Collared For Murder

by Annie Knox

  I didn’t exactly follow the social machinations at Merryville High, but I knew enough to know that Wanda was one of the popular kids. She had long hair, brown at the roots and much lighter at the ends. Lucy said the coloring technique was called “ombré,” just like the fabric-dyeing technique, and assured me it was very expensive. Wanda had hinted that she’d taken the job at Trendy Tails only to keep her hair in the latest style and to have plenty of money for those few luxuries her parents wouldn’t splurge on.

  No matter how great Sandra’s daughter was, I’d basically asked Wanda to take on a charity case, and I knew I’d be paying for it somehow.

  While Wanda finished taking Savage’s measurements, I wished Sandra every happiness in Merryville and then dashed up the stairs to retrieve Packer from his kennel. I was on my way down the back stairs, so as to avoid any potential confrontation between Savage and Packer, when Ingrid popped out onto the second-floor landing.

  “I was talking to Rena,” Ingrid said, “and she filled me in a little more on your predicament. You know, you used to confide everything in me,” she chided.

  I wrapped her in a quick hug. “I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you. It’s just all so complicated, and you have a lot on your plate right now.”

  “I may have cancer, but I’m not an invalid yet. Rena told me that that man, Phillip Denford? Is that his name?” I nodded. “She said that he was threatening your business. I hope all that’s cleared up now that he’s dead, but if you’re still in trouble, I’m here to help.”

  “You’ve already helped me more than I could have ever expected, Ingrid.”

  “You don’t expect enough. Like I said, I think of you like my own child. If Trendy Tails goes under—and I’m not saying it will, because I know you run a good business here—but if it does, your aunt Dolly and I want to go halvsies on setting you up in a new business. I know it wouldn’t be as fun as making clothes for the cats and dogs. You have a real knack for that. But you also have the talent to make clothes for people. Rena told me about the Swag and Wags idea of selling matching pet/owner clothing, and I think it’s a splendid idea. But if that twist isn’t enough to keep the pet boutique open, we’re willing to finance a new boutique for you, a fresh start where you can sell whatever you want to sell. If it comes to that. Which it won’t.”

  I stood there speechless, so deeply moved that my mentor and my aunt would conspire to develop a backup plan for me.

  “You’d just have to promise me you’ll keep Rena on board. Because I like that girl. I don’t care what all those stuffy ladies at Methodist Ladies’ Auxiliary say about her.”

  A bubble of laughter escaped my lips. “I like that girl, too. She’s not going anywhere. And neither is Trendy Tails. Or Swag and Wags, if we go that route. I don’t know how far Phillip had gotten in his plans to run me out of business. I don’t know whether the people who operate his business or his heirs even know about the plan, much less whether they’re going to carry through with it, but I know that I won’t let them succeed.”

  “Good for you.”

  “But, Ingrid?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “You are the greatest friend a girl could have—you know that? I don’t know where I’d be without you. I don’t know how I’m going to keep pushing forward without you here to help me.”

  It was her turn to embrace me. “Izzy, I haven’t helped you. I’ve just given you the occasional opportunity. You’ve taken every one and turned it into a success by your own hard work and smarts.”

  She patted me on the back, good solid thumps that reminded me of what a strong woman she was. I wanted to be strong to honor her, so I pushed down even the hint of tears before I stepped away and led Packer out the back door.

  But all the while I stayed strong on the inside, my heart melted at the joy of knowing true generosity.

  * * *

  It was a beautiful day for a walk. A front was moving in, promising rain and possibly storms to come, but that day the weather was a balmy seventy-eight degrees. The sky glowed the blue of shallow Caribbean waters with lacy swaths of clouds pushed by a gentle breeze. It was about as good as it got for Minnesota in August.

  Packer and I picked our way through the alley behind Trendy Tails, making our way past the backs of the Greene Brigade, Joe Time, Taffy’s Happy Leaf, and Red, White & Bleu before emerging on the street. As usual, Packer had to stop and sniff everything in sight.

  Packer had originally belonged to my fiancé, Casey Alter. Casey had named the pooch after his favorite football team and swore he’d take care of the dog. But, alas, as a medical resident, Casey didn’t have the time to devote to such an energetic beastie, so I was the primary caregiver for our little Packer. When Casey ran off to New York with his former mistress and new love, he couldn’t take Packer with him. The new girl, Rachel, didn’t like Packer because he sneezed and snuffled and sometimes drooled a little. By that point, I’d bonded with the little fella enough that I was relieved when Casey asked me to keep him.

  But Rachel was right that Packer was a handful.

  As we walked past the back of Richard Greene’s military memorabilia shop, Packer pulled me to the left so he could sniff all around the bricks and trash cans for any scent of Richard’s dog. Then he found a little lump of unidentifiable stuff, and I had to tug him hard to keep him from playing with it. Finally, as we reached the end of the alley, he was assailed by the smell of baked goods emanating from my friend Taffy’s tea shop and the rich smells wafting through the kitchen door of Red, White & Bleu.

  He stood there, backside waggling in doggy bliss but totally unable to decide which direction offered the best chance at goodies. He’d start for Red, White & Bleu, then stop, turn in place three times, and start to trip over his tangled leash to get to the back door of Taffy’s Happy Leaf.

  Finally, I gave in and fished one of Rena’s homemade dog biscuits out of my jeans pocket and offered it to Packer, using it like a carrot, held just out of reach, to lure him out of the alley. Then I dropped to one knee and let him eat the biscuit from my hand. In Packer’s world, smells are nice, but food is better. He crunched and gulped and the biscuit was gone in a flash.

  We walked the couple of blocks to Dakota Park at a good, brisk clip, in part so I could get back to the show to relieve Rena and in part to burn off a little of my mac-and-cheese lunch.

  Dakota Park was the social hub of Merryville. It was surrounded on all sides by residential neighborhoods, businesses, the courthouse, and a church. The park itself boasted a big playground, an area with picnic tables, and a gazebo-like band shell. It played host to the annual Halloween Howl, a Holiday Winterfest, a Spring Fling, and, of course, the annual fireworks display on the Fourth of July. Between these major events, the park constantly hummed with children and dogs and spirited conversation.

  I took Packer to his favorite spot, a bench by the playground, and was pleasantly surprised to find Ama Olmstead there with her son, Jordan. He was a beautiful boy, with deep brown hair, chocolate-drop eyes, and rosy cherub cheeks. As an added bonus, he and Packer got along great.

  “Izzy! Good to see you.”

  “Hi, Ama. Enjoying the weather?”

  “It’s one of the best things about working from home. I can keep my own hours, and when a lovely, sunny day rolls around, Jordan and I can take full advantage.”

  “How’s work at the paper?”

  “Well, you know. Print journalism is a tough business these days. I think we actually have it better in the small towns. Our local news doesn’t get picked up on the local network affiliates as often, so if you want to know what’s happening in Merryville, you pretty much have to read the Gazette. The problem we’re facing is shifting to an online format, which people are demanding, and still keeping them paying for content. People want their news on a screen, but when they see it there, it doesn’t seem as valuable.”

 
“Huh.”

  She laughed. “Short answer, everything’s fine.”

  For a few moments we watched as Jordan greeted Packer, wrapping his chubby little arms around the dog’s neck, Packer twisting and leaping in the boy’s grip, obviously delighted with his company. When Packer took a couple of steps backward, Jordan rocked up onto his knees, his bum in the air, and giggled with glee.

  “How about you?” Ama asked. “You, um, dealing okay with Phillip Denford’s murder?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “Fine. Why do you ask?”

  “I hear things,” she said with a shrug. “I know the police talked to you. That they may not be done talking to you.”

  My heart sank. Ama was a reporter. If she’d heard that the police considered me anything close to a suspect in Phillip’s death, I was in terrible trouble.

  “Don’t worry,” she said as though she read my mind. “I owe you big. If the police take formal action, I’ll have to report on it. After all, if I don’t, someone else will . . . someone who may not be quite so interested in your side of the story. But as long as it was just that one meeting with Gil, mum’s the word.”

  “Thank you.” Once again, I was overwhelmed at the generosity of the people in my life. I was still on thin ice with the law, but I felt like I found support everywhere I turned.

  “What do you think happened?” Ama asked. She held up a hand and smiled. “Purely off the record. I swear.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. I’ve heard rumors that Phillip had affairs with Pamela Rawlins and one of the cat fanciers, a woman named Ruth Kimmey. The affair with Ruth was a long time ago, though. My source—if you can call her that—thinks that Pamela slept with Phillip only to get the position of coordinator of the show, so her relationship with Phillip doesn’t seem like much of a motive, but Phillip also got one of Pamela’s cats banned from shows and, in the process, took a major bite out of her breeding business. Mari Aames was having an affair with Phillip, too, but she seemed to worship the man. And I know that Phillip and his son, Peter, weren’t exactly close, but I don’t see that Peter had any real incentive to kill Phillip. In fact, Peter’s starting a new business, and he’s made references to a silent partner. I think it may have been his father.”

  I tugged on Packer’s leash to keep him from actually standing on top of Jordan.

  “In short, I can’t find a single person who liked the man, other than the apparently lovelorn Mari, but I don’t have any credible suspects for who would have wanted him dead except for me and Pris. And we didn’t do it.”

  “Are you so sure about Pris?”

  I explained that I’d seen Phillip that morning, though I left out our topic of conversation.

  Ama shook her head. “You’re assuming that she would have had to go all the way home to get changed out of any bloody clothes. But if she’d planned to kill Phillip that morning, she would have had a change of clothes on her. All she would have had to do was slip into the ladies’ room and scrub up a bit.”

  Ama made an interesting point. Pris did carry around that huge tote bag, which could have easily hidden a spare outfit. Forget about getting to the ladies’ room. Pris had a nice little secluded area for her grooming operation in the corner of the room. I suddenly remembered the flatiron that had skidded out of Pris’s bag when it fell off her arm and disgorged the collar dangle. She could have even redone her hair after killing Phillip.

  But if that was the case, if she’d committed the murder and then gotten cleaned up at the North Woods Hotel, why would she have left again as soon as the show got started? I didn’t care what Jack said. If Pris had been at the show right before or after the blackout, I would have seen her.

  “Listen,” I said. “You were there that morning. When did you first see Pris?”

  “Jeez, I don’t know. It’s hard to say. There was so much going on, and I wasn’t paying particular attention to Prissy.” She reached out a hand. “Jordan, give that rock to Mommy. We’ve talked about this before. Rocks are not food.”

  The little boy handed the rock to his mother and then blissfully returned to wrestling with my dog.

  “Your pictures,” I said. “Would you do me a huge favor and go back through the pictures you took that day? See when you first spot Pris and where she is at the time?”

  Ama looked at me like I was nuts, but she nodded. “Like I said, Izzy. I owe you. I don’t see what good it will do, but I’ll look for you.”

  CHAPTER

  Fifteen

  By the time I got Packer back to Trendy Tails and my own self back to the cat show, Rena was about ready to kill me.

  “‘Lunch,’ you said. ‘Doggy bag,’ you said. Yet here I am at two in the afternoon, no lunch in sight.”

  “I’m so sorry. Lunch was so weird, I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. I couldn’t stand the thought of spending any more time with that crew, so I didn’t want to stick around to wait for another order of mac and cheese.”

  “You had the mac and cheese? Ken’s mac and cheese? Salt in the wound, my friend. Salt. In. The. Wound.” She shook her head at me, deep disappointment in her eyes. “Besides, if you were in such an all-fired hurry to get out of there, why are you so late?”

  “Because I took Packer for a little walk, which turned into a long conversation with Ama Olmstead. I have her going through the pictures she took the morning Phillip died to see what she can figure out about who was where and when. Especially the cagey Pris Olson.”

  “Izzy!”

  I looked over my shoulder to find Ruth Kimmey bearing down on me from behind. “Izzy McHale, I have to talk to you. I have the most interesting bit of news.”

  Behind her, I saw Pamela, Mari, Marsha, and Peter, apparently just now returning from our lunch. They must have stayed for dessert. I raised a hand to wave hello, and Peter waved back. He looked pointedly between me and Ruth, reminding me without a word of our conversation about Ruth’s wilder days.

  I could feel the heat spreading across my face. Ruth frowned and glanced over her shoulder at the group of M-CFO bigwigs. Her frown deepened when she caught sight of our little lunch bunch.

  “What’s the news, Ruth?” I asked.

  “Not here,” she said. “Can you walk with me outside?”

  I looked at Rena, who glowered back. “I’ve really got to man the booth while Rena takes a break and gets some lunch.”

  Ruth glanced down at her wrist, where her charm bracelet hung. “Dang it. I always forget I don’t wear a watch anymore. Stupid cell phones.”

  I pulled mine out of my pocket. “It’s two fifteen.”

  “The finals of the agility competition will be starting at three. Do you think you can meet me out by the course around two forty-five?”

  I looked at Rena, whose eyebrows were now completely flat. “Yes?” Rena rolled her eyes but nodded.

  “Great. I’ll get T.J. to watch Ranger, and I’ll see you soon.”

  * * *

  I didn’t know what Ruth Kimmey had to tell me, but up until that point she’d been a font of valuable information. After all, she knew the cat-show attendees far better than I did, and her powers of observation would make her a better PI than my aunt Dolly could ever hope to be.

  A sudden influx of business from a group of tabby owners who had just finished a conformation round kept me tied up at the Trendy Tails table for longer than I’d expected. Even with Rena back, I had to stick around to help, so I was late going to meet Ruth. I made my way out of the hotel’s side door and down the gentle slope to the tent where the agility course remained in place. People were already gathering for the finals of the agility competition.

  In a crowd full of women, I usually had a solid height advantage, but the agility competition seemed to attract more men, and a small herd of strapping Scandinavian men blocked my view. As politely as I could, I made my way toward the front o
f the crowd, searching for Ruth and earning myself a few choice curse words from the people I outmaneuvered.

  I made it all the way to the front of the crowd, but still no Ruth.

  Once again, my female lunch companions managed to project absolute contempt for one another as they sat at the judging table. Pamela consulted her phone for the time and called the group to order. The first contestant up was a younger woman, maybe in her late twenties. She wore a long cotton jersey skirt topped by a sleeveless tunic and a broad-brimmed sunhat on her head. Her cat, a gray tiger-striped tabby, wore a kelly green collar that matched his owner’s hat to a tee.

  The cat took its place at the starting line, and the young woman pulled a play wand out of a canvas knapsack. With a nod from Pamela, they were off.

  The tabby went up the ramp, across the bridge, and down the ramp, through the first nylon tunnel, then out, then into the second nylon tunnel, and then . . . nothing. The young woman stood at the far end of the second tunnel, bobbing the cat toy and growing visibly more distressed by the second, but the cat didn’t appear.

  Instead, the tunnel started rocking and bulging, as though the cat were wrestling with something inside.

  The young woman finally knelt down to see what had become of her feline friend. She gasped loudly and promptly passed out, her body pitching forward and bunching the nylon tunnel up around whatever was obstructing the cat’s progress.

  Only it wasn’t a whatever at all. It was a whoever.

  A delicate hand extended from the end of the tunnel. I immediately recognized the delicate charm bracelet dangling around the limp wrist. It was Ruth Kimmey.

  That’s when I noticed that the crossbar from the final hurdle in the course was not resting on its uprights. Instead, it lay next to the second nylon tunnel, one end of the white post smeared with red.

  By that point, everyone in the crowd had cottoned on to what was happening. Another body in their midst. Another murder.