by Susie Gayle
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A BASKET OF MURDER
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
A Basket
of
Murder
A Pet Shop Mystery
Book Four
By
Susie Gayle
Copyright 2017 Summer Prescott Books
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication nor any of the information herein may be quoted from, nor reproduced, in any form, including but not limited to: printing, scanning, photocopying or any other printed, digital, or audio formats, without prior express written consent of the copyright holder.
**This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places of business, or situations past or present, is completely unintentional.
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A BASKET OF
MURDER
A Pet Shop Mystery Book Four
CHAPTER 1
* * *
“Look, all I’m saying,” Sarah tells me as I pull my SUV into the small parking lot behind the pet shop, “is you should just do it, instead of talking about it.”
“But it’s so hard,” I whine. “I’ve been out of school for, what, sixteen years? What if I fail?”
She shrugs. “Then at least you can say you tried.”
“Meh.” I cut the engine and just sit there, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. Behind me, Rowdy, my adopted fur-baby and former shelter dog, groans and puts a paw over his face. We’ve been having this conversation for a while now; he’s heard it all before.
See, over the past year or so, I’ve had something of a knack for getting involved in things I probably shouldn’t, or being in the wrong place at the wrong time—and it just so happened that I sort of solved a couple of murders. The local chief of police, Patty Mayhew, slipped me a brochure about becoming a private investigator in Maine. Problem is, it requires sixty related course credits—of which I have zero.
“It would be over before you know it,” Sarah insists. “And you have the time; the pet shop is doing just fine.” That part is true. Sarah and I have been dating for the better part of a year, and she’s been the only employee of my store, the Pet Shop Stop, for even longer. Recently I made her full-time and gave her a new title—Business Manager—and she took to it with gusto. Since then business has improved and sales have been up. In fact, outside of some bookkeeping and walking the dogs, I really haven’t had to do much.
I sigh. So much has changed in only a few short months. Not only with the notion of going back to school and Sarah handling so much of the responsibility at the shop, but also in our personal lives. She’s been staying over at my place, a rented house on Saltwater Drive, pretty frequently lately; days at a time. That’s certainly no complaint on my part. Though I have to admit that the first time I saw the pink toothbrush sitting on my bathroom sink, it weirded me out a little.
I’m by no means afraid of commitment—I was married once before, for seven years, but it ended badly. So I feel somewhat justified in taking things slower this time around.
Anyway, it started with a toothbrush, and soon it was a Sarah drawer in my bureau. Then her favorite coffee mug was in my cupboard, and soon after, she bought a new set of bed sheets—mine were apparently an embarrassingly low thread-count—that she referred to as our sheets. What all this is culminating in, if I had to guess, is that Sarah is wondering when we’re going to take this relationship to the next level. You know what they say; we’re not getting any younger. (Which, by the way, is about the poorest excuse for anyone anywhere to do anything, ever.)
“Will, I don’t want you to feel pressured to do anything,” she says, putting her hand on mine. I look up sharply and her too-green eyes bore into mine. Is she reading my mind? No; she’s talking about the classes. “If you’re not comfortable doing it, then don’t do it. It should be what you want.” At least I’m pretty sure she’s still talking about the classes.
“I just need more time to think about it,” I tell her. “Come on; let’s open the shop.”
The three of us—me, Sarah and Rowdy—get out of the car and head around to the front of the building. The Pet Shop Stop isn’t very large, or even all that impressive, but I like it that way. It’s a fairly unassuming little place on Center Street in downtown Seaview Rock, our charming coastal town. Most of our business comes from residents, local pet owners that need supplies regularly. Sure, they could go to Sprawl-Mart just outside of town, or twenty-five minutes down the highway where the nearest big-box pet store is, but people around here are real good about supporting small businesses.
The other part of our patronage we get from tourism, weekend road-trippers that come to see our delightful seaside town. Seaview Rock used to be a tiny fishing village until a few hatcheries opened up and the area blossomed in the mid-nineteenth century. Almost all of the architecture in town has remained in the style of that era, and we work pretty hard to keep our streets and shoreline clean, all of which makes it very alluring for folks to stop by for a visit.
And it’s because of those folks (who tend to be impulse buyers) that we keep a veritable menagerie of animals—pups, kittens, chinchillas, ferrets, rabbits, guinea pigs, hamsters, gerbils, turtles, parakeets, some small colorful fish, and a handful of lizards.
But not snakes. Never snakes. If there are two things I have in common with Indiana Jones, it’s that I don’t care for snakes, and I look darn good in a Stetson.
As we’re rounding the corner toward the building, Rowdy sniffs the air twice and bounds ahead of us. Sarah and I exchange a glance; Rowdy’s a smart dog and I’ve trained him to walk well off-leash, so him getting excited over something and running ahead is cause for at least mild concern.
We hurry after him and find him just outside the door to the pet shop, his nose buried in a wicker basket, sniffing deep breaths as he pokes his snout around a tiny blue blanket.
“What is that?” Sarah wonders aloud.
I gently pull Rowdy away by the collar as Sarah picks up the basket, lifts the blanket, and gasps.
“What is it?”
She looks up at me with her eyes wide. Then she reaches in and takes out a very tiny ball of fluff.
Her face lights up in an enormous smile. “It’s a kitty!”
CHAPTER 2
* * *
I unlock the door to the pet shop and we bring the poor little thing inside out
of the cold. For a lot of places, late March signals the end of winter and the first signs of spring. Not in coastal Maine.
She sets the basket down on the counter and searches it for any contents other than the blanket and cat. “There’s no note or anything.”
“Weird. Why would someone bring it here, and not the shelter?” Our local animal shelter, which Sarah volunteers at a couple times a week, is pretty great as far as shelters go. They’re no-kill, and they actively seek adoption outlets rather than the other way around.
She holds the tiny kitten aloft and peers at it. “Well, first of all, he can’t be more than two or three weeks old,” she says. “Maybe whoever left him here thought we’d take better care of him.”
The little kitten is gray and his eyes, though tiny and squinting, are a bright blue. I notice something else about him, too. “Sarah, look.” I point out one of his hind paws—or lack thereof. The kitten only has three feet.
“Oh my god! The poor thing. You think he was in an accident or something?”
“No,” I say slowly, inspecting the missing paw. “Looks like he was born without it.”
She turns to face me and bats her eyelashes a few times and I know what’s coming next.
“Sarah,” I tell her gently, “we can’t—”
“What should we call him?”
“Oh, please don’t name him.” Look, I love animals, big and small. (Even snakes—I just love them from a safe distance.) But as soon as she names him, I know exactly what’s going to happen: one, she’s going to get attached. And two, that little kitten won’t be going anywhere.
“Let’s call him Basket!” she says.
And there it is.
“Sarah, listen. You can’t have pets at your place, and I’m not home enough to take care of a baby kitten. And we both know I can’t rightfully sell this cat without knowing where it came from. The only thing to do here is to bring him to the shelter. You know them; they’ll take good care of him.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. There is another option. He could be our temporary little shop-cat.”
“Sarah…”
“But he’s just a baby,” she says, staring into the kitten’s little blue eyes. “He can’t even eat solid food yet. He needs love and attention.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea—”
“Fine,” she says, and she turns the kitten to face me. “Then you tell him that. Tell him we refuse to keep him around, even if just for a little while, and feed him and take care of him and love him.” She looks at me sternly, holding the hapless three-legged kitten aloft. “Go ahead. Tell him how cruel the world is. He’s waiting.”
“I…” Ugh. That’s totally not fair. “Alright, alright. Jeez. We’ll keep him around—just for a few weeks, until he’s eating solid food and okay on his own. ”
“Yay!” Sarah gently puts the cat back in the basket and throws her arms around my neck. Then she hurries over to the shelves of cat supplies. “Alright, we’ll need a little bed, and a bottle, and kitten milk…”
I glance down at the tiny beast. “Basket, huh?” He looks up at me and yawns, punctuating it with a tiny squeak. “And what do you think of all this?” I ask Rowdy, sitting near my feet. He groans and retreats to his own bed, behind the counter. “Yeah. Me too, buddy.”
***
After the unexpected arrival of Basket, the rest of the day is fairly ordinary. Almost every customer that comes in is utterly delighted by the ridiculously cute cat that Sarah carries around almost nonstop, either cradling him in an arm as she feeds him from a bottle or tucking him into the large pocket in the front of her apron.
It doesn’t take long to discover that every time Basket yawns—which is a lot—he lets out a tiny little squeak, which prompts Sarah to squeal and say, “Will! He did it again!”
By the end of the day I am very much aware that we now have a shop-cat, and that there’s a very high probability that Basket isn’t going anywhere.
Eight o’clock is normally quitting time, so as we’re doing our closing duties—feeding the animals, making sure they have water, sweeping the floor—I ask Sarah what she wants to do for dinner. We usually end up eating pretty late on weekdays, on account of only being two of us to run the shop.
Sarah purses her lips and glances at the floor. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you. I have, uh, plans tonight.”
“You do?” I don’t mean it to sound like Sarah doesn’t have a life beyond me, though it sort of comes out that way.
“Yeah. I’m going out with the girls.”
“The girls?” I don’t mean it to sound Sarah doesn’t have friends beyond me, though it sort of comes out that way. “I’ve never heard you refer to anyone as ‘the girls.’ Who are these girls?”
“You know,” she says casually. Then she adds quietly, “Anna… and Karen.”
I actually drop the broom in my hands and it clatters to the floor. “You’re going out with my ex-wife?”
She shoots me a sidelong glance. “Don’t be so melodramatic. It’s not a big deal. We’ve been talking, and…”
“You’ve been talking?”
“Yes, Will. Talking. Like grown-ups do. Anyway, we decided to try that new Mexican place together, Holy Frijole. I hear they have great margaritas…”
“Hang on. I’m still processing this.”
She scoffs. “Process away. I’ve got to go.” She retrieves her purse from behind the counter, unzips it, and dumps the contents next to the cash register.
“Oh no, Sarah, please don’t—”
Too late. Basket the shop-cat is now Basket the purse-cat.
“What?” she says. “I can’t leave him here alone tonight.” The tiny kitten’s head peeks out from the top of her purse. He yawns and squeaks, and she giggles. “Why don’t you call up Sammy and go to the Runside?”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “That sounds good.” What I really mean is, a Whale of an Ale sounds good right now. “You know, that cat is going to think you’re its mother.”
She thinks for a moment. “Well, maybe I will be.” She hangs her apron on a hook, pulls on her jacket, and carefully shrugs the purse onto her shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” She gives me a kiss and heads out the door.
I pick up my broom and finish sweeping, thinking all the while. Sarah and Karen, hanging out? Doing things together? Being… friends? Will they talk about me? Oh my god… will they compare notes?
In my mind’s eye, I can imagine them at a table, drinking margaritas and sharing nachos, Karen saying how I used to wear socks to bed because my feet get cold, and then Sarah laughing, telling her that I still do that.
What a nightmare.
I shake the thoughts from my head and take off my apron. “Come on, Ro-Ro,” I call to Rowdy. “Let’s go to the Runside.”
CHAPTER 3
* * *
The Runside Bar & Grill is to Seaview Rock as the Cheers bar is to Boston. No offense to any wine sippers or margarita admirers, but if you’re a home-brewed-beer kind of person, or a straight-no-chaser sort, the Runside is where you’d be. It helps that they serve up fresh seafood, too, caught by the owner’s son by taking a short walk to the next-door pier.
On my way over, I call up Sammy Boy, my best friend, my confidant, the Banquo to my Macbeth (first-act Banquo, of course). Sammy owns and operates a small barber shop in town, the old-school sort that smells like talcum powder and shaving cream. He’s unrivaled in the empathetic listening department, so naturally I can’t wait to bend his ear about this latest development.
“Hey!” he says loudly into the phone. There’s some noise in the background, a lot of chatter.
“Hey yourself. I’m heading to the Runside.”
“Perfect! We’re already here. See you soon.” He hangs up.
We? Who’s we? Looks like I might have an audience for my woes.
Look, some people might think I’m overreacting—and maybe I am. The trut
h is, Karen and I were married for almost seven years, during which I opened the Pet Shop Stop. I was the sole employee of a burgeoning business, so yeah, I worked a lot. She thought I cared more about the animals than I did her, and in order to get my attention, went and had an affair with some guy from Portland.
She got my attention, and a divorce, too. That was about four years ago. Turns out the guy she left me for went and had an affair on her, prompting her to move back to Seaview Rock. And if all of that isn’t awkward enough, just a few short months ago Karen was the prime suspect in a murder case and Sarah, my Sarah, went and bailed her out. It seems that since then they’ve been talking. And now they’re getting enchiladas together.
Like I said, a lot has changed in just a few short months.
“Relax,” I tell myself aloud. “We’re all mature adults. No reason we can’t be civil.” But then I remind myself that when Karen first came back to Seaview Rock, I did try to be civil—and she responded by trying to break Sarah and me up.
“Past is the past, though,” I say. “Right, Rowdy?”
He lets out a little grunt from the backseat behind me.
When I get to the Runside, the place is packed—I forgot it was Thursday, dollar-draft night. I spot Sammy at a small round table near the rear, seated with two other familiar faces.
“Hey, guys,” I greet them as I take a seat.
“Will’s here!” one of the other two guys, Tony, throws his hands up. I guess he’s already had a few. “How you doin’, pal?” He claps me heartily on the back.
“Tony, Jerry, nice to see you.” Tony and Jerry are a couple of mechanics that work at the local auto repair shop, Sockets & Sprockets. They’re also Runside regulars, usually coming right from the shop and showing up in their gray grease-spattered jumpsuits—as they are on this occasion.