Bad to the Bone

by Linda O. Johnston

  Maybe one of them had done just that.

  Could they even be accomplices, both playing a role in trying to kill Wanda? I hated to think that. But I also hated to think it could be either one of them.

  I wondered if Jack was already being approached by my detective non-buddies, Bridget Morana and Wayne Crunoll. If so, would they attempt to interrogate him as ceaselessly as they’d latched on to me?

  Maybe Jack would get the opportunity to meet Wayne’s dachshunds, Blade and Magnum, or Bridget’s cat, Butterball—all patients now and then at the vet clinic.

  Or—was I going nuts? My thoughts were leaping all over the place, maybe to avoid thinking about Wanda. I might not have liked her, and I’d somewhat wished her far away from Knobcone Heights, but not via death.

  I hugged Biscuit even closer, then jumped as I heard a noise behind us.

  The door from the kitchen had opened and Dinah walked into the Barkery.

  “Carrie? What’s wrong?” My wonderful assistant was suddenly kneeling on the floor beside us. Her youthful face appeared furrowed with concern.

  I let out one brief and hysterical laugh. “I’m not sure yet, but there may be something going on that you’ll want to write about.”

  She stared at me, her bright blue eyes wide. “Not another murder.”

  “I hope not,” I replied, even as I felt certain that tiny hope would be quickly dashed.

  But Dinah’s presence did help. Biscuit’s, too. Between them, they reminded me where I was, and when. It was time to start baking. To begin getting both shops ready for a day I hoped would be busy.

  Too busy to think about what had happened to Wanda, and how. And why.

  Only the thought was always, inevitably, there, especially since I could tell that Dinah really wanted me to talk about whatever was bothering me, even though she didn’t say anything about it in the kitchen once I’d left Biscuit in the Barkery and come in to bake. At the long stainless steel utility counter, which ran down the kitchen’s middle, she stood on the Icing side preparing dough for the people goodies, and I faced her on the Barkery side. We were, as always, careful not to combine ingredients, since some human stuff, like chocolate, is poisonous to dogs. Huge ovens lined the respective walls behind us. Dinah’s yellow T-shirt promoted the kinds of products she was preparing; it said Icing on the Cake.

  As Dinah mixed and kneaded dough, she glanced up at me often. I remained quiet at first, working on the dog treats dough. Eventually, though, I said, “Okay. You’re right. I’m not sure of her condition, but I gather that someone was stabbed last night.”

  “Her who?” That wasn’t Dinah who asked. I turned quickly toward the sound of the voice to see that Janelle had just walked through the rear kitchen door from the parking lot.

  I suspected that Neal’s girlfriend wouldn’t be surprised at the answer, after the dinner she’d attended a couple of nights ago. I didn’t want to turn it into a game, yet I found myself facing her briefly and saying, “Guess.”

  Her blue eyes narrowed. Today Janelle was wearing a blue Barkery and Biscuits T-shirt over beige jeans, since she would work more on that side of the shops than Icing. She also had on purple athletic shoes, her usual.

  “Since you’re asking me, I assume it’s someone I’ve met,” she said. “And the person who most deserves it, if anyone, is Wanda.”

  The smile I trained on her felt lopsided, maybe more like a sad frown. “You got it.”

  Both Dinah and Janelle began asking questions, and I held up my dough-covered hands.

  “Here’s all I know,” I told them, and I briefly described Jack’s phone call. “I don’t know if Wanda is dead, and certainly hope she isn’t.” I didn’t wish death on anyone, but neither did I wish anyone serious injury.

  “I can guess why Jack called you.” The grin on Dinah’s face suggested her mind was already at work on whodunit and whether she could write something about it.

  “I can, too, but I really don’t want to get involved this time,” I said—even as I realized that it was inevitable, and that, in some ways, I already was involved.

  I felt even more involved later that morning. Both shops had been open for a while by then and we were delightfully busy, which kept me from dwelling—much—on what had happened to Wanda. I felt sure I’d learn more about it later, from local media like KnobTV and the small weekly paper, the Knobcone News, as well as gossip and social media.

  I didn’t want to contact Jack, even though I figured he would eventually get in touch with me again. When he could. If he could.

  Had he been arrested?

  Maybe he’d been wrong about what had happened to Wanda. Maybe she’d been injured in some kind of car accident. After all, he did say he’d found her near his apartment parking lot. A hit and run?

  “Tell me again,” said the older lady I’d been helping at the Barkery, right at the glass case displaying our most scrumptious doggy treats. “Which ones have carob? Which have yams?” The little Yorkie in her arms seemed interested in all of them, considering the way he kept raising his nose in the air and wagging his tail.

  I’d already told her the ingredients of nearly everything on display but patiently went through it again—effectively moving my mind away from Jack and Wanda … for a few minutes, at least. Until I’d placed half a dozen of nearly everything in a box for the delighted customer and started ringing her up.

  I still had several more people patiently waiting for me, since both assistants were over in Icing at the moment. But the bell on the door chimed.

  Detective Wayne Crunoll had just entered. He was alone. His colleague and superior officer, Detective Bridget Morana, wasn’t with him. That was okay. But the fact that he was in the Barkery without either of his doxies told me he most likely hadn’t come just to buy them some treats.

  He was probably here on official police business.

  “So that’s all you know about it?” Wayne stared dubiously at me across the narrow desk in my small back office.

  I was barely aware of the light cinnamon odor wafting from the kitchen outside the door. Dinah must have baked some additional Icing cupcakes or scones. But sweetness wasn’t really on my mind.

  I’d succumbed to the inevitable when Wayne said he wanted to talk to me. I asked Dinah to take over helping customers in the Barkery without explaining why, especially since I didn’t want to get Janelle, who remained in Icing, stirred up about it. Janelle had already tried calling Neal, but my brother was busy at the front desk of the resort and said he’d call her back.

  He would know about the situation eventually if he didn’t already. And just then, I needed to create a bit of time to talk to the detective without my assistants or brother tugging at my attention, too.

  “Yes, that’s all I know,” I said to Wayne. “The call from Jack came just as I arrived here, before I started baking this morning. He was clearly upset, said he’d found Wanda Addler on the ground at the back of his apartment building. She’d been injured and he wasn’t sure whether she was alive.” I was relating pretty much what Jack had said. I didn’t need to add my own thoughts and concerns about who’d hurt Wanda, or whether it had been intentional … or whether Jack was the guilty one.

  “Did he say how she’d been injured?” Just injured, I hoped, and not dead?

  My interrogator was relatively young, perhaps only in his mid-twenties—several years younger than my thirty-two years. He kept his dark hair short, and although I’d seen him with a dark beard-shadow on his round face later in the day, he was clean-shaven now. As a detective, he didn’t wear an official police uniform, but was clad in a white shirt and black trousers.

  “I’m not sure he knew how, although he did mention a wound of some kind, and that everything looked awful.” Okay, I shaded the truth a little bit there. Jack said Wanda had “apparently” been stabbed. But he didn’t describe what he saw, so
what I said was close enough.

  “Did he mention any kind of weapon around there? Or anything else that might help us determine the origin of her wounds?”

  Wounds. Not wound, singular. Had Wanda been stabbed more than once? Even if it had been some kind of hit-and-run, she could have been injured in more than one location.

  “That’s pretty much all he said,” I replied.

  “‘Pretty much’?” There was a glint in Wayne’s eyes that suggested he not only wanted more from me, but he was hoping I’d make some kind of false statement that he could pounce on. Why? Surely he didn’t consider me a suspect this time.

  Even so, I quickly went back over the timing in my mind. I hadn’t awakened Neal that morning, so unfortunately he couldn’t vouch that I’d been home at the time Wanda was attacked. Dinah had arrived at the shops before I did, so she could attest to that, but maybe I’d theoretically had time to stab Wanda and hurry here.

  I hadn’t, of course, but I still figured that Wayne would just love to consider me a suspect again. Or maybe this was his way of encouraging me to blurt all I could against Jack to clear myself.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested that Jack hire Ted Culbert, in case I needed a lawyer myself.

  No. Ridiculous. I had no reason to hurt Wanda. In fact, since she’d been trying to do business with me at Jack’s expense—to bolster my own potential profit—I had more reason to protect than attack her.

  Even so, I wouldn’t accuse Jack. I couldn’t eliminate him as a suspect in my own mind—not yet, at least—but that didn’t mean I had to encourage Wayne to arrest him.

  Unless, of course, there was evidence I didn’t know about.

  “Detective.” I leaned forward on my desk chair, as if to impart something important to him. He in turn drew closer to me over my desk, and I had to prevent myself from pulling back once more.

  “Yes, Ms. Kennersly?”

  “I’m not sure what you want from me. I’ve told you about the phone call I got from Jack and what he said. I wasn’t anywhere near Wanda, if that’s what you want to know. Nor did I have any reason to harm her.”

  “Oh, I just want the truth, Carrie, and anything you know that you can tell me. I don’t suspect you of anything.”

  I didn’t trust him not to arrest me if he found it expedient, though.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” I said anyway. “And if you’re asking me to implicate Jack or anyone else in whatever happened to Wanda, I can’t. Yes, Jack and Wanda had disagreements at dinner the past two nights. I’m sure he’ll tell you all that himself.” Or at least if he was smart he would, since others had overheard it. “But I don’t think Jack would have hurt her. And I’m not even sure what did happen to her.”

  I looked at him with my eyes wide, as if asking him to tell me.

  “That’s still under investigation,” he said, “so I can’t discuss it other than to say she was injured.”

  And was she now in the hospital, or was her body being examined by the local coroner? I suspected the latter but chose not to mention it.

  “I understand,” I said. “But let me repeat that I really don’t know anything except that I received that phone call from Jack Loroco. He sounded upset, of course. He told me he’d found Wanda that way.” In other words, he hadn’t confessed that he’d been the one to put her in that condition.

  “Fine.” Wayne stood. “We may have additional questions. If so, we’ll contact you again. But thanks for your time, Carrie. Oh, and by the way, while I’m here I’d like to buy a few treats for Magnum and Blade.”

  I considered offering them to him for free but thought that might look too much like a bribe for his finally leaving me alone. I suspected that was what he was hoping for.

  Instead, I said, “What a great idea. I’ve got a new liver-flavored biscuit that they couldn’t have tried before. I’ll give you a sample for each of them in addition to whatever you decide to buy.”

  There. That was just being nice, not bribing him.

  Though if I believed that giving him a whole boxful of treats would prevent him, or his colleague, from returning and questioning me, I probably would have done it.

  Seven

  Despite wishing I had the time to go there daily, I hadn’t been at Cuppa-Joe’s for nearly a week.

  I was on my way to my shift that afternoon at the Knobcone Veterinary Clinic. I needed someone to talk to after this morning, someone I felt close enough to that I could say all that was on my mind.

  That would include Reed, who’d be working at the clinic. Head vet Arvie, too—of the three veterinarians who owned the Knobcone Heights Veterinary Clinic, Dr. Arvus Kline was far and away my favorite. But I figured things were as busy at the hospital as usual, the staff focused on caring for animals and saving their lives. There might be no time for my bit of craziness, or my need to spill it to seek catharsis.

  I could talk to them both later.

  Meanwhile, I had a good set of assistants on duty at the shops, since Vicky had also come in. She was the one who was best at scheduling everyone, so I’d asked her to put together next week’s hours as soon as she had some spare time.

  In any case, I felt comfortable leaving a bit early with Biscuit. I even brought along a bag of leftover dog treats to give to patients at the clinic—and to dogs at Mountaintop Rescue, if I had time to head there after my shift.

  Cuppa-Joe’s, the coffee shop and more, was owned by my pseudo parents, Joe and Irma Nash. Or the Joes, in keeping with the coffee theme. They’d lived in Knobcone Heights forever. From what I’d gathered, Joe’s parents had started the shop when they were younger than I was now, and Joe had helped them as he grew up. Eventually, Irma had fit right in. Now their daughter worked with them, although their son had become a lawyer and moved away.

  And when I’d come to town as a vet tech, they’d welcomed me with arms so open that I fit right in, and I considered them family right away.

  Gina, their daughter, mostly worked in the Cuppa-Joe’s office, so I didn’t see her much, but she was always friendly to me. And the family’s love of dogs had recently been proven by their adoption of Sweetie from Mountaintop Rescue—an adorable little dog who resembled Biscuit.

  My walk didn’t take much time, since Cuppa-Joe’s was on Peak Road, on the far side of the town square from my shops. I eschewed its very nice inside area for the equally pleasant patio at the far end, where Biscuit would be welcome.

  As soon as I took a seat at a metal table beneath one of the heating units, server Kit came over, a young girl with a toothy smile. Biscuit stood and wagged her tail, and Kit stooped to gently touch her with a paper towel she’d been holding—a good thing, since that way she wouldn’t have to immediately wash her hands. Like the rest of the Cuppa wait staff, Kit wore a knit shirt with buttons and a collar and a steaming coffee cup logo on the pocket. Today’s shirt was green.

  “The usual?” she asked.

  “Yes, please.” I was looking forward to some nice, strong, tasty coffee—with unlimited refills.

  Kit had barely walked away when Irma joined Biscuit and me, motioning me to stand up for a hug. Then she knelt to pat Biscuit. I knew she kept Sweetie in a fenced area just outside the door, and I promised myself I’d go say hi before we left.

  Irma took the seat across from me at the small table. She was in her sixties but looked a lot younger. Her brown hair was cut stylishly and highlighted, and it framed a face with relatively few lines and made up as well as any model’s.

  “Glad to see you, Carrie.” Irma had brought a cup of coffee from inside. The Joes both appeared to really enjoy their own products. “Okay, tell me what’s wrong.”

  As I said, they were like parents to me. They seemed to have an intuitive grasp of what I was thinking. Sometimes I found it hard to deal with.

  Today, I appreciated it.

  “Who said anything
was wrong?” I asked nevertheless.

  “Those little lines beside your eyes and the way you’re holding your mouth said so.”

  I immediately opened my eyes wide, concerned that my worry was aging me, or at least wrinkling my face. I also made myself smile despite knowing she would see right through it.

  “Well, you’re right,” I said. “Sort of. Something is wrong but I don’t know the extent of it, not yet at least. And I’m not exactly involved with it, but even so—”

  “There hasn’t been another murder in Knobcone Heights, has there?”

  Irma was one perceptive lady—although I hadn’t said or done anything to bring murder to mind. Except be a little upset about something I hadn’t yet explained.

  “Honestly? I don’t know, but—”

  I was glad at the interruption, so I didn’t have to finish … yet. Joe had come over carrying two coffee cups. I assumed one was his and the other mine, and he confirmed it by placing the one in his left hand on the table in front of me.

  He put the other one down on our table, then pulled a chair from nearby and sat down. Joe was probably about Irma’s age, but unlike her, he looked it. What hair he had left beyond his receding hairline was gray, and he had deep divots at the sides of his mouth that always emphasized his smiles.

  Joe was smiling as he joined us, but he must have caught the concerned expression on his wife’s face and the unhappy and resigned look on mine. He trained his deep brown eyes on me and asked, “So what’s wrong?”

  “That sounds familiar,” I said with a sigh, reaching for the cup in front of me. I took a sip while deciding how to respond.

  With the truth, of course. After all, their sympathy was one of the primary reasons I was here.

  “I don’t want to go into a lot of detail,” I continued, “but someone I know has been at least injured and maybe more.” I kept my description brief, but I told them about Wanda and her relationship with VimPets and Jack and her offer to me that had appeared to trump Jack’s. Then I told them briefly about Jack’s phone call. Had that only been a few hours ago?