Death by Chocolate Lab (Lucky Paws Petsitting Mystery)

by Bethany Blake

  Detective Black hadn’t been in Sylvan Creek long, but he already knew my associates. “I don’t suppose your sister or your friend with the bright hair or your mother could help.”

  I kept shaking my head the whole time he was talking. “Nope, nope, and nope.”

  Detective Black sighed heavily and resumed pacing around. “Just find someplace to wait quietly, please. I won’t be too long. Then we can at least try to figure out what’s wrong with your van.”

  I didn’t tell him that everything was probably wrong. I had a feeling I should just be grateful for the prospect of a ride. “Thanks,” I said, wandering over to the kitchen. I was starting to get hungry, since I hadn’t finished my pasta. The open floor plan allowed me to continue watching Detective Black as he walked about. He returned to the trophy case and stood before it again, head cocked and one hand rubbing his jaw, while Artie sat at his feet, looking up hopefully.

  It’s never happening, Artie, I thought as I absently opened Steve’s refrigerator, just to check it out.

  Not surprisingly, he had a lot of meat.

  I stood there for a long time, inventorying a plastic bag of pepperoni slices, a big blob of ground beef, something called a Wonder Chicken, which was obviously roasted at the grocery store, and . . .

  All at once, I spied an item that didn’t belong there—because I would’ve actually eaten it without feeling morally reprehensible.

  Then I closed the fridge and scanned the counter, first noticing a big pill bottle on top of a piece of paper. I recognized the letterhead, which featured silhouettes of a dog and a cat sitting together in a crescent moon.

  All the documents that came from Templeton Animal Hospital were printed on that stationery.

  Moving closer, I picked up the bottle and read the label.

  Lysodren. 500 mg.

  Setting down the medication, I checked the printout from Piper’s practice.

  “Administer daily to Axis for treatment of Cushing’s disease. . . .”

  I’d heard of that disorder before. It was chronic and could make a dog lethargic, thirsty, and prone to infections.

  “Oh, no,” I muttered.

  If Axis was alive, as I insisted on believing, he would need to take Lysodren every day. I hoped whoever had him knew that.

  I was worried, but also distracted by something else on the counter. An item that was out of place at Steve’s, just like the unexpected food I’d found in the fridge.

  Forgetting, in my excitement, that Detective Black probably wouldn’t take orders from me, I nevertheless summoned him.

  “Hey, you have got to come look at what I found!”

  Chapter 16

  “Tofu?” Detective Black said. “Really? Tofu?”

  He wasn’t asking me to confirm his identification of the white cubes I’d found pressed between paper towels on a plate in the refrigerator. He was unhappy that I’d interrupted his trophy-case cogitation to show him a pile of coagulated, draining soy milk.

  I wanted to rap him on his handsome head.

  “Don’t you get it?” I asked as Socrates and Artie joined us in the kitchen. “Steve would never eat tofu. Look at everything else in his refrigerator. It’s a monument to meat!”

  “Maybe he was trying to get healthy,” Detective Black suggested, with a shrug. Using his foot, he subtly edged Artie away from his ankle, against which Artie’d been leaning, still with a hopeful, almost adoring look on his face. Even I had to admit that the little dog was getting pretty clingy—and to what end? Detective Black clearly had no interest in him. “Maybe Beamus wanted to kick the meat habit,” Detective Black added. “Lower his cholesterol?”

  “Are you serious?” I gestured to the whole house. “Look around this place! Steve likely ate the bear and the squirrel, too. Not to mention whatever poor animals probably gave their lives so he could have a set of hideous end tables. Guys like Steve don’t give up meat, even to save their lives.”

  Detective Black leaned against the counter and smiled in what I thought was an indulgent way. “You’re sure of this?”

  I had a hunch that the man who stood before me wasn’t a vegetarian—he did not have the same vibe as Dylan, who ate a plant-based diet, like me—and I held out the plate to him. “Would you eat this? Give up a cheeseburger and eat curds?”

  “No,” he conceded, wrinkling his nose. “I would not.”

  At least he was honest.

  “And look,” I added, pointing to a carton that was right next to Detective Black’s elbow. “Almond milk! It’s vegan food!”

  “Don’t tell me,” he said. “You are a . . .”

  “Vegetarian,” I informed him. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with eating dairy and eggs, if they’re produced humanely. In fact, I kind of need cheese.”

  “I see.”

  I saw another glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He observed me closely, like I’d just provided him with clues to who I was, while I really wanted him to focus on the strange things I’d just found that might help him solve a crime. Or maybe he was multitasking, because as he watched me, he reached over and rested the back of his hand against the carton of almond milk.

  I didn’t know what he was doing until he said, “I’m not sure if vegan products will help to find Steve Beamus’s killer, but I will give you this, Ms. Templeton. . . Someone was just here, because this ‘milk’ is still cold.”

  Chapter 17

  “Will you please admit that I helped you?” I requested as Socrates, Artie, and I walked with Detective Black back down the lane to our cars. As he had pointed out several times, my van was blocking the road, so he’d been forced to hike, too. “I showed you the milk!”

  “Yes, you’ve mentioned that quite a few times,” he said, like I was the one who kept repeating things. “But I don’t know if it’s even important.” He looked over at me, but it was hard to see his face. The moonlight was blocked by the trees, which seemed less threatening now that I had another human with me. In fact, I hadn’t even thought about bears since giving Steve’s grizzly a sympathetic pat farewell. “It’s likely that Beamus’s family has arrived to plan the funeral. Somebody might be staying at the house.”

  “So where was that person?” I asked, scooping up Artie, who seemed to be getting tired, probably because he’d tried so hard to impress a man who refused to succumb to a one-eared Chihuahua’s charms. “It’s awfully late.”

  “Perhaps he or she is drowning his or her sorrows at the bar everyone talks about. The one your boyfriend’s playing at this Monday, according to flyers posted in every store window in town.”

  I saw a flash of white teeth and suspected he was grinning.

  I almost protested again that Dylan wasn’t really my boyfriend, but I decided not to bother. Besides, I’d recalled something else that might be important. “Remember how I told you that I saw a Jeep last night? Late?”

  He seemed confused by the sudden, seemingly random comment. “Yes?”

  We continued walking, but Detective Black motioned for me to hand over Artie, and for a moment I forgot what we were talking about. I stopped in my tracks.

  “Do you really want to carry him?”

  “No. I just want to spare you the burden of doing it,” he said. “I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

  “He’s not very big. . . .” Why was I fighting this chance for Artie to bond with someone he’d been dying to meet all evening? “Well, okay. Thanks,” I said, passing Detective Black a very excited, wriggling dog.

  I was almost hurt by how eager Artie was to abandon me.

  “Don’t lick me,” Detective Black warned Artie when the little dog lunged for his face, tongue flapping. He got Artie under control and returned his attention to me. “About the Jeep . . . ?”

  “One passed me when I was driving here. It was headed in the other direction. I wondered if it was the same one that I saw at Winding Hill.”

  “Jeeps are pretty common,” Detective Black noted.

  I disagr
eed. “I don’t see a lot of them around here. Not the classic army kind.”

  “You and your mother are authorities on Sylvan Creek, aren’t you, Ms. Templeton?”

  That didn’t sound like a compliment.

  “It’s a small town, and I’ve lived here my whole life—except for college. And traveling,” I said. “And can you please call me Daphne? I’m not exactly British royalty. You don’t need to use a title.”

  “All right, Daphne,” he agreed.

  I noticed that he didn’t suggest that I use his first name.

  “Um, can I call you Jon or Jonathan?”

  I saw another flash of white teeth. “I think you just did.”

  I would take that as permission to be on a first-name basis.

  “You know, Jonathan . . .” I opted for the more formal name, since I felt like I was already pushing the boundaries of familiarity with him. “I really could help you solve this murder. I know stuff about people around here that you don’t. Like the fact that Steve would never eat tofu.”

  We’d reached our cars, and Jonathan handed back Artie, who tried to cling to his shirt.

  Really, Artie? After all I’ve done for you?

  “Thanks, Daphne,” he said. “But I have a partner. One who actually attended the police academy.”

  I glanced at Socrates, who didn’t find that amusing, either. “Ha. Ha,” I said sarcastically, speaking for Socrates, too.

  My van and Jonathan’s off-duty pickup truck were close to the road, and there were fewer trees there, so I could see his face better in the moonlight. He appeared serious. “Why do you want to solve this murder? It doesn’t seem like you liked Beamus very much.”

  “I didn’t,” I agreed. “But I want to make sure my sister isn’t wrongly accused—”

  “Yes, I know you want to protect her.”

  He was referring to my “tweak” of justice. I overlooked the comment.

  “And I really think something has happened to Axis,” I said. “I want to find him, and soon, because he needs medication I found in Steve’s kitchen.”

  Jonathan took a moment to consider my comments. Crickets and cicadas chirped and buzzed around us, and the air had that pungent, sweet smell of woods in summer. We stood close enough that I could also smell, just faintly, Jonathan’s cologne. It was a fresh, masculine scent.

  I wondered what he was noticing about me.

  Probably the way the humidity was making my long curls into tight, crazy spirals, or the spot on my jeans, where I’d wiped the dirt off my fingers.

  “Give me your keys,” he finally said, breaking our silence.

  “What?” For a second, I didn’t know why he wanted them.

  “Your keys,” he repeated. “So I can try to figure out what’s wrong with your van.” He shot the VW a dubious look. “Aside from that pony on the side.”

  “I told you, it’s not a . . . Oh, never mind,” I grumbled, digging into my pocket and retrieving a beaded key ring shaped like Africa that I’d tried to buy at a fair-trade shop in Nairobi, only to be accused of shoplifting and nearly detained for trial. “Here.”

  Jonathan held up the ring for inspection, dangling it in front of his face. “Given your stolen-passport anecdote, I suppose there’s a story behind this.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a long one,” I said, not wanting to give him more reason to think I was a lawbreaker. “For some other time.”

  “Oh, I look forward to that.” He didn’t sound like he really did.

  Going around to the driver’s side, he climbed behind the wheel and tried to start the engine. It wouldn’t turn over, but the electrical system buzzed to life. A moment later, he got out and returned the keys to me, dropping them into my palm.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “I know what’s wrong,” he said.

  I was impressed. “Really?”

  “You are out of gas,” he said drily.

  “Oh.” I cringed. “Oops.”

  “You didn’t fill the tank after mentioning today that it was almost empty, did you?”

  What did he have? A photographic memory?

  “No, I did not,” I admitted. “I had other things on my mind!”

  Jonathan sighed. For a second, I thought he was going to drive off and leave me standing alone in the woods again. Then he grudgingly said, “Come on. I’m sure you can lead me to a convenience store that’s open all night, and we can bring back a gas can.”

  I didn’t tell him that the nearest open market, QuikSave, was a twenty-minute drive away. “Thanks,” I said, following him to his pristine black Ford F-150. He got in the driver’s side, while I opened the front passenger door and started to set Artie on the seat.

  “Dogs ride in the back,” Jonathan advised me. “No exceptions.”

  “Oh, fine,” I agreed, noting a distinct shortage of junk on the floor, a dearth of half-empty cups in the cup holders, and a lack of unusual smells, which were all commonplace in my van. “Your truck, your rules.”

  But as I opened the back door, I quietly apologized to Socrates, who really preferred riding up front. I was pretty sure he would’ve liked to drive, if given the chance. “Sorry,” I whispered, boosting him into the high truck. He didn’t like accepting assistance, either. “It’s not up to me.”

  Socrates turned his head away from me, like I’d betrayed him, while Artie, who’d managed to hop in by himself, made a move to jump up front.

  “Sit,” Jonathan ordered quietly but without room for negotiation.

  For once, Artie listened.

  I got into the front seat, and Jonathan put the truck in gear. Although I had a million questions for him—such as “Where did you come from?” and “Why are you here?”—we didn’t talk for awhile. I got the impression that he wanted to be quiet. Yet after about three miles, I couldn’t help turning and asking him, “What if whoever is staying at Steve’s house didn’t arrive to plan the funeral? What if he or she was here before the murder?”

  Chapter 18

  When I woke up early the next morning, it was hard to believe anything bad had ever happened at Winding Hill. Sunlight streamed through the tall kitchen windows, which were open to let in a soft breeze that smelled of the lilacs and honeysuckle that were in bloom just outside the door.

  As the water boiled for my morning tea, I assembled the flour, milk, eggs, and fruit I would need to make Socrates’s favorite breakfast, Banana-Apple Pupcakes.

  “Just be patient,” I told the dogs, who watched from a bed near the door as I mixed the batter for the pet-friendly pancakes. I didn’t make a big deal out of the fact that Artie was actually on the cushion with Socrates, who didn’t seem to be making any effort to push off the smaller dog. I just nonchalantly went to the fridge and took out a bowl of staple food I always kept on hand. “I’ll give you some rice, chicken, and veggies to tide you over.”

  Both dogs licked their chops as I scooped out their breakfasts. Then, while they ate, I heated a griddle and finished the pupcakes, which I stacked on two pretty robin’s egg–blue plates I found in the china closet. I didn’t think Piper would mind my effort to make the meal a little more special.

  “Let’s eat outside,” I suggested, setting their breakfast, along with my tea and a bowl of yogurt and fresh blueberries, on a tray.

  Holding open the door, I allowed Socrates and Artie to trot past me onto the patio, which had a sweeping view of the valley. In the distance, I could see Sylvan Creek’s distinctive three church spires poking up through the trees that lined the town’s streets.

  “Hey, good morning.”

  The sound of an unexpected greeting nearly caused me to drop the tray.

  “Piper, what are you doing here?” I asked, surprised to find my sister relaxing on a wicker rocking chair, sipping her usual cup of strong black coffee. I placed the tray on a long antique wooden table. “Why aren’t you at work?”

  “It’s Sunday,” she reminded me. “The office is closed, except for emergencies.”

  I
set Artie’s and Socrates’s plates in a shady spot on the brick floor, next to a bowl of water that Piper had already freshened in anticipation of the hot day. Both dogs dug right in.

  “You usually go to work, anyway,” I said, taking a seat at the table. “There’s always an ‘emergency’—even if it’s only paperwork.”

  Piper shrugged. Her face was drawn, and her eyes looked tired, like she hadn’t slept much the night before. Even her hair didn’t look as shiny as usual. “I just didn’t feel like going today.”

  “How are you doing?” I asked quietly. “And be honest.”

  “I don’t know,” Piper said, staring into the distance. I followed her gaze and saw that Mr. Peachy was at work painting the barn’s white trim. That was a never-ending task, and like Piper, he rarely took a day off. I had a feeling he got lonely in his small cottage. “One minute I tell myself that I’m okay,” Piper continued, so I returned my attention to her. “Because Steve and I weren’t really back together.”

  I was about to eat a delicious-looking bite of creamy yogurt and sweet-tart berries, but my hand froze in place halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean by ‘really back together’? That’s twice you’ve said that.”

  Piper finally met my gaze again, and she looked guilty, because she’d been keeping secrets from me. “We might’ve gone out a few times lately,” she admitted, quickly adding, “But it was no big deal.” She fidgeted with her mug, picking at an imaginary chip on the rim, and grew quieter. “At least, not to him . . .”

  I didn’t want to be angry with a dead man, but it sounded to me like Steve Beamus had been stringing Piper along.

  “Is that what you two fought about before he got killed?” I asked. “Your relationship, or lack thereof?”

  “In a way,” Piper said, looking up at me. “When I brought him the coffee, he told me he was going to be busy for a week or two, so I shouldn’t expect him to contact me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Really? He couldn’t even call? Or send a text?”