“I didn’t know Myra well enough to say who would have wanted to hurt her,” I told them. “She seemed rather … domineering to me.” And officious and nasty and over-the-top for no reason. “And not everyone likes that.” Like me. But it still hadn’t driven me to murder her. “The natural guess would be her closest friends and family, maybe one of the other Ethmans. But I’ve met several of them, including her husband Harris, and my initial reaction isn’t to point fingers at him or any of the rest.” I paused. “Do you two have any ideas?”
Both pairs of eyes opened wide. “Me? Oh, I didn’t know her much either,” Judy said.
“Me neither,” Dinah added.
“But you’re right, Carrie.” Judy nodded. “Books and TV shows and all would indicate that the people who knew her best would make the most likely suspects. I just hope the police do a good job of investigating and finding out the truth.”
“Me too,” I said fervently. “Now let’s go back into the kitchen. I want to see what you’ve started baking for both shops and help decide what should come next.”
A couple of hours later, I felt better. A little, at least. I hadn’t heard again from Neal, so I assumed he’d gone to work at the resort.
Since Myra had been the executive manager, I wondered who was in charge now. I didn’t believe they’d shut down the whole resort in mourning, but I was curious about how things were being handled there today. Myra had been an important member of the family even though she wasn’t born an Ethman.
I’d talk to Neal later. Right now I was working at Icing, finishing up with some new customers—three women I recognized from seeing them in a store or somewhere else in town. But I didn’t really know them, so I assumed they didn’t have any pets to bring to the veterinary clinic. They’d bought some people-cupcakes for a lunch that their book club was holding at one of their homes. I thanked them and gave them an extra treat too, hoping they’d mention it to the others in their group.
When they left, I realized my mind hadn’t really settled down yet. I needed a break. It wasn’t time for me to head to the vet clinic, though. Did I feel comfortable just leaving for a while?
Why not? After our initial difficulties with getting started that morning—and the discussion about who might have killed Myra—Dinah and Judy had been hard at work, apparently enjoying trading off which one staffed which store, and fortunately their interaction remained peaceful. We’d finished baking today’s people and dog treats unless we got low on something and had to bake some more, and even though we had a steady stream of customers, neither of my assistants appeared to need help.
I decided to take advantage of all this and head to Cuppa-Joe’s, a family restaurant owned by a pair of dear friends of mine, Joe and Irma Nash. And, yes, they served good coffee.
I gave my assistants my instructions and my thanks. They both had my cell phone number, and I told them to call if any questions arose, no matter how insignificant. I assured them I’d be back for an hour or so before heading to my other job.
Then I went into the Barkery, where I’d left Biscuit in her comfortable open-air crate, and she and I left.
Cuppa-Joe’s was on Peak Road at the far side of the town square. It was a sprawling one-story structure with several different dining areas inside, as well as a couple of patios. One patio was in the center of the small complex, accessible by a path between the buildings. That was where Biscuit and I headed.
For the moment, my dog was the only canine there. It was a little early for lunch, and some people appeared to prefer the other patio. I didn’t think Biscuit would mind. There were quite a few customers around and she might get extra attention.
I sat at one of my favorite tables. I came here as often as I could, partly because I enjoyed the family-style food and the attentive service. But I also visited often because I was so fond of the owners.
“Hi, Carrie,” said Kit, who then knelt and said, “Hi, Biscuit,” but without patting my dog. She was, after all, part of the restaurant’s wait staff, so if she petted visiting animals a lot she’d be washing her hands constantly. She rose again and grinned at me.
Kit was around twenty-five years old, with curly blond hair shorter than my wavy mop. She had pink cheeks and a huge, toothy smile. Like the other wait staff members, she wore a knit shirt with buttons and a collar, which had a steaming coffee cup logo on the pocket. The staff all wore different colors. Today, Kit’s shirt was orange.
“Hi,” I responded. “I just want a quick, early lunch—tuna salad sandwich on wheat bread, lettuce and tomato, and some low-fat chips on the side. Oh, and joe, of course. Black.”
“You got it.” She wrote it down on a small pad of paper, then said, “I’ll let the Joes know you’re here,” and took off.
The staff, and others—including me sometimes—referred to Joe and Irma Nash collectively as “the Joes,” since this place was Cuppa-Joe’s, and it was theirs.
Joe and Irma came out onto the crowded patio a couple of minutes later, pulled up chairs, and sat down with us—after each gave me a big kiss on the cheek and patted Biscuit’s head. They weren’t serving food, so they wouldn’t need to wash their hands right away. They had, however, each brought a cup of coffee to the table with them. Good. That meant they intended to stay awhile.
“Great to see you, Carrie.” Irma was in her sixties but looked much younger, with stylishly cut and highlighted brown hair framing a face made up as well as any model’s. And she hadn’t resorted to Botox or anything artificial.
“Ditto,” said Joe. “But what brings you here on the day after you opened your new shop?” Unlike his wife, Joe looked his age, partly thanks to the grayness of his hair beyond his receding hairline. He also had deep divots on either side of his mouth, which only seemed to frame his frequent smiles.
They’d both popped in at the party, separately and briefly. They had their own business to run, of course, and their limited participation hadn’t hurt my feelings. I knew they’d been with me in spirit.
“Oh, well … ”
“Spit it out,” Joe insisted.
“And don’t pretend,” said Irma. “We heard about Myra Ethman, along with some rumors that you and she had a bit of a falling out at your party.”
“More than that,” I said. “But it wasn’t enough for me to have killed her, as the police seem to think.”
“Oh no.” Irma rose and came over to hug me. “I was afraid of something like that when I heard those rumors.”
“Who—” I began.
“Some of our early morning customers who like to talk too much,” Joe interrupted. “We made it clear we’d be glad to serve them food but we don’t allow gossip around here.”
“Thanks.” The word spilled from me in a throaty sigh. “You two are the best.”
In fact, Joe and Irma were like family. No, they were better than family—at least, better than Neal’s and mine.
Neal and I had been brought up by our family in nearby Riverside, California—two sort-of misnomers. First, although the northern part of Riverside is actually beside the Santa Ana River, most of the town doesn’t exactly front the water. Second, except for each other, Neal and I don’t have much of a family. Our parents divorced years ago, and both remarried and had other kids. Those younger stepsiblings were all-important to each of them.
Neal and me? Not so much.
The Nashes had been here forever. The restaurant had been started by Joe’s parents when they were younger than me, or so I gathered. Joe and Irma’s own kids were grown, and their daughter remained in Knobcone Heights. She and her husband helped to run this place and apparently were teaching their two daughters how important it was. Their son had become a lawyer and moved to L.A. but visited often with his own family.
Yes, the Nashes believed in family, their own and those they’d adopted into the fold. Like Neal and me.
Kit soon served my sandwich, and I shared my chips with Joe and Irma. Everything was delicious—particularly the charming conve
rsation about some Hollywood types who’d recently come to town and visited Cuppa.
I was about to take the last bite of tuna when I saw two people stroll onto the patio from the front of the restaurant—two people I’d prefer to never see again, and definitely not this soon. The detectives.
Joe and Irma followed my gaze as I put the sandwich down. “Them?” Joe asked.
I nodded. “They’ve been asking me questions.”
“We know they’re cops. They eat here a lot, usually inside. But I’ll be glad to throw them out.”
“No need,” I said. They’d probably seen me and decided to take the opportunity to silently harass me. Maybe make me so nervous that I’d run right over to them and confess.
Not.
“But honey,” Irma began.
“It’s okay. Really. I’m pretty much finished, and I have to head back to my shops for a while before going to my other job.”
“You’re still working as a vet tech too.” Joe didn’t make it a question, since he knew the answer. “You’re really something, Carrie.”
Yeah. Something. A new business owner, a veterinary technician—and a murder suspect.
I waved Kit over and requested my check. The Joes had offered to let me eat free, especially now when I was starting a new venture, but I insisted that I’d continue to pay my own way.
“Believe me,” I told them both quietly. “If I hadn’t been finished, I wouldn’t be leaving now. I wouldn’t let them scare me, honest.” I began to stand, and Biscuit immediately rose to her feet too and shook her curly golden fur. I patted her, then managed a small smile that I shot first to Irma, then Joe. “But if you happen to overhear any of your customers confessing to killing Myra, please let me know.”
SIX
BISCUIT AND I WALKED back to the Barkery and went inside. Judy was there but no customers were. “Everything okay here?” I asked.
She gave me a rundown of who’d stopped in. Fortunately, it didn’t include any cops, or at least none she’d identified. Instead, it sounded mostly like a bunch of Knobcone Heights residents who hadn’t been at the party yesterday and came to scope out the new section of the store and buy some of our products.
Dinah came in and said that nearly the same had held true for Icing. We’d had a lot of foot traffic, although the place hadn’t gotten especially crowded at any time.
“Great. Let’s see how we do for the next hour before I head to the vet clinic,” I said.
The day continued pretty much as Judy had described and Dinah had seconded. There was a nearly steady flow of customers, not overwhelming but definitely encouraging.
I—we—might really make a go at this new venture, I thought. Of course it was still the weekend, but even so …
I felt pretty jazzed by the time I had to leave for the veterinary hospital. Especially since Dinah and Judy appeared to be getting along okay today.
Because I owed the clinic a lot and always wanted the best for its patients, I loaded a sack with dog treats. I’d leave them with the clinic’s greeters to pass out in the reception area to dogs who’d been cleared to nibble on wholesome snacks. I didn’t have anything prepared for dogs with particular dietary issues, since I’d only do that if I was made aware of a pet with special needs.
Then I opened Biscuit’s crate door and clipped her leash to her collar. She’d accompany me there. The Knobcone Veterinary Clinic also had a doggy daycare facility, so I’d always been able to bring my dog to work after I’d adopted her. Biscuit had been an injured stray, brought in as a puppy two years ago. I’d fallen in love with her as I’d helped her heal, and, after futilely attempting to find her careless prior owner, I delightedly adopted her as soon as she was well enough to leave the clinic.
The doggy daycare part was separate enough from the rest of the hospital that I didn’t worry about any of the patients’ health issues affecting Biscuit, or else I’d have found someplace else to care for my best friend when I couldn’t be there for her. She’d gone through enough trauma as a pup. She didn’t need any more now.
The walk to the clinic wasn’t far. It was located close enough to the town center to be convenient for the area’s most privileged families, just a block behind the town square. Mountaintop Rescue was a block beyond that, so I particularly liked this neighborhood.
The veterinary hospital had been designed to be as stylish as a lot of the places in Knobcone. Like some of the mansions owned by the town’s elite, including members of the Ethman family, it had the look of a Swiss chalet. It was only one story high but had a tall, sloped roof, an inviting front porch where people and pets waiting for appointments could hang out in good weather, and multiple paned windows. Its exterior walls were of textured blue.
Biscuit and I didn’t worry about going past the animals and their owners on the porch, which was crowded since the weather today was good. I wondered how many others were inside in the waiting area.
I had a feeling this would be a busy afternoon for a certain veterinary technician, which could be a good thing. It might keep my mind off the situation that had never come close to evaporating from my consciousness that day, even when I was busy waiting on customers at my shops.
Using the path at the side of the hospital, we walked to the back parking lot. I opened a rear door and let Biscuit lead me into the familiar hallway to the daycare area, which was one large room with a gleaming, beige linoleum floor—easy enough to clean if any of their charges had an accident. Along the walls were crates of various sizes, in case any of the visitors did not play well with others. We had a special staff dedicated to the daycare, who got groups of compatible dogs together for learning and playing and having as great a time as possible.
I sometimes dropped in unexpectedly when Biscuit was here, just to make sure thing were going well for her, and they always were. She was smart, she was friendly, and she was one of the staff’s favorites.
“Hi, Faye,” I said to the chief caretaker, a forty-something woman whose thinness I attributed at least partly to the energy she used in caring for and playing with her charges. Her dark hair resembled that of the many terriers she helped to watch here—short, kinky, and in disarray. “Here’s my baby. She’ll be here for the next couple of hours.”
“And you know I’ll take good care of her,” Faye responded with a huge smile. “We’ll take care of her,” she amended as a couple of other staff members approached, both part-timers who were college kids deciding whether they were interested in becoming veterinarians. They both wore T-shirts that said “Knobcone Vets Rock” over jeans.
“We sure will,” said one of the boys, Charlie. He reached for Biscuit’s leash and I handed it over.
“Hey, Biscuit,” said the other one, Al. “Let’s dance.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small doggy treat—not one of mine—and encouraged Biscuit onto her rear paws and into a spin.
I laughed. “Better watch out or she’ll start training you.” I touched my baby on her head. “See you soon,” I told her.
I walked through a different door, the one that led into the hospital. I left my bag of treats with the receptionist on duty and she promised to put it in the spot designated to hold items to give out to the patients. Then I went into the rear dressing room, opened my locker, and changed into my well-worn blue vet tech uniform shirt and matching pants.
When I exited into the main hallway, one of the other techs was walking by, holding a squirming little Shih Tzu. “Teeth cleaning,” Yolanda explained. I nodded and followed her back to the general treatment area, where other dogs under observation were confined in different-sized crates along the wall. She handed me the dog. “Her teeth are in good condition so we don’t have to turn this into major dental care, sedate her or anything like that.”
“Good.” I watched while she prepared the toothbrush and special canine toothpaste. Her blue uniform shirt looked a lot newer and crisper than mine. Her black hair was pulled back into a bun at her neck, which as always emphasized the
sharpness of her dark-complected face. Even so, she was an attractive lady about my age—and as skilled a veterinary technician as I was.
Holding the pup steady on the metal-topped table in the middle of the room while Yolanda did the brushing, I helped to steady him and adjust his jowls for easier access.
“Ouch,” I said in sympathy when he squealed and tried to jump out of my arms. I had a good grip, so his attempt to flee was futile.
I sensed the malaise of the other dogs around, and even saw a couple of them stand up in their crates. I was sure they felt some kind of sympathy—as well as relief that, at least this time, it wasn’t them.
“You want to take him back out to his folks?” Yolanda asked. “Room 6. I need to get some flea repellent ready for them to take home.”
“Sure.” I snuggled the little guy—his name, according to the tag on his collar, was Shammy—and headed down the hall with him.
I entered Room 6 and found Arvie there with Shammy’s
people. He held out his arms for the dog. “All set?” he asked.
“Yes, teeth nice and clean. Yolanda asked me to bring him back while she got the flea meds ready.” I smiled at the young, Hispanic-looking couple who apparently belonged to Shammy.
“Great,” Arvie said to me. To them, he added, “You can wait out front while Yolanda gets your supplies.”
And pay your bill, I thought, but I didn’t say that.
As they left, Arvie turned to me. “You okay, Carrie?” he asked softly.
I looked into his light brown eyes and felt my own tearing up. Like the Nashes, Arvie was dear to me, almost family, and I knew he gave a damn.
I also knew from his question, and from his caring expression, that he’d heard not only about Myra, but he was probably also aware that I was a suspect in her murder. I’d managed to stay calm when I was with Joe and Irma, but I wasn’t so successful right now.
Bite the Biscuit (A Barkery & Biscuits Mystery) Page 6