Praise for Bethany Blake’s previous Lucky Paws Petsitting Mysteries
“When murder is unleashed in the idyllic town of Sylvan Creek, it’s up to spunky pet sitter Daphne and her darling duo of misfit mutts to catch the killer. A doggone charming read from start to finish.”
—Cleo Coyle, New York Times bestselling author
“Awesome, suspenseful mystery . . . a rollicking adventure!”
—Modern Dog
“Amusing and intriguing.”
—Mystery Scene
“I had such a delightful and fun time reading this book! . . . The characters are hilarious and quirky and I just fell in love with them and the small town of Sylvan Creek. The mystery was unpredictable, suspenseful and brilliantly plotted. I can’t wait for the next installment! Bethany Blake, the author, has a fan for life!”
—Night Owl Suspense
“This is already marked to be on my Best Books of 2017 list.”
—Kings River Life Magazine
“Death by Chocolate Lab is the best first in a new series of 2017. I am calling it now.... Even though I can only give five stars, this book is easily eight paws and two hands up!”
—Bibliophile Reviews
“I loved this book.... The book is engaging from the very beginning and kept me entertained throughout.... I can’t wait for book 2.”
—Sleuth Cafe
“Bethany Blake gets a blue ribbon for her ‘paw’sitively charming dog cozy, Death by Chocolate Lab. From the get-go, the pets steal the show.... Adorable dogs, a good murder mystery and a dash of romance make Death by Chocolate Lab a delicious concoction that mystery and dog lovers alike will adore.”
—Mutt Cafe
Bethany Blake is the author of
Death by Chocolate Lab
Dial Meow for Murder
Pawprints & Predicaments
A Midwinter’s Tail
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
A Midwinter’s Tail
Bethany Blake
KENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise for Bethany Blake’s previous Lucky Paws Petsitting Mysteries
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Recipes
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Beth Kaszuba
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1733-7
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1734-4
eISBN-10: 1-4967-1734-1
To my parents,
Donald and Marjorie Fantaskey
Chapter 1
The weather outside was beyond frightful, with near-blizzard conditions pummeling the quaint, pet-friendly town of Sylvan Creek, Pennsylvania, and burying the surrounding Pocono Mountains under a thick blanket of fine, icy snow.
But inside my snug little home, Plum Cottage, conditions were truly delightful as my sister Piper Templeton, my best friend Moxie Bloom and I prepared for Christmas and two of our hometown’s favorite traditions: a free showing of It’s a Wonderful Life at the old Bijoux theater and the local chamber of commerce’s Bark the Halls Ball for people and pets. A fire crackled in the arched stone fireplace, bayberry-scented candles burned on the mantel, and mulled wine simmered in a Crock-Pot, the warm drink the perfect complement to a savory blue cheese and pecan strudel that waited on my kitchen counter. Soft, staticky Christmas music, which played on an ancient Bakelite radio left behind by my home’s former tenant, added to the cozy, jolly ambiance.
Not that there weren’t a few glitches as we jingled all the way toward the holidays.
“Um, can someone please help me?” Moxie asked from my tiny living room, where she was stringing big, colorful, old-fashioned lights onto the pint-sized, crooked, needle-challenged Christmas tree I’d found discarded behind the lot at Pinkney’s Pines tree farm, just outside of town. Moxie’s voice sounded a bit panicked when she requested, a second time, “A little help here, please!”
I was busy mixing dough to make several dozen dog-friendly Pupper-Mint Candy Cane Twists for the ball, which would be attended by most of Sylvan Creek’s many canines, but I glanced over to see that Moxie had not only managed to wrap herself in the lights, but also plug herself in.
“Oh, good grief,” Piper said, in suitable Charlie Brown fashion. My sensible sibling, who was sitting on the living room floor assembling goody bags for the dance, untwisted her crossed legs, rose, and went to unravel poor Moxie, who actually looked quite festive, in my opinion.
Vintage-loving Moxie wore a 1950s Nordic-patterned sweater with knitted reindeer prancing across the chest, and her short, spiky hair—dyed Santa-suit red—fairly glowed like the lights that were inexplicably looped around her body.
“How did this even happen?” Piper asked, unplugging my best friend and slowly spinning her, as a particularly strong gust of wind slammed into the cottage, causing the fire to nearly gutter out before it crackled merrily to life again. Outside in the darkness, the plum tree that lent my home its name rapped against one window, a sure sign that the weather was bad. Then Piper nodded at the indoor tree, which was surrounded by a dusting of newly fallen needles. “Moxie, why are you decorated, while the latest ‘fir-ry’ stray Daphne’s brought home is still bare?”
“Seriously,” Piper said, when Moxie was finally free. My sister stepped back and planted her hands on her hips. “What went wrong?”
“I have no idea,” Moxie admitted, giving the lights, which lay tangled on the floor, a wary look, as if they were poisonous snakes. Or, worse yet, rabid turtles. She had a very bad case of chelonaphobia. “It just seems to happen every year!”
Piper clearly didn’t know how to respond. But over by the fireplace, where he lay on his favorite Turkish rug, my taciturn basset hound sidekick, Socrates, rolled his eyes and thunked over sideways.
Socrates was often exasperated by Moxie Bloom. And he sometimes seemed disapproving of me, too. Especially when I got caught up in murder investigations—which would not happen again, after my last attempt to solve a homicide ended with my facing my own worst fear of getting locked in Flour Power’s unpredictable walk-in refrigerator.
As I shaped plain and pink-tinted dough into cute candy-cane-shaped cookies, I thought back to that horrible evening, when Detective Jonathan Black had practically torn off the walk-in’s heavy, metal door, and I’d tumbled into his arms, close to hyperventilating.
I hadn’t run into the handsome, enigmatic former Navy SEAL since that fateful, somewhat embarrassing night, although I sometimes wondered how he was doing. In particular, I hoped that an illness he’d once battled remained at bay. And I kept my fingers crossed that he’d continued to bond with the dogs I’d sort of foisted upon him. I knew that, as a former handler in the Navy, he got along with Axis, a chocolate Lab with agility experience, but even I had to admit that reserved, thoughtful Jonathan was a strange match for one-eared, drooling, exuberant Artie the Chihuahua.
“So, do you think Detective Black will attend the ball?” Moxie asked, as if reading my mind, which I believed she could do. She seemed to have shaken off the light incident and had joined me in the kitchen, where she ladled wine into three waiting earthenware mugs. Apparently, she was done decorating for the evening. And I was almost finished with the cookies, too. Opening the door to my old gas oven, I slid a tray inside, then dusted flour off my hands before accepting one of the drinks from Moxie, whose green eyes were twinkling. “I would love to see Jonathan Black in a tux!”
“I have no idea if Jonathan will show up at the dance,” I told her, setting the mug on the counter again, just for a minute, so I could put two of the already baked and cooled candy canes onto a plate, which I set on the floor in case Socrates got hungry. Spying a pair of orange eyes blinking at me from behind the herbs I grew on my windowsill, I also found a treat for my surly, black Persian boarder, Tinkleston, who was being his usual Scrooge self—although he didn’t bite my hand when I offered him a Holly Jolly Chicken Muncher. We’d made a lot of progress since the days when he used to ambush everyone who came within a few feet of his deceptive puffball paws.
Daring to pat Tinks’s head—and earning a halfhearted hiss—I again picked up my wine and the wooden tray that held the strudel. Leading the way to the living room, I set my mug and the log of crispy phyllo, stuffed with cream cheese, Roquefort, and candied pecans, onto a steamer trunk that served as my coffee table.
Moxie put Piper’s wine on the trunk, too, before curling up on my loveseat, while my sister, who in two minutes had managed to artfully arrange the lights on the tree, stuck the plug back in the socket.
Suddenly, ringed with softly glowing red, orange, yellow, and blue lights, the little tree seemed more adorable than pathetic.
“I haven’t seen Jonathan in months,” I noted, taking a seat on a Moroccan floor pillow and cutting a few pieces of strudel. “But I guarantee you that, if he does attend, Axis and Artie, at least, will not be in formal wear.”
Piper joined me on the floor, but she didn’t take a break. She resumed assembling the goody bags, using scissors to curl red ribbons she’d tied to the handles of green paper sacks that were filled with local products and coupons for Sylvan Creek businesses. I’d contributed cat treats and a voucher for a dog walk, while Moxie, who owned a unique salon for people and pets, called Spa and Paw, had offered one free shampoo and blowout. The little card she’d created didn’t make it clear if the treatments were for human or animal clients. Maybe both.
“I love this dance, but I have to agree with Detective Black about the wisdom of putting bow ties and ball gowns on dogs,” Piper said, swiping at a ribbon and making a perfect spiral. The springy coils were like better versions of my long, curly, dirty-blond hair. Then she jerked the scissors toward Socrates. “I bet he’s not wearing a suit!”
Socrates, who’d righted himself, hung his head and averted his gaze.
“Actually, he will wear a tie,” I told Piper, whose brown eyes, very different from my grayish-green ones, widened with disbelief. “While he doesn’t believe in tacky sweaters or costumes, he has a sense of decorum,” I added. “He wouldn’t show up at a black-tie affair naked!”
Socrates whined softly, as if he still felt uncomfortable about the prospect of wearing the very understated neckwear I’d purchased for him at my friend Tessie Flinchbaugh’s pet emporium, Fetch!
“So, what are you wearing, Daphne?” Moxie asked, breaking off a tiny piece of phyllo and offering the treat to her white rat, Sebastian, who’d popped out of his mobile den—a furry white muff Moxie had left by the door—then trotted fearlessly across the floor and climbed onto the loveseat. I used to worry that Tinks would make a snack of Sebastian, but the two animals seemed to have reached a peace accord. That was probably Sebastian’s doing. He was a very sweet rat. Moxie settled back, absently stroking Sebastian while he nibbled on the pastry. “More important, who are you going with? Gabriel?”
I occasionally dated the devilishly handsome owner of and sole reporter at the Sylvan Creek Weekly Gazette, but we kept things casual. In part, because Gabriel, while always funny and often charming, had a complicated past that had left him somewhat scarred and jaded.
Piper, who was getting serious with incredibly nice, uncomplicated Professor Roger Berendt, didn’t hide the fact that she was wary of my sometime suitor.
“Yes, Daphne,” my sister said, looking up from her task. The lenses of her eyeglasses glinted in the firelight. “Will you be attending the ball with your dashing, witty journalist friend?”
She made those compliments sound like insults. But I was more forgiving of Gabriel’s sometimes acerbic, morbid sense of humor, because I knew its roots.
“Gabriel hasn’t even mentioned the dance,” I told Moxie and Piper, as I licked some cheese off my fingers. “He’s swamped at the Gazette, and I’ve been busy, too, between pet-sitting gigs for holiday travelers and baking for Flour Power. Gabriel and I had a difficult enough time scheduling a quick cup of coffee tomorrow, at Oh, Beans.” I shrugged. “Plus, I get the sense that he’s not a big fan of yuletide traditions.”
“Hmmm . . .” Moxie had a funny gleam in her eyes again. The kind she got when she was thinking of a certain detective, upon whom she had an unabashed crush. “Daphne, since you probably aren’t attending Bark the Halls with Gabriel, and we all know that poor little Artie would love to dress up, why don’t you call Jonathan Black and offer to be in charge of Artie’s attire? And if Detective Black wanted to tag along with you and the dogs—”
“No!” I protested, speaking over Moxie and Socrates, who was whining softly again, urging me not to meddle, although Artie was his best . . . only . . . canine buddy. “Jonathan allowed me to dress up Artie for Halloween and th
e Winterfest sled parade,” I reminded Moxie, sort of cringing, myself, at the memories of the Chihuahua in a clown costume and an old-timey velvet dress. “I don’t think I can offer again. And I’m not asking Jonathan to the dance!”
“Why not?” Piper asked, finally abandoning the goody bags and edging closer to the trunk. Although I felt like we were back in the 1950s, between Moxie’s outfit and the soft, crackly version of “White Christmas” playing in the kitchen, she reminded me, “It is the twenty-first century. Women ask men out!”
That was true, and I was all for equality. But I still didn’t plan to call Jonathan, who might very well have another date already. I looked to Moxie. “I was thinking maybe we could go together. Make it a girls’ night out.”
“Oh, I don’t know. . . .” The glimmer in Moxie’s eyes suddenly faded. “While I’m definitely going to It’s a Wonderful Life with you, Daph, I’m not sure about the ball this year.”
Piper and I both reared back, because everyone went to Bark the Halls, and Moxie, in particular, loved the event, which gave her the opportunity to wear one of the many vintage gowns that were stored somewhere—I could never figure out the spot—in her tiny garret apartment above the Philosopher’s Tome used bookstore.
Socrates also seemed baffled by Moxie’s comment. His wrinkly brow was more furrowed than usual.
“Why in the world are you even thinking about skipping Bark the Halls?” I finally asked. “Did you accidentally schedule something else for that date? Because I’m sure you could get out of it. . . .”
I gave up trying to persuade her, because Moxie was shaking her head. And she seemed a little confused, too.
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