Death by Chocolate Lab (Lucky Paws Petsitting Mystery)

by Bethany Blake

  “Here’s your slipper, Cinderella,” he said, offering me the boot. I reached to accept it from him, but he pulled it back, warning me, “It’s got a . . . substance on the toe. You might not want to touch whatever that is.”

  “Okay,” I said, taking the boot from him.

  I saw what he was talking about, and, since I was pretty sure I knew what the “substance” was, I gave it a sniff.

  Jonathan drew back, visibly repulsed. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s just guacamole,” I informed him, bending to pull on the boot. I nearly lost my balance and hopped on one foot. “I stepped on somebody’s picnic.”

  Jonathan reached out to clasp my shoulder, steadying me as I stood upright. Once again, he let go quickly, like he didn’t want to touch someone who’d just sniffed her own boot.

  “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what were you doing?” he asked.

  Behind us, people started rustling around, and I glanced over my shoulder to discover that the credits were rolling and everyone was packing up their chairs and blankets. I couldn’t find Dylan, and I turned back to Jonathan.

  “I saw a Jeep just like the one at Winding Hill the night Steve got killed, and I was following it,” I informed him. “I wanted to see who was driving.”

  He’d been close to laughing, but he grew serious and donned his professional persona. “Daphne, I’m going to ask you again to please refrain from investigating Steve Beamus’s murder. Not only might your interference hinder my efforts to solve the case, but you could find yourself in a dangerous situation.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and cocked my head. “Do you plan to follow up on the Jeep sighting?”

  “Yes,” he promised. “In fact, Detective Doebler has been working to identify the vehicle that was at Winding Hill that night—”

  “Oh, Detective Doebler is the B team,” I complained, nearly stamping my foot. I didn’t mean to insult an officer who was probably decently competent, but it was true. Jonathan was the lead investigator. “I really think the Jeep is important enough for you to look into it.”

  In a way, I’d complimented Jonathan. But I’d also come close to bossing him around, and I could tell that he was getting annoyed. “My partner is experienced and thorough,” he said evenly. “He will get the job done.”

  Actually, I would get the job done. That very night.

  I wasn’t about to tell Jonathan that, though.

  We stood across from each other in a tense standoff, until I felt an arm drape around my shoulders. Startled, I nearly shrugged free, until I realized who had joined us.

  Dylan, of course.

  Chapter 32

  “Is it just me, or is Dylan getting a little clingy?” I asked Socrates, who was strapped into the front seat of the van, next to Artie. For once, Socrates was doing a decent job of sharing. Artie was only lightly pressed against the door, although his bulging eyes made it look like he was being squeezed half to death. “What was up with the arm around my shoulders?”

  Socrates lowered his muzzle and shook his head sadly, so his long ears flopped back and forth. Clearly, he agreed that Dylan’s behavior had been too possessive.

  “Let’s go, Daphne,” Dylan had said after barely acknowledging Jonathan. Then he’d steered me away before we’d all even said our good-byes. Not that I’d been in the mood for exchanging pleasantries with Jonathan Black. I’d twisted around once to see him watching Dylan and me walk off. His arms had been crossed, and he’d had a disapproving look on his face, like he knew I wasn’t going to stop investigating.

  “I thought Dylan was going to follow me all night,” I added, stepping on the gas, which I had plenty of, since I’d stopped to fill up the tank. The last thing I wanted was to run out again on the way to or from Steve Beamus’s house. I glanced over at the dogs. “Should I be flattered . . . or worried?”

  Artie barked happily, which I took to mean “flattered.”

  “Oh, Artie,” I grumbled. “You would say that. You’re kind of clingy, too. No offense.”

  The road got twistier, and for a few minutes I had to focus solely on driving. I didn’t want to meet the same fate as Angela Flinchbaugh.

  My fingers tightened on the wheel as I considered how Angela must have felt in the final moments of her life. Had there been time to be afraid when Steve forced her off the road with his reckless driving? Or had it all happened so quickly . . . ?

  I shook the terrible questions out of my head, but I couldn’t help thinking that Tom Flinchbaugh wouldn’t be able to do that as easily as me. He was probably haunted by similar thoughts every day.

  But could he really have committed murder?

  And should I ever tell Jonathan about my conversation with Tessie?

  “He’d probably just laugh at me,” I muttered. “Or assign Detective Doebler to follow up on my good leads.”

  “Woof!”

  Socrates’s low, deep bark—so seldom heard—jolted me out of my reverie, and I realized I’d almost missed the turn onto Steve Beamus’s property. “Thanks, Socrates,” I said, hauling hard on the steering wheel and guiding my van onto the narrow lane.

  This time, the VW didn’t conk out, and we bumped along right up to the house, where I hit the brakes—and swallowed hard.

  I’d left the safety of town, hoping to learn who was staying at Steve’s and filling the fridge with tofu, but now that I was out in the middle of nowhere, looking at glowing windows, which indicated someone was inside the log structure, I was suddenly a little anxious.

  And although I’d run after a Jeep back in Sylvan Creek, I also had to admit that my nervousness was heightened when I spied a vintage army-style vehicle parked under the shadows cast by the trees.

  I sat there for a while with the dogs, trying to decide if I should drive away.

  Then I recalled how Jonathan had practically ordered me to mind my own business, and I hopped out, liberated Socrates and Artie from their harnesses, marched up onto the porch, and knocked on the door.

  Only when I heard footsteps approaching inside did I remember that Jonathan had also suggested I might be putting myself in danger by poking around a murder.

  It was too late to leave, though.

  Someone was opening the door.

  Chapter 33

  When alive, Steve Beamus had bagged not only grizzly bears and squirrels but, by all accounts, a fair number of women, too. Therefore, I fully expected to be greeted by Steve’s latest—and last—conquest. I pictured her as a health-conscious, outdoorsy woman who would drive a Jeep, eat natural foods, and not mind spending nights alone in a remote house populated by dead animals. She would be pretty but tough. The type of girl who might shun meat in favor of granola, but who would kill her boyfriend if she learned that he was cheating, say, with my sister, then squat in his house until she figured out her next move.

  Yes, I had formed a pretty clear picture of who was about to greet me.

  Needless to say, I was very surprised when the door was opened by someone entirely different from my imagined wronged girlfriend.

  First of all, she was a he. And he was far from outdoorsy. On the contrary, the twentysomething guy who barely poked his head out the door was skinny, pale, and wearing nerdy, hipster eyeglasses that came off more nerdy than hipster.

  “Who are you?” I asked, only to realize that I’d actually voiced that question out loud. I’d meant just to think it.

  By rights, the person huddling in the dimly lit foyer should’ve been asking me the same thing.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he informed me in a soft, uncertain voice, almost like he wasn’t sure of his own identity, “I’m . . . I’m Steve’s son.”

  Chapter 34

  “Wow, I still can’t believe Steve has a child,” I said for at least the tenth time since Bryce Beamus had been nice enough to invite me and the dogs into the house. I knew I should stop myself, but I couldn’t seem to shut up. “I never knew he was a father!”

  “Not much of on
e,” Bryce muttered, pouring us each a glass of soy milk. He set the carton down on the granite countertop and pushed his eyeglasses higher onto his nose with a slender index finger. “I had to track him down, and I was lucky if I got a birthday card. Which, I have to admit, is more than I get from my birth mother. It took me years to find her, and she won’t even acknowledge me publicly.”

  I had known Bryce for only about five minutes, but he seemed as woebegone as Artie. They were both small, shaky, damaged and, apparently, homeless, since Bryce was crashing at his deceased, estranged father’s house after leaving Seattle two weeks before, for reasons he hadn’t explained. Given how he was over sharing, I assumed he’d soon tell me that story, too.

  Talk about a lost puppy!

  I searched for Artie and found him in the living room, spinning around in circles, chasing what little he had of a tail.

  Actually, Artie—in spite of his overbite and missing ear—seemed in better shape than Bryce. At least Artie had spunk and joie de vivre.

  Looking back at Bryce, I saw that he was glumly drinking his milk-like product, his shoulders slumped under a short-sleeved plaid shirt that could’ve been trendy on some guys but that skewed more toward geek than chic on him.

  Was there such a thing as mal de vivre?

  Still, Bryce had his good points. He’d invited me in and offered me a drink....

  I suddenly remembered that Steve had been poisoned, and I double-checked to make sure that Bryce was consuming his soy-based beverage, too. I’d already taken a few sips of the milk, so I was relieved to see that his glass was half empty.

  At least, I assumed that was how he’d look at it.

  I also liked how Bryce had made a big fuss over Artie and Socrates. Although the fuss had been a little too big for Socrates, who’d recoiled from an attempt to scratch that spot just above his tail, where most dogs loved to be scratched. Eyes wide with horror, Socrates had retreated to sit in front of one of the cabin’s big windows and was staring fixedly at the blackness, like he wanted to leap into an abyss.

  “Not to be rude, but who, exactly, are you, and what are you doing here?” Bryce finally asked a few questions that were long overdue. His cheeks flushed. “Were you one of my father’s . . . ?”

  At first, I didn’t know what he was trying to say. Then I realized he was asking if I’d been one of Steve’s romantic interests.

  “No! No!” I cried, setting down my glass and raising my hands. “We were never involved like that!”

  Piper had been “involved,” though.

  Did she know about Bryce?

  He peered more closely at me with brown eyes that were reminiscent of Steve’s. Bryce shared his father’s thick sandy hair, too. That was pretty much where any resemblance ended. Yet I swore I saw something familiar in his other features. But I couldn’t quite figure out who he reminded me of.

  “So,” he asked again, “what brings you here so late?”

  For a moment, I was stumped by that simple question, although I should’ve anticipated it before knocking on the door.

  Actually, I should’ve been preparing for it the whole time I was driving to Steve’s. I’d come to the house on the hunch that I’d find the owner of the Jeep there.

  “I’m looking for Axis,” I finally semi-fibbed. I seriously doubted that the slight young man who was slouching on a stool was capable of homicide, but he’d clearly had issues with Steve. It didn’t seem wise to admit that I was investigating the murder when I might be in the presence of the killer. Then, in case Bryce and Steve had been really estranged, I asked, “You know Axis, right? Your dad’s dog?”

  “Yes, of course.” His eyes finally lit up with interest. “So Axis really is missing? You’re looking for him, too?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m worried about him. He was always with Steve.”

  A shadow crossed Bryce’s face. “I’m worried, too. Given how my father treated dogs, I never understood Axis’s loyalty. But the few times I saw my dad, Ax was always with him. I was hoping one of my father’s friends had taken him after the . . . the . . .”

  He couldn’t seem to bring himself to say “murder,” which indicated to me that he probably couldn’t have committed the act, either. Still, I remained guarded.

  “Well, let’s not think the worst yet,” I said, although I was starting to fear that the worst was inevitable. Axis had been missing for quite a while. I also noted that the bottle of Lysodren was still on the counter. If the dog was alive, he wasn’t getting his medication, which wasn’t good, either. “Why did you say that about your dad’s treatment of dogs?” I added, glancing over at the poor bear. I met Bryce’s gaze again. “I didn’t always understand your dad’s relationship to animals, but he was a respected trainer.”

  In the blink of an eye, Bryce’s whole aspect changed, and not for the better. His mouth drew down into a scowl, and anger flickered deep in his eyes.

  “My father liked to control animals,” he said, voicing something I’d also suspected. “He didn’t care about them—except to the extent that their willingness to do his bidding reflected well on him. He thought he was a big man because dogs jumped, literally, when he told them to do so.”

  I sat quietly, letting him vent. The way he’d changed so quickly was unnerving, and the glimmer in his eyes was downright scary.

  I looked at the bear again, trying to figure out how much it might weigh.

  If Socrates, Artie, and I had to make a run for the door, and Bryce followed, could I push the grizzly over and knock Bryce down, gaining us time to run to the van?

  And if I did that, would I be using the majestic creature wrongly, like Steve had done when he’d tossed a coat over its paw?

  Or would I be giving it one last chance to attack, in keeping with its ferocious nature?

  As I wrestled with that moral dilemma, Bryce set me more on edge by hopping off the stool and beginning to pace, staring at the floor. “My father kept most of his dogs, even Axis, kenneled much of the time,” he continued, with a quick glance at me. “Did you know that?”

  “No, no, I didn’t,” I admitted. “I never came here before his death. I didn’t even know how many dogs he had. I only knew Axis.”

  “He always kept several dogs in pens, for breeding purposes,” Bryce said. “He was always looking for ‘breed perfection.’” He stopped pacing and turned to face me. I thought he was close to tears of rage—and disappointment. “Do you know how offensive that is to me, as a founding member of PUFAT?”

  I noted that Artie and Socrates had drawn closer, both having sensed the shift in Bryce’s tone and the altered mood in the house. Artie was confused, while Socrates appeared concerned. I was getting worried myself.

  “You helped found People United for Fair Animal Treatment?” I asked, unhappily surprised to learn that Bryce was linked with a group that had a very unfortunate acronym and a short, but sometimes violent, history of using guerrilla tactics to protect animals the members believed to be in danger or abused.

  I’d read that they’d once blown up a lab that tested cosmetics on rabbits.

  Clearly, I had been very wrong about Bryce’s potential for violence.

  I pushed aside my soy milk and climbed down off the stool I’d been sitting on. “The dogs and I should really be going now.”

  But Bryce wasn’t finished releasing his pent-up frustration and rage against Steve. He resumed pacing, pounding one fist against his other open hand. “All his dogs might’ve been champions and well trained,” he muttered, more to himself than me. “But they got no affection! No love!”

  I had a feeling some father-son issues were bleeding into the soliloquy about dogs. I also thought he was going a little overboard about Steve.

  Sure, Steve had enjoyed wielding power over dogs to feed his considerable ego, but I’d seen him with Axis. He’d respected the Lab, and I’d witnessed him doling out affection, if not in a gushy way.

  I didn’t think it was wise to counsel or contradict Bryce r
ight then, though.

  “I tried to tell him that nothing thrives in a sterile environment!” he concluded, eyes blazing. “That no creature should have to live in a box that’s doused with toxic antiseptics every day, so even the smell of nature is denied to the inhabitant!”

  I stiffened and hoped my wide eyes weren’t betraying my thoughts.

  Had he just referenced, in a very angry diatribe, Clean Kennel?

  The toxin found in Steve’s thermos?

  There would be a certain twisted poetic justice in poisoning one’s despised father with a chemical that had likely sparked many a heated argument.

  I wanted to cue Socrates and Artie and get the heck out of there, both because Bryce Beamus was scaring me and because I could hardly wait to tell Jonathan that I had been right. Figuring out who drove the Jeep and ate tofu might have just broken the murder case wide open.

  Seriously, if I made it out of Steve’s house alive, I was going to make Detective Jonathan Black eat the vegetarian version of crow—crowfu?—for his snide comment about my failure to attend the police academy. It seemed to me that I was doing his job pretty well.

  Suddenly, however, I didn’t have to wait to rub his nose in my successful investigation, because the front door opened.

  For a second, I thought the grizzly had grown tired of playing doorman and was making an exit. The bear was so realistically posed that it was sometimes still hard for me to believe it wasn’t alive.

  Then I saw Jonathan Black stroll right into the house like he owned the place.

  Chapter 35

  “What are you doing here?” I asked Jonathan, who joined Bryce and me in the kitchen. “Did you follow me?”

  Bryce, meanwhile, was still seething with residual rage and indignation. “Who are you?” he demanded sharply. “Huh?”

  I could’ve told him that his attitude wouldn’t go over well with his latest guest.