Too Big to Die

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  About the author

  Like the character Odelia Grey, Sue Ann Jaffarian is a middle-aged, plus-size paralegal. In addition to the Odelia Grey mystery series, she is the author of the paranormal Ghost of Granny Apples mystery series and the Madison Rose Vampire mystery series. Sue Ann is also nationally sought after as a motivational and humorous speaker. She lives and works in Los Angeles, California.

  Visit Sue Ann on the internet at

  www.sueannjaffarian.com

  and

  www.sueannjaffarian.blogspot.com

  Copyright Information

  Too Big to Die: An Odelia Grey Mystery © 2017 by Sue Ann Jaffarian.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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.

  First e-book edition © 2017

  E-book ISBN: 9780738718842

  Cover illustration by Ellen Lawson

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Jaffarian, Sue Ann, author.

  Title: Too big to die : an Odelia Grey mystery / Sue Ann Jaffarian.

  Description: First Edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2017] |

  Series: Odelia Grey mysteries ; #12 |

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017038803 (print) | LCCN 2017042168 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738732312 () | ISBN 9780738718842 (alk. paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Grey, Odelia (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Rescue

  dogs—Fiction. | Social media—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction.

  | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3610.A359 (ebook) | LCC PS3610.A359 T63 2017 (print) |

  DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017038803

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.midnightinkbooks.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  To Midnight Ink, the publisher who saw something worthwhile in both Odelia and me and packaged us up and presented us to the world. Thank you.

  one

  He’d won the duck in a poker game. That’s what my husband had claimed two nights ago as he proudly presented me with the yellow fuzzball.

  “Greg Stevens,” I’d told him sternly as I watched our dog and cat eye the newcomer with interest, “what in the world are we going to do with this little guy?”

  “Keep him as a pet. What else?” He rolled his wheelchair over to me and held out the creature. “He even comes with some food.”

  The duckling was so tiny and sweet, I couldn’t help but take it. I brought the little animal up to my face and rubbed its softness against my cheek while it emitted tiny squeaky quacks. Its downy coat was like velvet against my skin. I giggled when its small beak nibbled the end of my nose.

  “Cute ducklings grow into large, annoying, and noisy ducks,” I reminded him as I continued cuddling the small bundle that fit into the palm of my hand like a fragile egg. “Best served with orange sauce.”

  As if afraid I’d cook the little bugger up right that minute, Greg snatched him out of my hand and cuddled him against his chest. “Don’t listen to the mean lady,” he cooed to the duckling. “She’ll do no such thing.”

  “Maybe not,” I told him, laughing, “but Muffin is eyeing that duck like it’s prey. Our cat may be small, but she’s still a cat, and cats hunt. Remember what she did to that lizard last week? Until that little guy is bigger, it’s going to be duck-hunting season around here.”

  Greg looked from the duckling down at our cat. Muffin was on the small side and a loving, cuddly animal with a soft purr and large, curious eyes, but she was also a bruiser when it came to doing feline things like hunting and protecting her territory. Even Wainwright, our eighty-pound golden retriever, knew better than to mess with her when she was in jungle cat mode.

  Greg cut his eyes to me. They were sad with the realization that I was right. “So what do you suggest we do?” he asked. “Cage Dumpster until he’s big enough to go a few rounds in the ring with Muffin?”

  “Dumpster?”

  “That’s what I named him,” Greg explained. “Matt said he found him near a Dumpster a few days ago in a box. No idea where he came from. He brought him to the poker game for show and tell.”

  “And somehow little Dumpster ended up as part of the pot?” I asked with suspicion. “Matt must not have been having a good night.”

  Greg laughed. “Actually, he had a very good night. But his wife told him to take the duck to the game and find him a home. He wasn’t to bring him back.” Greg looked a little sheepish. I knew that look. It was the look he got whenever I proved him wrong on something. “Dumpster can be a bit noisy,” he finally admitted.

  “Yeah,” I said, eyeing Greg. “I can tell. He hasn’t shut up since he got here. As he gets older, those cute little chirps are going to become louder, more insistent quacks.”

  I took a seat and watched Greg cuddle the little bundle of yellow fluff. It pulled at my heart. If we didn’t nip this in the bud right now, we’d both be convinced that Dumpster should become a part of our family. Greg and I both love animals, but cats and dogs were different than ducks. We live near the beach in an urban area with homes crammed together. As Dumpster got bigger and noisier, our neighbors might not be too happy about living next to Old MacDonald’s farm.

  “I think we should shut this little guy up in the guest bathroom for now,” I said, sad myself. “Maybe in the tub with some food and a big pan of water. It will give him some good room to move around and still confine him, at least until we can find a home for him. We can move Muffin’s litter box out of there for a few days.”

  “Of course you’re right, sweetheart,” Greg said with a deep sigh. “I’ll make some calls. I know a guy who lives on a nice piece of property near San Diego. He’s a client and he has a few kids. Maybe I can talk him into taking Dumpster. If not, there’s a guy on one of the basketball teams that lives in Hemet. He might take him. I think he has lots of animals.” He paused, then said, “How about your mother? She loves animals.” His voice was full of hope, and I could tell he really wanted to keep Dumpster in the family. My mother lives in a retirement community not far from us. “Her place allows one pet under twenty po
unds. Dumpster shouldn’t get that large.”

  “Ha!” I said with amusement, thinking about my septuagenarian mother with a duck. I’m sure she’d like the idea just to be different. Knowing her, she’d probably even manage to leash-train it. “I think that pet policy only refers to things like cats and dogs, and fish, providing they stay in their tank. Remember last year when one of her neighbors brought in a big snake and it got loose? The whole place was in a tizzy. I’m surprised none of those old folks keeled over from fright.” I laughed. “Seaside barely allows us on their property, Greg, and even then we can’t bring Wainwright.” I paused. “What about your parents?”

  Greg fixed me with a one-eyed stare. It was his get real look. Greg’s parents, Ron and Renee, are lovely people but fairly proper. Renee Stevens runs a tight ship at her house. They were the opposite of my quirky nonconformist mother, even though they all got along surprisingly well and had become friends over the years. “Seriously, can you see my parents with a duck?” he asked.

  “Only on a plate in a fine French restaurant,” I said with my own laugh. “Not to mention they travel a lot.” I gave it more thought. “How about one of those sanctuary farms?” I suggested. “I know there’s at least one here in Southern California.”

  “Don’t they mostly take in abused animals and animals from factory farms?” Greg asked.

  “I believe so,” I said. “But we could give them a call. I hardly think they’d turn down such a cutie as this.” I smiled at Dumpster, who answered with a tiny quack to prove my point. “Especially if Dumpster came with a nice donation.”

  The next morning I called the sanctuary farm while Greg called his client and the basketball guy in Hemet. Both the farm and the fellow in Hemet said yes. We decided to go with Tip Willis, the guy from Hemet who played on one of the other wheelchair basketball teams, because he said his kids had been wanting a couple of ducks. The only hitch was that they were going out of town for a big family reunion and couldn’t take Dumpster for about a week or so. He asked if we could hang on to the little guy until then.

  Winner. Winner. Duckling Dinner.

  My only concern was that we’d get too attached to Dumpster to let him go when the time came. But we’d cross that emotional pond when we got to it.

  two

  June in California, especially for those of us who live near the ocean, can be on the cool side. It’s something people living in other parts of the country don’t quite understand. They think California is sunny and in the low 80s all year long; not true. We can get quite chilly in winter—not Arctic cold like some places, but definitely cold enough for jackets. In late May and June a marine layer comes in, blanketing most of the coastline in SoCal and keeping high temperatures at bay. It can even be gloomy and damp. This annual weather event is called “June gloom” and sometimes extends into early July. This year the gloom broke shortly after the Fourth of July. It had managed to dull the viewing of coastal firework displays, but it kept us cool during a barbecue at our home with friends. Now, just a few days later, temps were soaring like a rocket to the moon and weather reports were saying the heat wave could last for at least five days, maybe a whole week.

  Greg and I were running errands the Saturday after the Fourth. We started early, with breakfast at a favorite place almost next to where Greg gets the van serviced in Long Beach, the next city over from Seal Beach, where we live. We left the van in their capable hands and walked/rolled over to grab some eggs. From there it was to a home-repair place for some hardware stuff for a few small repairs around the house. After that we were off to get food for our animals and a bit of wood shavings to make Dumpster more comfortable in the tub. Following the pet store, Greg and I would finish our rounds at the grocery store, then it would be home to unpack everything and cool off. The rest of the weekend we planned to stay home, cool and comfy.

  Dumpster had been with us a few days and was quickly devouring the food Matt had passed along to Greg. I’d gone online to see what to feed the little quacker and had learned a lot of interesting things, but I also learned that most urban pet stores didn’t carry what we needed. They carried a lot of pet food that contained duck, but nothing for ducks. I ended up ordering Dumpster’s food from a farm supply company with fast shipping. We wanted to get a good supply to give to Tip and his family, kind of like a duck dowry. I also supplemented his pellets with treats of grapes. One thing for sure, Dumpster was stealing our hearts. A couple of times we brought him out to the living room for supervised visits with the rest of the family. The little duckling was quite sociable with Wainwright, who nudged him around with his nose and licked the duckling’s head. Dumpster wanted to make friends with Muffin, but that budding relationship was brought to a halt whenever Muffin decided to bat Dumpster around like a catnip toy.

  Greg pulled the van into a handicapped spot in front of the grocery store. “Well, sweetheart, this is our last stop. I can almost taste the cold beer waiting for me at home.”

  “Waiting for us,” I corrected. We were both sticky with sweat from popping in and out of the van on each errand. Each time we went from a cool van to an air-conditioned store, but the short distance between each was brutal. I could feel perspiration dripping down the curve of my back. It was days like this I wished we had a pool. Our best friends, Seth and Zee Washington, have a pool, but currently their back yard was being relandscaped. The Washingtons usually hosted the Fourth of July barbecue for both of our families and friends, but this year we’d had to move it to our place, which was more cramped but was a fun time anyway.

  We climbed out of the van and were almost to the door of the grocery store when the sound of barking stopped us. We hadn’t brought Wainwright with us. We never took Wainwright on errands when it was hot out because it meant he’d have to spend too much time in the van. It was dangerous to the animal, and in heat like this it didn’t take long for a dog to get heat stroke. The same went for kids, but at least children could be taken inside the store with you. Except for the pet store, Wainwright would have had to sit in the van like a roast in an oven.

  Greg stopped his wheelchair and looked around the parking lot, trying to pinpoint the location of the barking. It wasn’t robust, more like a high-pitched long whimper. Then it would stop; a few seconds later it started up again. It sounded like a small dog. It didn’t take Greg long to zero in on the source of the sound. With a mighty push on his wheels, he headed back across the asphalt separating the parking lot from the store and down the aisle where we’d parked, following the uneven plaintive cries. He finally honed in on a white Mercedes sedan parked just three stalls down from our van. Inside the car a Jack Russell terrier was alternating between panting and whining and was clearly in distress. A single window, the driver’s window, was lowered only about an inch for ventilation, which in this heat wasn’t helping much.

  The parking stall on the driver’s side was empty. Greg wheeled up and tried the doors on that side of the vehicle while I went to the other side of the car and did the same. All held fast. Shifting my sunglasses to the top of my head, I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered into the car, taking stock of the situation. “I don’t see any water in there for him, Greg.”

  “Did you lock your dog inside, pal?” asked a burly Latino man with perspiration beading on his bald head and colorful tattoos running up and down his arms.

  “It’s not our car,” I explained as I kept trying to get a door open. The man tried to help by giving solid yanks on all the doors himself, but none would budge—not even when he raised one foot against the side of the car and tried to leverage with his considerable strength and weight. He tried the trunk, also with no results.

  “That’s inhumane,” a woman with two children said as she passed by.

  “Sweetheart,” Greg called to me as he started to roll toward our van, “call the police. Tell them what’s going on.”

  “Police or fire station?” I asked. “I’ll b
et the fire department could rescue the little guy faster.”

  “Police,” he clarified. “Report vehicle vandalism in progress.”

  I was on the phone explaining the problem to the emergency operator, still not sure where vandalism came into the picture, when Greg returned with the crowbar from our van laid across his legs. Now “vandalism” became as crystal clear as the cloudless blue sky above.

  Greg was wearing a baseball cap against the bright sun. It was dark blue, with Ocean Breeze Graphics stitched across the front in white. Ocean Breeze Graphics was Greg’s graphics and printing company. Along with his partner, Boomer, they owned three shops in three different states—the Denver shop was called Mountain Breeze and the Phoenix shop was Desert Breeze. The hats had been bought when Greg took on the sponsorship of a local Little League team the year before. Each of the shops had supported a team in their community with their own hats. As Greg approached, I took note that he’d turned the cap around, bill side pointing to the rear. He always did that when he was about to get serious about his actions, usually in sports.

  “You want me to help, pal?” the burly man asked Greg, holding out a hand for the crowbar.

  Greg shook his head and flashed him a grin. “Nah, I got this, and with pleasure. But if you would, go to a back window and distract the dog so he doesn’t get hurt from any glass.” The man did as Greg asked, coaxing the little animal into the back seat and talking to him through the glass of the rear passenger’s-side window. With the dog occupied, Greg took his position at the driver’s window. I understood why he chose that window. With it lowered, even a little, it would give easier to blows.

  A few other people had stopped to watch. As Greg raised the crowbar like a bat, he warned the growing crowd, “Stand back, folks, and be ready for the car alarm to go off.”

  With one mighty swing, Greg landed a heavy blow to the window. My husband is very strong in his upper body and works out religiously several days a week to stay that way, in addition to playing wheelchair basketball. He may not have use of his legs, but even in his late forties his upper body is muscled and ripped. Without a shirt, he’s beefcake calendar material.