Also by Aleksa Baxter
Nosy Newfie Cozy Mysteries
A Dead Man and Doggie Delights
A Crazy Cat Lady and Canine Crunchies
A Buried Body and Barkery Bites
A Buried Body and Barkery Bites
Aleksa Baxter
Contents
A Buried Body and Barkery Bites
About the Author
Copyright
A Buried Body and Barkery Bites
Chapter One
Two weeks after we'd discovered Janice Fletcher's real killer, I was finally starting to feel like things in the Baker Valley were going to plan. As I drove the twenty minutes from my grandpa's house to my shop, The Baker Valley Barkery and Café, I couldn't help but smile.
It was a gorgeous Colorado summer morning, the sky an almost perfect shade of blue, the sun as it rose over the mountains coloring the clouds in brilliant shades of pink and red and purple. I blasted my favorite mix of happy songs and sang along (horribly off-key) at the top of my lungs, my van window rolled down so I could feel the wind blowing through my hair.
The drive to and from the barkery had become my favorite part of the day. I loved running a business with my best friend, Jamie, and living with my grandpa—who still insisted on calling me Maggie May no matter how many times I asked him to just call me Maggie—but that time in the van was mine. If you could ignore Fancy, my three-year-old Newfoundland, snoring away in the back, that is.
It was my time to just be alone and indulge in my thoughts and fantasies about the future. (And sing. Neither Jamie nor my grandpa would let me sing anywhere near them. It was a wonder Fancy didn't launch into howls each time I started singing, I was that bad.)
That future was looking good, too. The online store was doing surprisingly well, so much so that I'd had to up my orders with our manufacturer. (The online store mostly sold pre-packaged treats that were made by a private label company. Drop shipping is a beautiful thing, let me tell you.)
And I even had my first regulars at the barkery—a German woman named Greta and her Irish wolfhound, Hans, who Greta claimed was named after one of her ex-husbands, but she never could remember which one. (She was a little blurry on the details after husbands one through four, and I think she was up to number ten at that point.)
So life was good.
Life was very good.
Of course, you know what they say about that don't you? When life is good best look over your shoulder for the ninety-mile-an-hour freight train headed your way.
Okay, so no one actually says that. But they should. Because it is most definitely true in my life. Every single time things are starting to look up, along comes a dead body. Or a handsome cop I don't have time for. Or both.
Same thing, really.
So there I was, enjoying the beautiful day, singing along to my favorite song, wind whipping at my hair, the beauty of the Baker Valley making my heart soar, minding my own business, when what should happen but I see a cop car ahead, perched on the side of the road, a speed gun pointed right at me.
I didn't want to just slam on the brakes. Talk about looking guilty. So instead I eased up on the accelerator and let the van coast down to a more reasonable fifty-five. It still wasn't the forty-five the sign said was the speed limit, but at least I was now in range of "not worth pulling over" territory.
Unfortunately, the cop didn't buy it. As soon as I passed him he pulled out and flipped his lights on. Great. Just great. There I was, finally having a good morning, everything was going so well, and then I had to get pulled over for speeding. And probably by someone I knew. Small town life was so…intimate.
I slowed the van and pulled to the shoulder silently praying it was anyone other than Mr. Matthew Allen Barnes, a/k/a Officer Handsome Distraction.
I'd actually done a pretty good job of avoiding him once he'd stopped trying to arrest me and my grandpa for murder. It wasn't that I didn't like him. I did. A lot. But I just didn't need that right then. I was starting a new business and…taking care of Fancy and…other things that meant a relationship was just not a good idea.
Plus, he seemed particularly immune to my charms.
I've been fortunate over the years to be let off of a number of speeding tickets. Not because I tried to deny what I was doing or to talk my way out of it or even to flirt my way out of it. I just get all my papers in order and act real nice. (It helps that I'm somewhat curvy and blonde and most officers are men, I won't deny that, but I do think they also appreciate the not crying on them part.)
But Officer Barnes could see right through me. And he was a stickler for the law from what I'd seen so far. He liked my grandpa. He even credited my grandpa with getting him on the straight and narrow so he didn't end up in prison or dead. But that hadn't stopped him from throwing my grandpa in jail when he thought he was a murderer. Same with me, although I wasn't sure he liked me quite as much as he liked my grandpa.
As I waited to see who'd step out of the cop car, Fancy poked her head out my window, leaving a nice stream of slobber on my shoulder.
"Gee, thanks," I muttered, shoving her back.
I glanced in the side mirror and silently cussed as the tall, gorgeous, dark-haired, blue-eyed man who spent way too much time in my dreams stepped out of the car. It should be a sin to look that good in a cop's uniform.
When he reached my window I flashed him my best smile. "Officer Barnes. What can I do for you today?"
"Maggie May Carver. Do you know how fast you were going?"
Now, that's a tricky question, because I did know. And I don't like to lie. But you can't just tell a cop that yes, you were quite well aware that you were going twenty over the speed limit.
"Not exactly. It's an old van. See? No digital display."
Which was technically true.
He leaned closer, drilling me with that intense take-no-prisoners look he's so good at. "Do you have a general idea of how fast you were going? Give or take say five miles an hour?"
I bit my lip trying to figure out how to finagle my way around that one. If I told him yes, then I was going to get a ticket, I just knew it. But if I told him no then I might still get one for being a distracted driver.
Fortunately, Fancy decided that she'd been ignored long enough and started barking her head off right in my ear.
I winced. "Just pet her, please. I promise she'll shut up if you just give her a few ear scratches."
He not only rubbed her ears until she was groaning in pleasure but also gave her a big kiss right on the nose and called her a good girl, leaning so close I could smell his aftershave.
It wasn't fair. Not only was he good-looking and good with dogs, but he smelled good, too.
I leaned away. "So if I promise not to speed again, you think you could let me off with a warning? I mean, I did help you solve three murders after all. And I didn't even get a plaque or anything for all my efforts."
His glare pinned me to my seat. Seems he had a different opinion of events than I did. If I were the type to sweat under pressure I would've been pouring buckets, but I'm not so I just met him glare for glare. I had solved those murders.
"You were going twenty-one over the speed limit, Maggie."
"But…?"
He shook his head. "But I'm going to let you off with a warning. For now. But if I catch you speeding through here again, you will get a ticket."
I bit my lip. (Something about that man always has me biting my lip. Another reason to avoid him.)
I knew I shouldn't press my luck, but I had to know, so I said, "Define speeding."
"Going over the speed limit."
"At all? I mean, really, would you give me a ticket for going, say, five
over?"
"Yes."
"What about one over? I mean that's gotta be within the margin of error, right? One or two?"
He didn't answer, just stared me down.
"Just asking. Because having to go forty-five through this whole area when there's hardly anyone else around seems really…boring."
(I know. Sometimes I'm my own worst enemy.)
He shook his head and gave Fancy's ears one more scratch. "Speeding is speeding, Maggie. And next time it'll be a ticket. Got it?" He held my gaze until I answered.
"Got it."
"Alright then. Have a nice day."
"You too."
As I watched him walk back to his car—a very pleasing sight if I do say so myself—I wondered whether he really meant it or not. I mean, would he actually give me a ticket for going just three over the speed limit? That seemed hardly worth the paper he'd have to write it on.
But did I really want to test him? Because I was pretty sure Officer Matthew Barnes could go toe to toe with me without flinching. And it would be just like him to give me a ticket for two over the speed limit out of sheer stubborn principle.
Men. Making my life miserable for thirty-six years and counting.
Chapter Two
I waited until Officer Barnes had headed off to his little speed trap hideaway and then pulled back onto the highway and drove the last five minutes to the barkery, keeping the odometer right at forty-five the whole way.
It drove me nuts to go that slow, but I did it. Just in case.
It also meant I pulled up in front of the barkery about five minutes late. Still, I took a moment to admire my dream come true before going inside. (Not too long of one, because Fancy and her high-pitched "get me out of this car" bark are not a joke. She's a hundred-and-forty pounds of ear-splitting whine when she wants to be, which is pretty much anytime the car stops moving.)
I had to admit, the sign guy had been right when he told me that script font I wanted to use wasn't easy to read. But I didn't care; I liked the look of our sign. Especially the two little Newfie cartoon heads on either side of the text. They made me smile every time I saw them.
We have two separate entrances in the front. On the left-hand side is the café entrance. On the right-hand side is the barkery entrance. Both sides also have a large picture window that gives customers a great view of the mountain range to the east.
The café side is just a regular old-fashioned café serving the best cinnamon rolls in the world as well as a delicious soup and panini lunch combo. The barkery side, my brainchild, is a bakery for dogs.
(People still don't get the concept and are constantly telling me that there's a typo in our sign—one of the drawbacks to being in a tourist town where there are new people coming through every week.)
On the café side we have cute little tables throughout and a long counter at the back where people can place to-go orders. That side of the place has a full kitchen where Jamie makes her delicious food. There's also a small office.
Right by the to-go counter is an area where you can pass through to the barkery side. I have one of those large glass display cases like you'd see in any good bakery, expect mine has dog treats instead of people treats. There's also an area between the two spaces with a whole collection of kitschy touristy items like mugs with our logo on them and pre-packaged dog treats.
The barkery side has seating, too, but the tables are more sturdy and there's a lot more open space so canine companions can lie next to their owners in comfort. There's also a series of waist-high cubbies along the far wall where people can leave their dogs if they need to run to the restroom or just want their dog to have a more peaceful place to rest while they eat.
Fancy has her own special cubby in the back corner with an extra-large dog bed and food and water bowls. There's also a small private dog run out back that Jamie and I use for Fancy and for Jamie's golden retriever puppy, Lulu.
I call it a dog run, but it's actually about sixty feet long and fifteen feet deep with six-foot wooden fencing at both ends and a stream on the far side that has a large grove of aspens and evergreens beyond that. It's our little after-work oasis. We have a bench set up against the back wall where we can sit and have a beer at the end of a long day while the dogs run around and play. (For a whole five minutes until they get tired and take a nap—puppies and Newfies are a lot alike in that respect, although Lulu is quickly growing out of her puppy phase.)
All in all, it's perfect. My dream come true. And a heckuva lot better than the steel and concrete office building in downtown DC where I'd spent the last five years of my life. Let me tell you, sprawling mountains make a lot better view than some bricked in alleyway that you can only see through the door of the nearest office. And the sound of birds singing beats the seemingly perpetual sound of sirens as some big shot or other makes their way through town.
At least for me. Power and money were never my thing, so I failed kinda miserably at the whole nine to five, corporate ladder gig.
Running a barely thriving business with my best friend was far better. As long as we could keep that barely thriving part going. We had about six months to get things running in the black or we were going to be having some interesting talks with the bank.
But all my worries were forgotten the minute I walked through the front door and was assailed by the delicious smell of cinnamon rolls. That sweet and spicy combination is the best in the world.
You know they actually did a study once that the sexiest smell for men was cinnamon rolls? Seriously. Men find that smell sexy. (In theory. There was a point in college where I used to wear vanilla lotion and cinnamon oil to test that study out in the real world, but can't say it worked. Instead it led to more than one very confused conversation about smelling cookies baking nearby where that shouldn't have been possible. Live and learn. And don't trust everything you hear on the news. Turns out at the end of the day the scent men really like the most is a pumpkin pie lavender combination. Who knew?)
Anyway.
I was in my happy place. At work with my best friend and my dog, with a fresh-baked cinnamon roll dripping gooey frosting just waiting to be tasted. I grabbed a Coke and proceeded to eat my oh-so-healthy breakfast while Jamie doled out coffee, muffins, and cinnamon rolls to her steady stream of regular early morning customers, her long brown hair braided back from her face and an actual genuine smile on her face the whole time.
I didn't know how she did it, being that nice to that many strangers, but she genuinely didn't seem to mind.
Meanwhile, the barkery side sat empty and bereft of visitors. I tried to tell myself it was early in the morning and you can't expect people to run to the store at that time of day to buy a dog biscuit, but it still hurt nonetheless.
Fortunately, I had a handful of custom orders to process from the website and Abe and Evan, the owners of the Creek Inn, had called in a big order for barkery bites and doggie delights—my two most popular dog treats, both involving liberal amounts of peanut butter—that they planned to pick up later in the day. So I kept busy while Fancy snored away in her cubby, one paw thrust into the air like a salute.
Chapter Three
By the time Greta and Hans, my only steady daily customers, arrived around one I was ready to take a break and so was Jamie.
I wasn't quite sure how old Greta was. Older than me (I'm thirty-six), but not by much if I had to guess. Then again, the woman was obscenely rich, so there was a possibility that she'd spent very good money to look as good as she did.
She had light blonde hair that I was pretty sure was her natural color and dressed in trim slacks and bright colored tops. She always had her makeup done, and the diamond on her wedding ring was so large I was surprised it didn't weigh her hand down.
She came to the barkery around one every day with Hans and would usually stay until three or even four when we locked up. If it was a slow enough day we'd sit and chat. On busier days she always had a book or her laptop to occupy her. She liked sitti
ng in the front window with the view of the mountains, which was perfect for us because it attracted customers who saw that we were in fact open and that other people were happy to eat our food.
She had to be one of the most intriguing people I'd ever met. (Any woman who's been married so many times she can't keep track of how many husbands she's had is a woman with some fun stories to tell.)
I suspected from a few things she'd said that her younger days were spent doing things that weren't exactly legal. Especially the one comment she'd made about how she'd figured out at some point that it's far easier to marry a rich man and ask him for the jewelry you want than to sneak into his house in the middle of the night and steal what he chose to buy for himself or his latest wife.
I laughed it off at the time, but I'm pretty sure she meant it. Maybe that's why there aren't a whole lot of female jewel thieves out there…
She doted on Hans, her Irish wolfhound. He was as tall as Fancy, but much, much skinnier. I swear there was nothing to him except that wiry gray hair of his. But I wouldn't mess with him. There was something about him that made me think he could take down a bear if the need arose. He was sweet, don't get me wrong, but there was an iron will hiding behind those soft brown eyes of his.
And he was scarily well-behaved. He'd lie at her feet for hours straight without fidgeting or crying. (Fancy would definitely not do that. She did well enough in her cubby, but every couple of hours she would cry to be let out back or be given a little attention. And if one of her favorite people walked in—like Matt—she barked up a storm until they came to say hi.)
While Greta, Jamie, and I shared a late lunch of panini and soup I filled them both in on my little run-in with Officer Barnes, playing it up for all the laughs I could.
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