Three Barks For Murder

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by Gayle, Susie




  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  THREE BARKS FOR MURDER

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  Three Barks

  for

  Murder

  A Pet Shop Mystery

  Book Three

  By

  Susie Gayle

  Copyright 2017 Summer Prescott Books

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication nor any of the information herein may be quoted from, nor reproduced, in any form, including but not limited to: printing, scanning, photocopying or any other printed, digital, or audio formats, without prior express written consent of the copyright holder.

  **This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places of business, or situations past or present, is completely unintentional.

  Author’s Note: On the next page, you’ll find out how to access all of my books easily, as well as locate books by best-selling author, Summer Prescott. I’d love to hear your thoughts on my books, the storylines, and anything else that you’d like to comment on – reader feedback is very important to me. Please see the following page for my publisher’s contact information. If you’d like to be on her list of “folks to contact” with updates, release and sales notifications, etc…just shoot her an email and let her know. Thanks for reading!

  Also…

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  http://summerprescottbooks.com/book-catalog/ for some truly delicious stories.

  THREE BARKS FOR

  MURDER

  A Pet Shop Mystery Book Three

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  I’m standing on a step stool in front of the storefront windows of the Pet Shop Stop, hanging a large poster-board sign when I call out over my shoulder, “How about Pookie?”

  Behind me, I hear Sarah groan, and I don’t need to turn to know she’s doing that thing where she scrunches up her nose in mock disgust.

  “Oh my god, no.”

  “Okay… how about Puddin’?”

  “For Pete’s sake…” she grumbles as she changes out the water dishes in the dog kennels.

  “Shmoopsie-Poo?” I suggest.

  “Will!”

  All of this is coming on the heels of my realization that I don’t have a pet name for my girlfriend of a little more than seven months (or nearly eight, if you’re glass-half-full kind of guy like me). Sarah, who also happens to be my pet shop’s sole employee, heard me call Rowdy by one of his nicknames the other day and found it amusing. Since then, I’ve been trying hard to come up with one for her.

  Rowdy, the shelter dog that I adopted earlier this year, is part-terrier and part-terror, and on any given day—mood dependent, of course—might be known as Rowdy, Ro-Ro, Rude-y, Rowdy Roddy Piper, or Wonderdog. Sarah calls him Cutie Pie, but only because he’s learned to kiss up to her after he’s done something bad that he knows I’ll be angry about.

  Darn dog is too smart for his own good.

  Heck, even my fiend of an ex-wife had a nickname. (Her name is Karen, maiden name Bear, so when we were together I called her Kare-Bear. Now she’s Karen Bear again, and behind closed doors Sarah and I simply refer to her as “the Bear,” for reasons I’ll impart a little later.)

  So naturally, once I realized I didn’t have a pet name for Sarah, the search was on.

  “Sarasota,” I offer as I climb down from the step stool. “Serendipity. Saran Wrap—”

  “Seriously.” I didn’t even notice that she’d crossed the store floor and is standing right behind me. She puts a hand on each shoulder and her green eyes bore into mine as she tells me, “If you don’t stop, I’m leaving you.”

  “Fine. But one will come to me eventually.”

  “Great. A nickname should be organic, off the cuff—not forced.” She grabs the broom and pushes it into my hands. “Besides, I don’t have one for you.”

  I fake a gasp. “You’re right, you don’t! You’re a terrible girlfriend.”

  She shrugs. “But I’m a great employee, so you can’t get rid of me.” She glances around the store. “Okay, the animals are fed and watered, signs are up, paperwork is out… are we missing anything?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I reply as I start sweeping up tufts of dog hair and tiny pellets of errant chinchilla poop. (They throw it at people for attention. I wish I was kidding.) “You’ve done a great job organizing this whole thing.”

  This afternoon, my store—the Pet Shop Stop in downtown Seaview Rock—is hosting an adoption event for dogs and cats from a local animal shelter. It was Sarah’s idea, of course. That’s how we met, actually; she was a volunteer there, and a mutual friend introduced us. Since she’s started working here, just over a year ago now, we’ve taken in the occasional shelter dog or cat to show off alongside the pets we have for sale. It’s a bit less money coming in, but the satisfaction of seeing one of them adopted into a good home is far more satisfying than a little more cash in the till.

  “Do you think people will come?” Sarah asks nervously, twirling a strand of auburn hair around a finger.

  “Of course they will. Especially this close to the holidays. You know people are looking for pets, and adopting is a heck of a lot cheaper than buying from a pet store or puppy mill.” I know how odd that statement sounds coming from a guy that runs a pet store, but I never, ever get any of my dogs from puppy mills. Those places are despicable. It’s accredited breeders all the way for this shop.

  “Oh!” Sarah says suddenly. “I forgot treats!”

  I frown. “We have plenty of treats.”

  “Not pet treats, you doofus. People treats. Like a plate of cookies or something.”

  “Ah, good idea.” I check my watch. “Still got plenty of time before the event. I’ll run to the store real quick.” I untie my apron and fetch my keys and jacket from behind the counter. Rowdy sees me and leaps off his doggie bed in the corner, wagging his tail furiously. “No, pal. You stay here with Sarah.”

  “Hmm,” Sarah muses. “You know, I think I like Doofus. Yeah, that could stick.”

  “Sure thing… Shmoopsie-Poo.”

  “Will, no!”

  “Back in a jiffy.” I wink and head out the door.

  ***

  A lot of people, when they talk about their ideal place to live, they mention warm places with beaches and palm trees. Or maybe a big city where there’s lots going on and lights and sounds and all that.

  Not me, though. If you ask me where I’d want to live, given anywhere in the world, I’d say, “Seaview Rock.” (Which is great for me, because that’s where I live.) And it’s true that coastal Maine in early December isn’t exactly a picnic, but I can’t help but love this little town. It’s remained veritably unchanged since the mid-nineteenth century or so, when the tiny fishing village it was exploded into a certified seaside town, and we work hard to preserve that. Any and all renovations or construction done around here is strictly reviewed and overseen by the town council, which makes sure to maintain the colonial revival style that most of the town is shaped after.

  Besides, the weather’s not all that bad lately; we’ve been enjoying a balmy forty-degree average for a few weeks now, probably as a result of someone upstairs feeling bad about the t
errible ice storm they sent our way back in October.

  The nice thing about living in a small, self-sufficient town is that just about everything is close, so it takes me only a few minutes to get down to Miller’s store and buy a tray of Italian cookies. Since the adoption event isn’t starting until two, I decide to pop into Sammy’s barber shop for a quick hello.

  Sammy is a tall Italian-American fellow with jet-black hair that he slicks back off his forehead. He runs a classic type of shop, one with a slowly-spinning candy-cane-striped sign outside. It’s the kind of place that always smells like talcum powder and aftershave, where old men sit around reading newspapers and chatting idly even when they’re not there for a haircut.

  Sammy is also my best friend of going on two decades. He’s a great listener, and has a knack for offering sagacious advice (even when I don’t ask him to). As I head inside the shop, a bell over the door chimes and he looks up from over the dome of his patron with a big smile.

  “Hey Will,” he greets. “Here for a trim?”

  I self-consciously run my hand over my hair. It’s only been a few weeks since I last had it cut. “Just stopping by. Hi Marcus, Frank.”

  In the leather waiting chairs that line one long wall of the shop, two retirees grunt their hellos from behind unfolded newspapers. Marcus and Frank are “the regulars,” a couple of guys that spend their afternoons in Sammy’s shop, belittling politicians and solving all the world’s problems, and then at five o’clock skedaddle on down to the Runside, our local watering hole, to promptly forget all their solutions.

  “You coming down to the adoption event, Sammy Boy?” I crinkle my nose in dismay as I realize that even Sammy has a few nicknames—Sam I Am and Samwise Gamgee being among my favorites. I really have to step up my boyfriend game.

  He glances at his watch. “I don’t know. I have a pretty busy afternoon, but I’ll do my best to swing by… as long as you don’t try to pawn off a cat on me. You know I’m allergic.”

  “You’re not allergic. You just get creeped out by the idea of tongue baths.”

  He shrugs, and then lowers his tone (as if it would somehow matter in the otherwise quiet barber shop). “Hey, I saw your ex yesterday.”

  “So?” Earlier this year, Karen moved from Portland, Maine back to Seaview Rock—which, due to mathematical probability and the town’s small size, means that we occasionally run into each other.

  “She was with some guy,” Sammy tells me conspiratorially.

  “Really? That’s great!” Ever since Karen came back to town, I’ve had the suspicion that she’s out to break up me and Sarah, or at least throw wrenches in our relationship. And by “suspicion,” I mean “hard evidence of an overt nature.” But if she’s dating again too, maybe she’ll stop the pettiness. Or at least a guy can dare to dream.

  “That’s the thing,” Sammy tells me. “The guy she was with was Jeff Abernathy.”

  “So?” I say again. The name doesn’t ring a bell. (Small town or not, it’s impossible to know everybody.)

  “So, he’s married.”

  Of course Frank and Marcus perk right up when he says that. Nosy do-nothings.

  “Huh,” is all I say. Karen is a grown woman. She can do as she pleases—not that she should, but it’s none of my business anymore.

  And yeah, it’s totally petty, and yeah, I’m a thirty-seven year-old man with a business and responsibilities… but I can’t wait to get back to the shop and tell Sarah the gossip.

  CHAPTER 2

  * * *

  “A married man? Really?” Sarah balks as I arrange the purchased cookies on a tray at the counter.

  “That’s what Sammy said. And he’s a reliable source.”

  “How do you feel about that?” she asks.

  “What?” The question takes me off-guard. “I don’t have any feelings about it one way or another. She can do what she wants.”

  Sarah scrutinizes me while she nods slowly.

  “Don’t do that,” I tell her. “I feel like you’re analyzing me.”

  She doesn’t have to say it for me to know exactly what she’s thinking. See, about four years ago, Karen and I were still married—until I found out she was having an affair with some dude from Portland. We divorced, she moved, and then when things didn’t work out with Portland Guy, she came back to Seaview Rock. What Sarah is actually implying is, how does the thought of her ruining another marriage make me feel?

  “We don’t have time for that,” I tell her. “You can play therapist later. It’s nearly two. You ready?”

  “Ready.”

  ***

  The adoption event goes off splendidly. A few dozen people come and go over the three-hour window, and out of the ten dogs and cats that we sponsored, eight are adopted. Sarah, who still volunteers weekly at the shelter, knows firsthand the personality and temperament of each animal, and helps those looking for a pet match with the best fit for them. Of course, the shop benefits, too; anyone who adopts an animal also needs a collar, a leash, treats, toys, food, a bed, and what-have-you.

  By quarter to five, the plate of cookies is little more than crumbs and we start winding down to clean up and get all the adoption paperwork together.

  “Wow,” I say to Sarah. “I don’t think I’ve ever had that many people in the shop at one time. That was terrific. Nicely done.”

  “Thank you. You know, we could do this every month, if we wanted—”

  The door to the shop swings open and a couple walks in, followed by a third person—a short woman with bob-length brown hair.

  Karen. Great.

  “You handle the couple,” I murmur to Sarah. “I’ll tackle the Bear.”

  “Roger that,” she replies quietly. Then louder, with her arms out at her sides, she says, “Hello! Welcome to the Pet Shop Stop. I’m Sarah…”

  As she helps the couple, I step right into Karen’s path and force my biggest, fakest smile. Rowdy trots over to my side and sizes her up, letting out a low growl. (What can I say? He’s an excellent judge of character.)

  “Hi, Karen,” I greet warmly. “How are you? Good? Why are you here?”

  She shrugs. “I heard you were having an adoption event. Figured I’d stop by and see for myself.”

  I scoff. “You never wanted a pet before.”

  “Grow up, Will. People can change. Besides, it’s just me, all alone, and my place is cat-friendly.”

  So, remember what I said about Karen’s life being none of my business and she can do what she wants? Yeah, forget all that. Opportunities like this don’t come along often.

  “That’s not exactly what I hear,” I say offhandedly.

  She stares at me blankly. “No, it’s definitely cat-friendly.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Word on the street is, you’re gallivanting around with some married guy named Jeff.”

  She laughs at me. “Okay, first of all, don’t say ‘word on the street.’ You’re not in a noir film. Second, gallivanting? Really? And third, do you even know who Jeff Abernathy is?”

  “No,” I say honestly.

  She points to the guy that came in right before her. “That’s Jeff Abernathy, and that’s his wife Anna. They’re friends of mine. And the only reason we were ‘gallivanting’ when Sammy saw us—since I’m sure it was your loudmouth barber friend that told you—was because I was helping Jeff pick out a birthday present for her.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  As the kids these days would say, I was just owned. (Do kids these days say that? I think they say that.)

  “So then,” she says, hands on her hips, “are you going to show me a cat or not?”

  “Um…” I know darn well that we only have one cat left that wasn’t adopted, and a trio of ridiculously adorable kittens for sale, but I hold up a finger and tell her, “One sec. Let me check what we’ve got.”

  I head quickly over to Sarah, who’s showing the couple the puppies in the ke
nnels that line one wall of the shop, and tap her gently on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” she says to the couple.

  “Switch,” I whisper.

  “What?”

  “She wants to see cats. Show her cats. Please?”

  “Will, that is so awkward.”

  “I know, but it’s easier for you than for me.” I fold my hands and try to put on my best puppy-dog eyes. “Pretty please? I’ll make it up to you. I’ll take you to that musical revue thing that I hate.”

  She purses her lips thoughtfully. “Fine. But you have to take me to dinner, too. And a nice place. Not the Runside.”

  “Come on, don’t disparage the Runside—”

  “Fancy dinner,” she says with a finger in my face.

  “You got it.”

  To the couple, she says sweetly, “It was nice meeting you both. Will is going to take care of you from here.” And then she takes a deep breath, puts on a big smile, and heads over to Karen.

  You might be thinking that I’m a terrible person, shoving Sarah onto Karen like that, but the two of them barely know each other. There’s no resentment to come bubbling to the surface from a simple interaction.

  At least I hope.

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  I watch them for just a moment, making sure that no blows are being exchanged, and when it seems like all is civil I turn back to the couple to find the guy (Jeff, apparently) petting Rowdy and cooing to him.

  “Who’s a good boy? You’re a good boy! Yes you are!” Jeff looks up at me and asks, “Hey, is this guy up for adoption?”

  “Uh, no. Sorry. That’s my dog. He hangs out in the shop.”

  “Oh. Bummer.” Jeff pats Rowdy once more and stands. He’s a burly fellow, as tall as me with sandy hair and a bit of a paunch, dressed in jeans and a plain t-shirt under his coat.

  By contrast, his wife Anna is well dressed—a bit overly done for a pet shop visit, in my opinion—with a lot of makeup and curly blonde hair. She smiles politely and stands straight with her hands clasped in front of her, as if she went to finishing school or something.

 

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