up a hand. “Emy thinks I should start an investigation agency. To solve little mysteries around the village.” I paused, waiting for his input.
Jeff merely appeared dazed. “Investigation of what?”
“Nothing serious. Small stuff. Missing pets, estranged relatives, lost wallets. What do you think?”
Jeff leaned forward to take one of my hands from under my chin, then clasped it in his own. “You don’t need to worry about money. If the two of us—”
“I have a case already,” I blurted, pulling my hand back. “Henri Vartan hired me to investigate a mysterious wallet he found in his front yard.”
“A wallet? Verity—seriously, there’s no need for this. Landscapers obviously can’t work in the winter. It’s not a problem. I have plenty of money.”
“It’s not about money. I need an occupation.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes. I do.”
Jeff pressed his lips together for a moment. “Let’s not argue,” he said. “Whatever you want to
do is fine with me, that’s all I’m trying to say.”
“As long as it has nothing to do with investigating crimes?”
“Crimes? You said, ‘small stuff.’ Lost pets. Wallets. Missing… books.”
“Books? Why—never mind. I was talking about small stuff. You’re right. And you can help me.”
“I could help you better if I was living right here in—”
“No,” I blurted. “I mean—not no, exactly, but—let me tell you about Henri’s case.”
“You mean it’s a real case? You don’t have a license.”
“I know that. These are little domestic mysteries, remember? Not actual crimes.”
Jeff seemed confused. “Is Vartan paying you? Because you don’t have to worry about money.”
“Stop. Listen to me. Please.”
“Sorry. I’m all ears.”
I explained about Henri’s wallet and the crossword puzzle contest. And how I suspected it was a fraud. “So.” I crossed my arms. “What do you think? What should I do next?”
“Does this mean we’re not going to talk about—”
“No. I mean—yes. We’re not going to talk about it.”
“I’m confused. Is that a no?”
“The wallet, Jeff. What should I do?”
“Vartan turned it in at the station, and they told him the ID was fake?”
I nodded. “Could you ask them about it? See if they know where those counterfeit IDs may have come from?”
“Do you have any idea how many wallets are turned in every week?”
“If you think it’s inappropriate.” I stuck out my lower lip and dropped my head, running a finger along the edge of the table. “You shouldn’t do it.”
Jeff smiled. “Nice try. Stop being coy. I’ll ask around.”
“Thank you. And what about Oskar’s death? Do you think that’s related? Because I think—”
Jeff shook his head emphatically. “Stay out of it, Verity.”
There was an obvious note of caution in his voice, and I pounced on it. “You do think it’s suspicious, don’t you? Was I right about the money?”
“I can’t talk about it. You know that.” Jeff ran a hand over his head, leaving his straight black hair uncharacteristically rumpled, and yawned.