Dog-Gone Murder

by Marnette Falley

  Other books in the Queen Bees series:

  Murders on Elderberry Road - by Sally Goldenbaum A Murder of Taste - by Sally Goldenbaum Murder on a Starry Night - by Sally Goldenbaum

  Dog-Gone Murder

  A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery

  By Marnette Falley

  Editor: Doug Weaver

  Cover illustration and map: Neil Nakahodo

  Character illustrations: Lon Eric Craven

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2008 The Kansas City Star Co.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.

  Published by Kansas City Star Books.

  First edition.

  ISBN: 978-1-933466-71-2

  Printed in the United States of America by Walsworth Publishing Co., Marceline, Missouri

  To order copies, call StarInfo at (816) 234-4636 and say “BOOKS.”

  Order on-line at www.TheKansasCityStore.com.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  KPORTIA (Po) PALTROW,

  founder and nurturer of the Queen Bees quilting group. Anchors the women’s quilting group in life and in art.

  KKATE SIMPSON,

  Po’s goddaughter and a high school teacher. The newest member of the Queen Bees.

  PHOEBE MKELLON,

  wife to Jimmy, an up-and-coming lawyer, young mother to 4-year old twins, and a constant surprise to her quilting cohorts.

  ELEANOR KANTERBURY,

  who lives on the edge of the college her great-grandfather founded. Is heir to the Canterbury family fortune.

  LEAH SARANDON,

  professor of women’s studies at Canterbury College. An artistic quilter.

  SELMA PARKER,

  owner of Parker’s Dry Goods Store. Provides a weekly gathering place for the Queen Bees quilting group and generous doses of down-home wisdom.

  SUSAN MILLER,

  Selma’s artistic assistant manager in the quilt shop. Recently returned to college to pursue a degree in fiber arts.

  MAGGIE HELMERS,

  Crestwood’s favorite veterinarian. Is an avid quilter and collector of fat lady art.

  MAP

  _________________

  CHAPTER 1

  Po Paltrow sat on a padded wooden bench, her golden retriever, Hoover, pressed against her leg, and looked around the freshly painted clinic. “This room is beautiful, Angela,” she said to the office manager as she ran her fingers against the silky smoothness of Hoover’s ears. “I love those new skylights—they brighten up the whole place. The renovation was a good idea.” She looked at the new magazine racks and a low, curved wall that separated the dog area from the cat side, where a young woman sat holding a sweet tabby on her lap. Several other dog owners sat in comfortable groupings of chairs, reading magazines. It was a waiting room that made waiting a treat.

  Angela Carter looked up from behind the curved reception desk. She was checking appointments on the computer and keeping one eye on the young receptionist working at her side. Her ever-present smile widened when she looked at Po. “Dr. Maggie has an eye for detail,” she said. “Be sure you check out the new boarding facility when you take Hoover back for his exam. It’s amazing, Po. Five-star boarding, right here in Crestwood, Kansas.”

  Po laughed. “Well, I hear from Maggie that you’re the one behind that effort.”

  “This is a pretty typical clinic, Po,” Angela said. “It’s just Dr. Maggie, and the part-time doc she hires to cover on Saturday morning and during her vacations. And Dr. Maggie’s amazing. She takes care of every pet as if it were her own. But we needed a facelift badly. Folks demand more for their pets these days—some want television sets, raised beds, even heated floors. And even though it’s not one of those huge practices with 10 doctors or more that you see in big cities, Helmers’ Animal Clinic now has all the amenities for our boarders. Each suite even has a little camera so I can check from here to be sure all our guests are happy.” Angela nodded approvingly at the receptionist as she politely finished a reminder phone call to a client.

  “Well, Hoover isn’t in need of television. At least not yet. He’s more into chasing squirrels around my pine trees.” Hoover’s thick tail swept the floor at the mention of his name.

  “But some clients like it,” Angela said. “Take Mercedes Richardson, for example. Her Fitzgerald is much more relaxedand sleeps better with music playing and the lights kept low. He’s a pointer, you know. They can be a bit high-strung if they don’t get enough attention and exercise.” Angela glanced at the appointment list on her computer screen. “In fact, Fitzgerald is coming in this morning for a pre-show checkup, and he’ll spend the afternoon in one of the suites. We’re bringing a massage therapist in to help relax him, too.”

  Po smiled. Fitzgerald, the only Crestwood dog to have entered the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, was well known in the small town for his many ribbons and trophies. His pure-bred reputation was matched only by that of his eccentric owner, Mercedes Richardson. But before Po could voice an opinion on doggie massages and heated kennel floors, the front door flew open and Champion Fitzgerald’s Got It Good, the son of another champion, Fitzgerald’s Miss Otis Smiles, walked in with his owner at his side.

  If a dog could be haughty, Po thought, Fitzgerald was. But she had to admit he was beautiful, his coat shiny and perfect. She had heard Mercedes talk about his perfection. He certainly did have an athletic grace. His dark brown head and ears and nose did present a striking picture. And he did have it good. Perhaps he deserved to show off a bit, Po decided.

  “You’re right on time, as always, Mercedes,” Angela said. Mercedes strode over to the counter, acknowledging Po’s presence with a brief hello as she passed.

  Mercedes was about 50, Po thought. She wore a suede jacket and elegant wool slacks, creased, tailored and spotless. Po wondered how she managed to stay free of dog hair. Every pair of slacks Po owned seemed determined to announce Hoover’s presence in her life, even when they came straight from Herman’s Dry Cleaners.

  “Is Maggie ready for us?” Mercedes asked. Her tone of voice indicated that “no” was not an acceptable answer.

  “She had to leave briefly on an emergency, but let me check to see if she’s back,” Angela said, and glanced down the hallway as an exam room door opened a crack.

  Po noticed the relief on the office manager’s face, imagining Maggie was in the exam room. Even though Angela had worked closely with Mercedes—helping her train Fitzgerald for the shows was her previous job—keeping Mercedes waiting for an appointment was not something she’d welcome. But before Angela could move, the door suddenly widened and a small figure raced through. Sampson, a usually sweet male cat of unknown parentage, flew down the short hallway and leapt directly onto Angela’s neat desk, scattering papers in all directions.

  Not to be outdone—and much to her owner’s dismay—Jezebel, the three-year old tabby in the cat area, leapt from her owner’s lap, across the tiled floor, and flew up on the counter, meeting Sampson head on.

  Before Angela could move, the two cats were curved in perfect upside-down “U”s, their fur standing as straight as prairie grass. Hisses curled up into the air like a radiator at full steam.

  Mercedes cursed and took a step back. Po leaned forward in her chair. And Hoover, head cocked, sat on alert, staring at the feuding cats, poised in a tense standoff.

  Po reached down and patted his head. “It’s all right, Hoover,” she said quietly, “Just give them space.”

  A 6-year-old girl, sitting beside her mother and holding a small fluff of a puppy, screamed. On a soft cushioned chair,

 
the owner of a Boston Terrier tensed and scooped up the small bundle of black and white onto her lap.

  Angela slowly moved around the counter and looked over her shoulder.

  Aaron Whitaker, his tall, lanky frame filling the examining room doorway, was ashen-faced. “Angela, I didn’t mean—”

  “Aaron, get me a blanket,” Angela said, her steady voice cutting him off. “Now.”

  “What?”

  “A blanket,” Angela repeated. “And a broom.” Her brows were pulled together but her voice stayed calm and crisp.

  Aaron, at 6 foot 2 and still growing, looked baffled. Another look from Angela sent him scurrying to the cupboard.

  The cats, sensing indecision, renewed their combat, hissing and spewing at one another. And in the next moment, Jezebel leapt on top of Sampson, sinking her claws deep into his back.

  Sampson, in a move that rivaled ballet’s Mikhail Baryshnikov, shook free, leapt off the counter, and landed directly on the back of Fitzgerald Richardson, Crestwood’s one and only claim to the Westminster Dog Show. Before Fitzgerald could react, Jezebel followed.

  Angela held up one hand to stop Mercedes from grabbing the cats, and with the other, she grabbed a slender can of compressed air standing beside the computer. With one swift movement, she pressed the button on the can and sent a fierce flow of air just to the side of the fractious cats, startling them into inactivity for one brief second. But it was long enough for Aaron to throw a blanket over each cat, causing them to tumble to the ground and freeing Fitzgerald. Grabbing the broom, Angela forced it between the blanket lumps to be sure the cats cats were separated. With the help of the young receptionist and Aaron, they carefully lifted each bundle and released the cats in separate exam rooms, quickly closing the doors behind them.

  “Take Fitzgerald into the exam room,” Angela said to Mercedes, and Mercedes, for perhaps the first time in her 50 years of life, obeyed.

  “The cats need a little time alone,” Angela explained to the frightened young woman whose cat had been so peaceful just moments before. “Jezebel is still angry, but she’ll calm down soon, and then we’ll take her some food and check her out for bites.”

  “I don’t know what happened, Angela,” Aaron stammered. “Sampson was with me one minute, then disappeared. Geez—of all dogs to get hammered.”

  “Shush, Aaron. It happens. Cats can be hard to restrain.” Angela half-smiled at the distraught young man, then quickly turned and hurried after Mercedes and Fitzgerald.

  Aaron, his face beet red, looked over at Po. “I sure am sorry you saw that, Mrs. Paltrow. Please don’t tell Kate. She got me this job.”

  Po smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Aaron. Kate tells me you’re wonderful with animals. One mistake doesn’t change that.”

  “I like working here. Dr. Maggie is great.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me a bit. Maggie is one of my favorite people,” Po said. Maggie Helmers, the owner of the clinic and a devoted member of the Queen Bees quilting group, was also the most popular veterinarian in Crestwood, and Po knew this was a prime part-time job for Aaron, as long as he could survive the Mercedes Richardsons of the world.

  And how lovely of Kate to arrange for the job, Po thought. Her goddaughter continued to surprise her at every turn. As a teenager, Kate had caused her mother, Liz, and Po no end of worry, but she had grown into a gracious, caring adult who would fill her mother to the brim with pride. It was moments like this that made Po want to pick up the phone, call her closest friend, and say, “Lizzie, get over here this instant. The martinis are chilled. We shall celebrate our Kate.” But since Liz’s death a few years ago, the martinis could no longer be shared. Still, Po felt instinctively that somehow the sentiment still was.

  “So you like working with animals, Aaron?” she asked Kate’s prodigy.

  “Sure do, Mrs. Paltrow. Remember when I used to play catch with that Great Dane you had before Hoover?”

  Po laughed as memories flooded her of the gigantic dog that her children rode like a pony. “Of course I remember. Dino was his name, and you were such a tot you could practically walk beneath him. “

  Po remembered well those years when Aaron’s mother made ends meet by cleaning houses in the Elderberry neighborhood where Po lived. She’d bring Aaron along, and he loved being in the Paltrows’ large, treed backyard, playing on an old rope swing Po’s husband Sam had built for their own children. But what he’d loved most was playing ball with Dino. Once Aaron started school, Po had lost track of him, though she knew his life hadn’t been easy. And then he ended up in Kate’s senior English class, and Po caught up on his life. With Kate’s help, he’d gotten a scholarship to Canterbury College, and Kate continued to keep an eye on him, helping him get odd jobsto help make ends meet.

  Aaron leaned over and scratched Hoover’s head. “Well, buddy, I’m just glad those feisty cats didn’t land on you.” Though the front door hadn’t opened, a chill fell over the threesome as Hoover’s tail continued to thump on the floor, his warm eyes focused on Aaron. Po looked up.

  Mercedes Richardson stood at the reception desk, ignoring the young girl behind the counter. She was staring at Aaron, her steely grey eyes piercing and cold.

  “Mercedes,” Po began. “How is Fitzgerald? Angela did a fine job of protecting—”

  “Young man,” Mercedes said, ignoring Po and filling the space between herself and Aaron with icy air.

  “Ma’am,” Aaron said. “I’m sorry about the cat. It got—”

  “Be quiet,” Mercedes said sharply. “And listen closely.”

  Her voice was so cold, her words so punctuated, that a chill ran up and down Po’s arms. She rubbed it away, wanting to interfere, to somehow protect Aaron from the crushing force of Mercedes’ words. But she was being silly. Mercedes hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t really done anything.

  Mercedes took a step closer to Aaron then, her perfectly coiffed blond head still and her eyes never leaving Aaron’s face. She raised one hand as if to slap him or punch the air, but instead, she held it in front of her chest, her fingers clutching Fitzgerald’s leash and curled into a tight fist. With the other hand she pointed at Aaron’s face, her finger a poison arrow, and continued to speak.

  “If you ever so much as touch my dog, I shall personally see to it that you never work in this town again. You will be ruined. Ruined. Or worse. Mark my words.”

  And with that, Mercedes Richardson lifted her chin into the air and walked to the door. She paused for a brief moment, her hand on the brass knob, and turned back to the room. A controlled smile, focused on Po, creased her lips.

  “Good-bye, Po,” Mercedes said. “It was lovely to see you again.” And she opened the door and walked into the warm fall day, Fitzgerald’s leather leash dangling from her fingers.

  CHAPTER 2

  Po smiled as she watched Kate arrange on a dish the cranberry scones she’d bought down the street at Maria’s Bakery and help herself to a cup of steaming coffee. It was four years since the cheery, athletic young woman had returned to town to mourn her mother and Po’s best friend. At the time, she thought joining her mom’s quilting group was a temporary thing. But in the end she’d never returned to her cozy apartment in Boston. “So often life doesn’t run down quite the path we expect,” Po thought, as she looked at the group of women that made up part of her permanent support system and smiled.

  At this meeting in the back room of Selma Parker’s fabric store, a weekly ritual of sewing and friendship, they’d get a glimpse of what their current project would look like finished—a quilt they would donate to the Humane Society benefit auction. Appropriately enough, veterinarian and lifelong quilter Maggie Helmers contributed the vision for this piece. And sure enough, just as Kate joined the rest of the group at the table with her warm mug, Maggie bustled in. “Does everybody have their squares done?” she asked as she dropped a full tote against one wall and filled a mug.

  Their pet-themed contribution was titled “Bad Karma.” It was a
nine-square quilt featuring eight cats. Now it was time to see how the Queen Bees had each brought their little critter purring and scratching to life.

  The Saturday morning group had met at the back of Parker’s Dry Goods for as long as anyone could remember, beginning back when Selma’s mother had run the store. Over time, the dynamics of the group changed with the changes in the members and their lives. But still, some of the Queen Bees were friends and relatives of the women who started this weekly tradition.

  Po smiled as she looked around the room. These seven wonderful women had begun as her quilting companions, but over time their lives had become pieced together in the same way as the complicated projects they conceived and executed. She could no more imagine her life without them than imagine her days without quilting or her home without the quilts she created with them.

  With Maggie’s arrival and question, each Bee dug in her bag and produced a square. They laid them out in order on the giant worktable they used in the back of Selma’s fabric shop. The first was clearly good-natured and sweet looking; Po could practically hear it purr. Every cat in the middle shifted a little more toward the crabby end of the cat scale, until the eighth warned you with every whisker that if you got your hands too close, you would suffer the consequences. The ninth square held a dopey-looking, floppy-eared, wide-eyed dog.

  “I think it’s perfect, Maggie,” she said. “Nothing could appeal to pet owners more.”

  “I think the variety is neat,” Maggie said. “I expected from the beginning that we’d all use a mix of piecing and appliqué. But there were even more decisions on the fly and problemsolving than normal with this project, I thought.”

  “Yeah, I bet it took everybody some fiddling to get the expressions right,” agreed Phoebe, the vivacious, petite mother of 4-year-old twins. “Lucky for me, I took the easiest. My sweet kitty just smiles. That wasn’t too hard.”