Death by Chocolate Lab

by Bethany Blake

  “Yes, he was loyal. They were a good pair.”

  Piper sounded wistful. I’d upset her by bringing up Axis and Steve.

  “Hey, do you want to grab dinner tonight?” I asked, trying to cheer her up. “We could go to Franco’s. I’ll call Mom, too. I’m sure she’ll want to celebrate my first successful real estate deal.”

  Piper was at the door, pulling on a light jacket. She frowned. “You didn’t really sell . . . ?”

  “I honestly think he might buy it,” I said. “It’s perfect for him. It’s got an open floor plan, a big private lot, and a masculine vibe.”

  Piper zipped up her Windbreaker. “You know you sound like Mom, right? Except for the word vibe. Maeve Templeton would say ‘milieu.’”

  I didn’t dignify that second comparison to my mother with a response. I was clearly the complete opposite of Mom. “So, Franco’s?”

  “Sure,” Piper agreed. “You make the reservations—after you walk all those dogs at least two miles. Artie’s getting fat.”

  I looked down to see the Chihuahua dozing on the hardwood floor, his intact ear bent at an awkward angle, his top teeth jutting, and his belly bulging.

  “I guess I’m feeding him too well,” I said. “We’ll walk extra today.”

  “And please check your mail, too,” Piper suggested, pointing to a basket near the coffeemaker. “You have quite a few letters, including one from Volkswagen. I think they finally recalled your van.”

  I couldn’t tell if my sister was joking. She didn’t do that very often, but when she did attempt humor, it was usually deadpan.

  “I’ll go through everything,” I promised, reaching for the basket. “In fact, I’ll get the mail out of the way first.”

  “Good.”

  Piper headed out the door, while I began sorting through the envelopes addressed to me.

  Reminder about unpaid traffic ticket.

  Pet Sitter’s World magazine.

  Notice regarding overdue student loan.

  I set those things aside, planning to deal with one of them later, then dug into the basket for the next envelope.

  It was business size, but the address was handwritten. And there was no return address.

  That was weird.

  Curious, I slipped my finger under the flap to unseal the letter.

  Removing the folded piece of paper, I opened it—and gasped.

  Chapter 71

  I sank to the floor, sitting cross-legged, and the dogs gathered around me. Socrates took the prime spot at my right side, resting his head on my knee, and Artie jumped into my lap, while Macduff, Hamlet, and Iago pressed as close as they could, too.

  I hardly noticed the canine cocoon they were forming around me.

  I was absorbed in the letter I’d received from Giulia Alberti.

  I should’ve recognized her distinctive, elegant script.

  Chapter 72

  I folded the letter, silently wishing Giulia the best as she started her new life, although I was pretty sure that with her business savvy and arsenal of biscotti recipes, she’d land on her feet.

  Carefully freeing myself from all the dogs, I rose and returned the note to the basket so it wouldn’t get lost before I could share it with Jonathan. Then I tore the envelope into little pieces and threw those in the trash, getting rid of the postmark on the off chance that the police would want to track Giulia down. I thought it would be better for Giulia if no one even knew in which direction she’d headed.

  “Once again, girl code trumps legal code,” I told the dogs, who were all standing at the door, clearly eager to walk. Artie was spinning in frantic circles, a string of drool hanging from his overbite, and even Socrates was restless. He shifted on his big paws, and his droopy eyes said, “I am prepared for an outing at your earliest convenience.”

  I was convinced that if Socrates could speak English, he would talk like one of my former philosophy professors, Dr. Orson Pennington, who wore a lot of tweed, smoked a pipe, and spoke with a vaguely British accent, although his online faculty profile said he’d been born in Cleveland.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I told the dogs.

  Reaching for a bunch of leashes that hung on a peg near the door, I chose three and began to clip them to the rottweilers’ collars. “Sorry, guys,” I said, securing Macduff. “But I don’t quite trust you to obey my ‘Hold, enough!’ if you see a squirrel.”

  Macduff woofed, like he accepted the apology.

  “Come on,” I told them all, opening the door. “Let’s go.”

  Artie darted out, and the rest of us followed, pausing for a moment on the patio to adjust to the gloomy day. The chilly gray mist swirled around me, and I debated going back inside to get a jacket. Then I decided we’d all warm up once we got moving.

  But which way?

  I looked around the property, trying to pick a direction.

  We could follow the road down the hill. But that would mean following it back up, too.

  That might be a bit too much exercise for Socrates’s short legs. I would be fine.

  Another option would be to cut across the fields, but Mr. Peachy had fallen behind on the mowing. The grass was far too high for Artie to navigate.

  Then I turned toward the most logical alternative: the trails that led through the woods.

  “What do you guys think?” I asked the dogs.

  I wasn’t too eager to follow those paths, especially on such a dismal day. Then again, it was mid-morning, and I’d be accompanied by three rottweilers . . . who had failed to protect Virginia.

  “I am being a total scaredy-cat,” I admitted to the dogs, who were watching me expectantly. “What did Seneca say? ‘We suffer more from imagination than reality’?”

  Artie obviously didn’t care about a first-century Roman philosopher’s opinions on fear. And he wasn’t scared of the woods or anything that might lurk within them. He really needed to use the canine facilities, and he scurried off, headed for the nearest tree.

  “I guess it’s decided,” I said, signaling for the rottweilers to follow. “Trails, it is!”

  I tried to sound cheerful. Yet I couldn’t shake a nagging feeling of misgiving as we entered under the thick canopy of branches and leaves.

  Chapter 73

  “See? We’re fine,” I reassured the dogs, who didn’t seem nervous at all. Well, Socrates looked uneasy to me. His tail was dragging lower than usual, and his head was sweeping back and forth as he scanned the surroundings. “There’s nothing to be scared of here,” I promised. “Nothing!”

  I kept telling myself that, but as we reached the spot where I’d last seen Virginia alive, a shiver went down my spine. Even the rottweilers, who were walking so nicely, had seemed different that night. I remembered how their eyes had glittered.

  I glanced down at Hamlet, who was right by my side, and he raised his face, so I could see that his eyes were quite normal. Still, I decided that we would turn back and walk down the hill. On second thought, a little extra exercise might benefit Socrates.

  Before I could turn around, though, all the dogs stopped in their tracks, their ears pricked, as if they’d heard something.

  I stopped, too, and tried to listen.

  I couldn’t hear or see anything, which didn’t make me feel better.

  Then the rottweilers strained against their leashes, and Macduff whined, a high, nervous sound.

  “Let’s go,” I said, giving their leashes a tug. “Retreat! Advance!”

  I was starting to get scared, and I couldn’t think of the proper command.

  It didn’t matter. Macduff, Hamlet, and Iago pulled harder, trying to go farther into the woods, while Artie stood at attention, his whole body quaking even more than usual. He was facing down a path I rarely took.

  “Socrates . . . ?” I looked to the most sensible member of our party, hoping he would offer me some sort of guidance. I really didn’t understand what was happening. “How about we head home?”

  I expected the pru
dent basset hound to support my decision to go back to the house.

  But he didn’t do that.

  For the second time in just a few days, he ran—right down the path I didn’t want to take.

  I had no choice but to follow him, especially since the rottweilers started running, too, hauling me in their wake. I probably shouldn’t have wrapped their leashes around my hands.

  Artie also took off at a sprint and quickly caught up to Socrates.

  I had stumbled along for about fifty yards, trying futilely to call them all back, when I heard the noise that their sensitive ears had picked up first.

  The sound of barking.

  A deep, repeated woof, which I swore I recognized.

  Chapter 74

  “Axis!” I cried, bursting into Mr. Peachy’s cottage, along with Socrates and Artie. I’d taken just a moment to tie the rottweilers to the railings that enclosed the porch, so we wouldn’t overwhelm the chocolate Lab. “It’s really you!”

  Axis was wriggling like crazy, and I knelt down next to him and held out my arms. He let me embrace him but kept struggling to lick my face, nearly bowling me over.

  Swept up in the excitement, Artie was popping up and down and yipping wildly, while Socrates—exhausted from leading us to Axis—plopped down onto his stomach, sighed, and let his muzzle drop onto his paws.

  “Oh, Axis,” I said, hugging him and scratching behind his ears. “I was starting to think Piper was right, and you were gone.” I pushed him away so I could look into his brown eyes. “But what are you doing here?”

  Of course, he couldn’t tell me that, and as he began to play with Artie, I stood up and looked around Mr. Peachy’s home. I’d never been inside the cottage before, and it was perhaps the cutest little place I’d ever seen.

  A small fireplace with arched stonework graced the corner of the miniature living room, which was just big enough for an overstuffed love seat and a worn wooden rocking chair. A tightly spiraling staircase led up to a cozy loft under the eaves. I could imagine how soothing the rain would sound on the tin roof at night. And the kitchen, off the living room, had just enough space for a small spindle-legged table and two chairs, perfect for chatting with a friend over a cup of tea. Mr. Peachy had painted the cabinets a soft shade of blue green, and pots of herbs were growing on the windowsill. The kitchen door led to a tiny screened porch, where more plants grew next to a wicker chair and matching side table.

  “What a sweet little space . . .”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  I spun around, my hand pressed against my chest. Then I smiled. “Hey, Mr. Peachy! I didn’t even hear you come in. I guess Artie and Axis were making too much noise.” I glanced at the dogs, who were alternately tussling and nuzzling each other. “They seem to really get along.”

  Mr. Peachy removed his cap with one hand and hung it on a hook near the door. I had a feeling that ritual was repeated quite often. “It’s okay, Daphne.” He smiled, too. “You’re always welcome here.”

  “Where did you find Axis?” I asked. “He’s been missing for so long. Did he just show up . . . ?”

  I didn’t quite finish that question, because Socrates was once again acting strangely. I’d thought he’d been sleeping, but he suddenly stood up and walked to the kitchen—giving Mr. Peachy as wide a berth as possible in the tight quarters.

  He stopped in front of the cabinets, near the sink, and pointed his nose upward.

  At first I assumed he wanted a drink after his run, and I followed him, asking over my shoulder, “Is it okay if I get Socrates some water?”

  As I entered the kitchen, though, I saw something on the counter.

  A bottle of pills.

  Lysodren.

  My heart stopped beating for a moment, and I turned slowly to face Mr. Peachy, who had taken a step closer to me, boxing me into the small space.

  “You . . . you didn’t just find Axis, did you?” I asked. My voice was shaky. “You’ve had him for a while, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Peachy said. He had a funny look on his lined face. One that mingled amusement and regret. It was not attractive. “I’ve had him since I killed Steve. Axis wanted to stay by the body, but I couldn’t allow that. He’s such a clever dog. I feared that he would somehow lead the police to me.”

  My stomach iced over, and Artie and Axis stopped playing. Socrates stood stock-still, too.

  “You did . . . what?”

  “I killed Steve Beamus,” Mr. Peachy admitted again. “I had to do it.”

  I took a step back and glanced over my shoulder. I couldn’t see a door leading from the screened porch. It looked like a dead end. I turned back to Mr. Peachy. “Why? Why would you kill him?”

  “He killed Angela,” Mr. Peachy said. “The sweetest lady who ever lived.” Growing thoughtful, he frowned and shook his head wistfully. “She always said I was like family. Took time to talk with me, really talk, even when the Silver Moon was full. And she never gave me pie without adding an extra scoop of ice cream.”

  Unlike Moxie’d done with me, I didn’t shatter his illusions about the ice cream. Apparently, everybody had gotten that treatment, and Angela had made us all feel special.

  She and Mr. Peachy really must’ve shared a bond, though.

  “We used to talk most every night, until Steve ran her off the road!” he snarled.

  His eyes glittered with anger, and his fist, at his side, curled into a tight ball.

  I realized then that his other hand was behind his back and had been the whole time.

  Oh, no . . .

  “You created the memorial for Angela, didn’t you?” I asked, trying to buy time. I also tried to defuse his rage with a compliment. “It’s really lovely. I saw that you put new flowers up.”

  “I keep it nice for her,” he said a little more calmly. “Somebody has to remember her.”

  “Tom does,” I assured him. “He takes care of her grave.”

  I glanced warily at the spot where Mr. Peachy’s hand should be if he weren’t hiding something from me.

  Will I be in a grave soon?

  “That’s nice,” Mr. Peachy admitted. “But I want folks who drive past the spot where she died to remember her—and what Beamus did to her.”

  His eyes were gleaming again, and I rested one hand against my throat, which was getting tight.

  “What happened the night you . . . you . . . ?”

  I couldn’t finish the question, but Mr. Peachy understood what I was asking.

  “I reminded Steve that it was nearly the anniversary of Angie’s death. Asked him what he planned to do to show his remorse.”

  “And he said . . . ?”

  “Nothing. He said he planned to do nothing. Told me he’d made peace with the past, and that I should, too. Then he took out his phone and said, ‘Get moving, old man. I’ve got business to take care of here with a lady.’”

  My hand was still on my throat, and I glanced at the dogs. Artie and Axis remained quietly watchful, while Socrates seemed to be biding his time. I was reassured by his calm presence.

  “And . . . what happened next?” I asked, although I didn’t really want to hear the rest. I just needed to keep him talking. “What did you do?”

  “I said, ‘Who are you talking about?’ Because I’d seen him fighting with Piper.” His eyes narrowed. “I didn’t like the way he treated her from the start. He never made her happy. And I knew what he meant by ‘taking care of business.’ I’m not that old!”

  I realized that Mr. Peachy, who was always around the property, quietly working in the background, had probably observed quite a bit during Piper’s time with Steve.

  “Piper . . . She’s nice to you, too, isn’t she?” I ventured.

  “Yes. Very nice.” Mr. Peachy gestured around the cottage with the hand I could see. “She lets me live here for free. Pays me good and treats me good. I think of her like a daughter.”

  For a split second, I felt sorry for Mr. Peachy. He was so lonely that he g
rasped for family among waitresses and employers.

  I also hoped that his affection for Piper boded well for me, Piper’s sister. If worse came to worst, maybe I could remind him that Piper would be heartbroken over my loss.

  In the meantime, I pointed out, “Piper wouldn’t want you to hurt anybody on her behalf.”

  He had softened for a moment but quickly grew bitter again. “Somebody had to stop Beamus. For good. He ended Angela’s life—and he was trying to ruin Piper’s, too.”

  As he said that, he finally slowly revealed what he’d been holding behind his back.

  A hammer—bigger than the one that he’d used to kill Steve.

  He tapped it lightly against his palm.

  I felt my eyes grow huge, and I took another step backward, stumbling against the table. I reached back and steadied myself, while Mr. Peachy moved forward.

  “Did you kill Virginia, too?” My voice sounded strangled, and I wished I’d brought the rottweilers inside with me. Maybe they could’ve helped this time. “Was that you?”

  He didn’t answer me directly.

  “She was walking those dogs . . . always walking those dogs where she had no business going,” he muttered. “She was on the paths the night I killed Beamus.”

  So, Virginia had been telling the truth about her late-night walk. Although I suspected she’d been at Winding Hill to see Steve, too.

  “I was half afraid she’d seen something then,” Mr. Peachy continued. “Then she came back—and heard Axis. I had to keep her quiet. Just like I have to shut you up now. Sorry as I am for that . . .”

  He raised the hammer, and I saw my life flash before my eyes.

  It looked a lot like a Chihuahua with a severe overbite.

  “Artie!” I cried as the little dog launched himself, to the degree that he could launch, at Mr. Peachy, who laughed and kicked Artie away.

  The sound died on his lips, though, when I cried, “Axis! Attack!”

  I had no idea if Axis understood that command. But he clearly grasped that I was in danger. With a deep growl, he ran at Mr. Peachy, who was already crying out in pain, because a basset hound who was normally given to deep thoughts was deeply sinking his teeth into Mr. Peachy’s calf.