by Krista Davis
Praise for the New York Times bestselling Paws & Claws Mysteries
“Davis has penned a doggone great new mystery series featuring witty, spirited Holly Miller and her endearing canine sidekick, Trixie. . . . The intriguing plot twists will keep you guessing to the very last page.”
—Kate Carlisle, New York Times bestselling author of the Bibliophile Mysteries
“Davis has created a town that any pet would love—as much as their owners do. And they won’t let a little thing like murder spoil their enjoyment.”
—Sheila Connolly, New York Times bestselling author of the County Cork, Museum, and Orchard Mysteries
“Davis has created another charming series with a unique setting; an engaging heroine in Holly Miller and her furry sidekick, Trixie; and a wonderfully quirky supporting cast of characters—two- and four-legged.”
—Sofie Kelly, New York Times bestselling author of the Magical Cats Mysteries
“Well-written dialogue, fun characters, and romantic complications that never go as the characters—or the readers—expect. . . . Readers will enjoy this skillfully plotted mystery and its biting humor.”
—Kings River Life Magazine
“A charming blend of small-town eccentrics and big-city greed, Murder, She Barked touches all the bases of the cozy mystery—including a bit of romance—and does so with style.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Krista Davis
Domestic Diva Mysteries
THE DIVA RUNS OUT OF THYME
THE DIVA TAKES THE CAKE
THE DIVA PAINTS THE TOWN
THE DIVA COOKS A GOOSE
THE DIVA HAUNTS THE HOUSE
THE DIVA DIGS UP THE DIRT
THE DIVA FROSTS A CUPCAKE
THE DIVA WRAPS IT UP
THE DIVA STEALS A CHOCOLATE KISS
THE DIVA SERVES HIGH TEA
Paws & Claws Mysteries
MURDER, SHE BARKED
THE GHOST AND MRS. MEWER
MURDER MOST HOWL
MISSION IMPAWSIBLE
NOT A CREATURE WAS PURRING
THE DOG WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2019 by Cristina Ryplansky
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BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780451491695
First Edition: November 2019
Cover art by Mary Ann Lasher
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
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To Buttercup,
my sweet Jack Russell terrier who inspired this series. Like Trixie, she was abandoned by someone and left on the road to fend for herself. Finding her there was one of the best things that ever happened to me.
Acknowledgments
This book was a long time coming. I thank my readers for their patience and hope it lives up to their expectations.
From time to time I am asked to include real people or animals in my books. I was delighted to use real names for two characters in this book. Naturally, the characters are not based on the actual person or dog. After all, this is fiction. But it was a lot of fun to include them.
Rose Martin very generously allowed me to use the name of her boxer, Stella. Sweet Stella turned out to be a pivotal character who rose above her tragic circumstances. The real Stella lives the good life and is pampered with watermelon, banana slices, and lots of love.
I was also asked to include Jim McGowen, who may be surprised by his character. Again, this is fiction and doesn’t in any way reflect the real Jim McGowen.
Special thanks to Jim McGowen and Betsy Strickland for suggesting the method of death. My research into fentanyl was truly sobering, and I hope that it will be off the streets soon.
Huge thanks to my lovely editor, Michelle Vega, who was so patient with me. I appreciate her kindness more than I can say.
And, as always, I would be totally lost without my agent, Jessica Faust, who makes me smile and feel better, no matter how dire things may seem.
Contents
Praise for the Paws & Claws Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Krista Davis
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Characters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Recipes
About the Author
A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than he loves himself.
—Josh Billings
MEMBERS OF THE SUGAR MAPLE INN FAMILY
Liesel Miller (Holly’s Oma)—co-owner of the Sugar Maple Inn
Gingersnap, a golden retriever and canine ambassador of the inn
Holly Miller—Liesel’s granddaughter and co-owner of the inn
Trixie, a Jack Russell terrier
Twinkletoes, a cali
co cat and feline ambassador of the inn
Zelda York—front-desk employee of the inn
Shelley Dixon—waitress at the inn
Mr. Huckle—elderly “butler” at the inn
Casey Collins—night manager at the inn
WAGTAIL RESIDENTS
Runemaster, “LaRue”
Sugar McLaughlin
Augie and Glenda Hoover
Stan, their son
Dolly, their Yorkshire terrier
Diane Blushner
Stella, her boxer
Clara Dorsey
Tavish, her Scottie
PIPPIN & ENTOURAGE
Pippin—a border collie and Labrador mix
Jim McGowen—Pippin’s handler
Marlee Seidel—Pippin’s media assistant
Camille Ladouceur—actor
Howard Hirschtritt—actor
Finch Morrison—actor
Rae Rae Babetski—chaperone
One
Most cats would have fled from all the barking and yipping. But Twinkletoes, my long-haired calico, took it in stride. She sat on top of the desk in the main lobby of the Sugar Maple Inn and yawned as if the commotion was perfectly normal. A caramel spot and a chocolate spot on top of her head looked like she had shoved sunglasses above her brow. Her green eyes almost glowed as she peered at me.
“You’re very brave,” I whispered to her.
She mewed and rubbed her head against my hand, twisting as if she wanted to make the most of being stroked.
My grandmother, Liesel Miller, whom I called Oma, German for grandma, joined me in the main lobby, where the grand staircase led up to the rooms. It was the hub of the inn, where guests gathered to eat in the dining area or to lounge in the Dogwood Room, which wasn’t actually a room. It was all one large open space, divided by the grand staircase. Opposite the stairs was the front door, which led out to a covered porch and, beyond that, the town of Wagtail.
In the accent that I found charming but she wished to lose, Oma said, “It is Pippinmania! I have never seen such a thing.”
“I guess they’re not exaggerating when they call Pippin ‘America’s Favorite Dog.’” I had thought that was some kind of clever marketing ploy, but if these people were any indication, it was true.
In the dining area of the inn, adults and children wore fake-fur dog ears in a creamy white color. The ears stood up at the base of the headband that held them on, but the tops flopped over. They were quintessential puppy ears. The people barked. And yowled. And the dogs who were with them joined in, undoubtedly confused about their humans trying to speak canine. Fridays were always busy, but this was highly unusual.
My own Jack Russell terrier, Trixie, sat at my feet, watching and listening as if she didn’t know quite what to make of it all. She would be meeting Pippin shortly when he arrived with his costars in an upcoming TV show for what had been billed as a much-deserved vacation for Pippin in Wagtail. With fans like these, I suspected he wouldn’t be getting much rest.
“They say it is like this all over Wagtail. The merchants are thrilled. We aren’t the only ones who have a full house. Everyone is booked.” Oma smiled at the craziness. “You would think Cary Grant was coming!”
If I recalled correctly, Mr. Grant had passed away. “I think you’d get a bigger crowd than this if that happened.”
Fortunately, she understood my meaning and chuckled. Her smile faded too quickly, though. In a low voice she said, “Another dog is missing.”
“No!”
As Oma was the mayor of Wagtail, that kind of problem fell directly into her lap. It had been odd when the Hoovers’ beloved Yorkshire terrier disappeared the day before, but we hoped she had simply gotten lost and would turn up. News of a second missing dog changed everything. Now it was an ominous pattern.
“This time it’s Clara Dorsey’s Scottie. Two dogs in two days. We have to stop this. For the sake of the dogs, but also for the well-being of Wagtail. If this kind of news gets out, people will be afraid to bring their dogs here.”
“Did anyone see anything this time?”
Oma shook her head. “He was there one moment and gone the next. Some people fear that it is a coyote. They tell me that these creatures are very wily.”
I shuddered. “Has anyone seen a coyote?”
“No,” she said emphatically. “They say coyotes are everywhere in the United States, but none have been spotted on Wagtail Mountain or Snowball Mountain. Some speculate that Wagtail is not a popular place for coyotes due to the number of large dogs here. No, I fear it may be something else entirely . . .”
I tried to gauge her expression. It wasn’t difficult. She was clearly very upset.
“The dogs weren’t wearing GPS collars?” I asked.
“The Scottie was. Officer Dave is trying to track him down right now. I am crossing my fingers that they will find him. Clara has a reputation for dipping into the cooking sherry when she makes her dinner.”
“Oma!”
“This is not gossip. It is true. I am not making it up. I hope she accidentally left the gate open and that her dog, Tavish, scampered away. The alternative would be horrific.”
I swallowed hard. Trixie had taken off a few times, but luckily, she had come home or I had found her quickly. What a nightmare!
At that moment, Mr. Huckle, an elderly gentleman with a kindly face as wrinkled as an old map, rushed toward us waving something. Previously a butler for the wealthiest family in Wagtail, he still insisted on wearing his butler’s uniform at the inn. Oma had hired him when he was down on his luck. Her kindness turned out to be fortunate for us. He gave the inn a touch of class and had quickly become the darling of our guests. Mr. Huckle was always available to lend a hand or take care of some little detail for guests, their dogs, and their cats. To be honest, I thought he seemed happier since he had come to work with us. He loved his previous employer, but he enjoyed meeting people and thrived on helping them.
“It’s here!” Mr. Huckle presented us with a copy of Dog Life, the national magazine for dog lovers. A photo of Trixie sitting on the front steps of the Sugar Maple Inn was on the cover.
Oma took the magazine into her hands. “Little Trixie, you look beautiful! This is wonderful publicity.”
At the mention of her name, Trixie gazed up at Oma. Her sweet, lively eyes didn’t miss much. Trixie’s fur had been yellowish when I found her, but with good nutrition it had changed to shiny white, except for her black ears and the black spot on her rump that traveled halfway up her tail. No one had docked her tail, and it was adorable, curling upward and always wagging happily.
I had found Trixie, or maybe she found me, at a gas station at the bottom of Wagtail Mountain where someone had abandoned her. She had waited for him to return to pick her up, surviving off the scraps she found in trash cans. On that fateful rainy night, she decided she had waited long enough and jumped into the car I had borrowed from my boyfriend. Dirty and wet, she promptly spilled coffee and snarfed corn chips, making a mess on the carpet with nacho cheese powder. At the time, I thought I wouldn’t be able to keep her, but as things worked out, along with Twinkletoes, Trixie had become one of my little darlings.
In the beginning, Trixie was prone to taking off, which troubled me. But I soon learned that what I thought was wandering had a purpose. Most of the time Trixie stuck by me. Her main flaw was a nose that sniffed out trouble, more specifically, corpses. And that was what had brought a reporter and a photographer from Dog Life to interview Trixie.
Oma opened the magazine to the article. I peered over her arm. Twinkletoes received mention too, but Trixie was the star of the piece.
An uncanny ability to locate deceased people came naturally to her. As far as I knew, she had never been trained as a cadaver or search dog. I had certainly never received any training along those lines or in law en
forcement, but Trixie had led me to enough corpses that we were getting a reputation for solving murders.
“Let’s put one in each guest room. Ja?” suggested Oma. “And we should frame it and hang it somewhere.” She looked around but stopped and bent to pat Trixie. “You are our star, little one!”
At that moment, the front door opened and my aunt Birdie marched in. Her dark eyes flashed, and she carried something that looked suspiciously like a rolled-up copy of Dog Life. Aunt Birdie always dressed like she was on her way someplace special. A stylish cream-colored dress with an asymmetrical neckline hung perfectly on her slender figure. Her dark hair was smartly coiffed. Her trademark white patch at the top of her forehead waved back off her face. “Have you seen this?” she demanded.
“We are very proud of our Trixie,” said Oma.
The two of them didn’t get along. Aunt Birdie was my mother’s sister, and Oma was my father’s mother. When I moved to Wagtail, Aunt Birdie had been envious of my relationship with Oma, and she still intervened regularly.
Aunt Birdie’s nostrils flared. “Your mother will be mortified. Decent young women do not have a reputation for locating corpses. What were you thinking allowing a national magazine to carry such a morbid story about you?”
“Aunt Birdie, it’s Trixie who finds murdered people, not me. And it’s really quite remarkable that she can do that.”
Aunt Birdie drew in a sharp breath. “For your information, your actions reflect on our entire family. This is such an embarrassment!” She lifted her chin in the air. “It is a stain on our family. Your ancestors are churning in their graves.”
“Birdie,” said Oma, “you are making a fuss for no reason. I am very proud of our Holly. And Trixie and Twinkletoes, too!”
Aunt Birdie was aghast. “You are a terrible influence on Holly. I knew my sister shouldn’t have married your son.”
Good grief. We were going to rehash my birth again, were we? I was in my thirties, and while both sides of the family had been dismayed by my arrival, since my parents were still in their teens, I thought enough time had passed for all of them to get used to the fact that everything had turned out fine. True, my parents had divorced and now lived on opposite sides of the country with new spouses and more children, but they were happy. Only Aunt Birdie continued to create friction wherever she could.