Paws For Murder

by Annie Knox

  “We’re going to help her, right?” I asked Sean when Rena had gone. “Even if it means figuring out who killed Sherry ourselves?”

  “Of course. Rena’s our friend. That’s what we do.”

  “Rena said you two kept in touch over the years.” Until the night before, Rena hadn’t mentioned Sean to me even once since we’d graduated high school. In retrospect, that seemed odd—that his name wouldn’t come up at least in passing.

  He shrugged. “Not as well as we should have—phone calls for birthdays, the occasional lunch when I came home for holidays. And once I moved back to Merryville, we’ve had a standing date for dinner at La Ming, first Friday of the month. But still, not as well as we should have. Not as well as you two have,” he added.

  It was my turn to shrug. “I’m not so sure I’ve kept up with her all that well. It seemed like we just fell back into the rhythm of our friendship when I moved back to Merryville, but I think I missed a lot. She went through some serious stuff while I was in Madison, and I didn’t have the slightest clue.”

  He smiled, a wry twist of the lips. “No offense, Izzy, but you do miss a lot.”

  I blushed at that sideways reminder of his midnight confession, the fact that I’d never suspected the torch he carried for me.

  “Are you happy?” I asked, suddenly desperate to know.

  He laughed. “That’s kind of a big question.”

  “I suppose so. But it seems like the answer should be simple.”

  “Well, it’s not. Mostly, I’m happy. I’d planned to make a life in the big city—Atlanta, New Orleans, maybe Chicago—but when my dad died, I decided I should move back to be close to my mom. It wasn’t my first choice, but it’s turned out just fine. I hung out my shingle, and business is good.”

  “Your social life is good, too,” I prodded.

  “You mean Carla? Yes, that’s good, too.”

  He clearly wasn’t going to give me the information I was fishing for, details about how close they were and whether they were planning on marriage. To be honest, I wasn’t really sure why I wanted to know or even if I wanted to know. It was like a loose thread I couldn’t resist pulling.

  “What about you?” he asked, turning the tables. “Are you happy?”

  “You want the simple answer or the true answer?” I said, trying to keep my tone light. I knew the subtext of his question: He wondered whether I was at peace about Casey dumping me after all those years.

  “The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” he quipped.

  The truth was that we weren’t close enough—anymore? yet?—for me to tell him how much Casey’s defection had burned. The truth was I couldn’t stand the “I told you so,” whether he uttered the words out loud or not. The truth was it was late, and I was tired, and I needed to focus on my friend.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Except for this thing with Rena.”

  “Fine is hardly an answer,” Sean insisted.

  I was saved from having to elaborate by a sharp rap on the front door.

  I dashed to the door, expecting to find Rena had returned and simply forgotten her key, but I was surprised to find Richard Greene on my porch, looking like he was ready to storm the beach at Normandy.

  “Miss McHale. Thanks to you, I have a rodent in my place of business, posing a serious threat to the precious books that are my stock-in-trade.”

  “Excuse me?” I’d never heard Richard Greene string together quite so many words at once. He must have been out of his mind, crazy angry.

  “A rodent. Some sort of big furry tailless rat. Saw it dart behind a bookshelf just last night. I don’t know how it got into my shop, but I know it came from your establishment. This is exactly the sort of nuisance I anticipated from the onset of your harebrained scheme.”

  “Mr. Greene, I’m sorry you have an infestation of some sort, but I don’t see how it’s related to Trendy Tails. I’m certain none of my customers has left a pet of any sort behind, not even a rod—” I slammed to a halt midword.

  “Holy cats,” I breathed. “It’s Gandhi.”

  My heart sang that the wee guinea pig might have survived the cold snap and made his way into the Greene Brigade, but at the same time I realized the peril Gandhi faced. Between Richard and Macarthur, the pig needed help.

  “Mr. Greene. Richard. I’m pretty sure the animal you saw is a guinea pig that belonged to Sherry Harper. He went missing the night she died. He’s completely harmless.”

  “He’s a rodent. He’s not harmless; he’s a pest. I have precious maps, books, military uniforms, all of which might be chewed and destroyed by a rodent.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Mr. Greene. I promise.”

  As if I didn’t have enough on my plate: launching a new business, investigating a murder, and now wrangling a rogue guinea pig.

  CHAPTER

  Ten

  The next morning, news of the poisoning—attributed to a high-placed source in the Merryville Police Department—appeared in the Merryville Gazette.

  Sean stopped by around eleven, large cups of coffee from Joe Time nestled in a brown cardboard carrying case.

  By silent agreement, Rena and I set aside our projects—Rena was adding rhinestones to a white and baby blue Elvis cape, and I was hand stitching the red satin lining for a feline Dracula costume—and gathered around the big red table.

  Sean handed Rena a cup billowing with whipped cream and a drizzle of chocolate syrup over the top. “One large caramel mocha with extra whip, for you.”

  “Dear heavens, Rena, why don’t you weigh a thousand pounds?”

  Rena feigned a pout. “I use skim milk.”

  I shook my head in consternation. Rena could eat like three lumberjacks and never gain an ounce. If I even took a sip of that coffee drink, I’d gain five pounds.

  “And for you,” Sean continued, passing me a steaming cup, “extra dark roast, black.”

  He’d remembered, I thought, my knees melting on cue. Or, some cynical part of my brain piped up, Rena told him. Either way, I told myself, it was a lovely gesture.

  “You’ve seen the paper?” Sean asked, as he pulled his own coffee from the carton and took a sip.

  “Yeah,” I said. “So it really was poison?”

  “It’s not officially official, but it’s sure looking that way.”

  Jinx made her way to Sean, somehow wrapped her whole body around his ankles, and settled in for a nap.

  “Well, if it was poison, it was probably in something she ate,” I said. “And the Extension service told the police that the water hemlock acted fast, so it must have been something she ate that night.”

  “And that’s why a lot of suspicion will fall on you, Rena,” Sean said. “The police have been holding off, waiting for a cause of death, but now they’ll likely start homing in on you. Because they know she ate food prepared by you and delivered by you in the minutes before she died.”

  “What about Ken West?” Rena asked. “He sent a plate out for her, too.”

  “And he had a huge motive,” I added. “She’d ruined his business.”

  “He’s a viable suspect,” Sean agreed, “but police tend to wear blinders when they investigate a crime. They identify a suspect, and it takes a lot to sway them from their path. You’re the most obvious suspect, Rena. You fought with the victim right before her death, and people saw you taking the food out to her. Besides, you know how people are. Ken’s clean-cut, dresses like a vacationing businessman, and you . . .”

  “Right,” Rena said with a sigh. “I look like I might sacrifice chickens in my spare time.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Sean hedged, “but you’re definitely not the norm in Merryville.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Sean shrugged. “Nothing, really. I’m just keeping you in the loop.” He fixed Rena with a piercing stare. “For now, your job is to keep your head down. No wackiness, no fights, no nothing. You’re just Suzy Sunshine, okay?”

  Rena plast
ered a brilliant smile on her face. “Aren’t I always?”

  Despite the gravity of the situation, it was impossible not to laugh at my fierce pixie friend striving for Stepford wife.

  Before we could get back to business, Rena’s phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket and glanced at the screen. “Dang it,” she muttered. “It’s my dad,” she announced more loudly. “I have to take this.”

  As she headed back to the kitchen, we overheard her side of the conversation.

  “Hey, Dad. . . . No, I will not bring you a bottle of Canadian Mist. . . . Right, well, I’ve told you before . . .”

  Poor Rena. She had this conversation with her dad at least once a day.

  I turned to Sean. “So. What are we really going to do about this?”

  Sean sighed. “We’re going to have a little chat with our best suspect, Ken West.”

  • • •

  Fortunately, we didn’t have to wait long to talk to Ken West. The only person I knew who was close to Ken was my aunt Dolly—and that was using the term “close” pretty loosely. Still I gave her a call.

  “Aunt Dolly?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I don’t suppose you know how I could get in touch with Ken West, do you? I could call him, but I’d rather see him in person, and I don’t even know where he lives.”

  “Well you can see him right now. I’m sitting right next to him.”

  “What?”

  “We’re having tea at Taffy’s shop and talking about Ken’s plans for a new restaurant right here in the historic district.”

  “Aunt Dolly! You’re not thinking of investing in his restaurant are you? He ran the last one into the ground.”

  “Never you mind that. I’ll ask Ken to stick around a few extra minutes. But do hurry. He’s a busy young man, you know.”

  Dolly hung up, and I handed Sean his coat. “He’s right down the street. Right now.”

  Deciding I could kill two birds with one stone, I leashed up Packer for the brief walk to Taffy’s, and then we set off together.

  The McHale girls are above average in the height department, but I had nothing on Sean. He looked to be about six-two, and his stride devoured the sidewalk. I had to bustle to keep up with him, and that meant pulling Packer along at a brisker pace than he was used to. Every few steps he’d sit down in protest, so it probably took us a good five minutes to walk the block to the Happy Leaf Tea Shoppe.

  We found Dolly and Ken sitting at a beautiful tiger oak table, dainty cups of tea and a plate of finger sandwiches between them. They made an odd pair. My tiny aunt wore a pair of leggings, a long purple sequined tunic hanging nearly to her knees, and a pair of silver boots. She could have passed for a schoolgirl if it weren’t for the ice white of her hair and the network of lines her perfect makeup couldn’t quite hide. Ken, on the other hand, looked like he was ready to go pheasant hunting, and he absolutely dwarfed Dolly. The delicate teacup in his hand only served to emphasize his size and masculine vibe.

  Taffy was behind the counter, polishing spoons. She gave us a wave, but gave us our space.

  Sean and I pulled up chairs to join Dolly and Ken. While I greeted Dolly with a buss to her cheek, Sean reached out to shake hands with Ken. Packer made a circle around Ken’s chair, whining as he went, then draped himself across Sean’s feet and began snoring softly. Apparently Sean had already become part of Packer’s pack.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Ken said, though the gleam in his eyes suggested he already knew the answer.

  “Perhaps you saw the paper this morning?” Sean asked.

  “Indeed I did.”

  “Then you know that anyone who fed Sherry is going to be a suspect now.”

  Dolly gasped. “Oh, Izzy. If I’d known you were going to come here to accuse Ken of something . . .”

  Ken hushed her with a gentle motion of his hand. “It’s fine, Dolly. I’m actually amused that Izzy and Sean here beat the police in contacting me. It’s perfectly okay for them to ask their questions about Sherry.”

  “She did cause you a lot of trouble, didn’t she?” I asked. “Maybe you decided it was time for a little payback. The police have been focusing on the fact that Rena had a big blowup with Sherry that night, but you’ve had the chance to stew in resentment for quite some time. And Rena wasn’t the only one to give Sherry food that night. She took out a plate that you made up, too.”

  He laughed. “Oh, where to even begin with that? First, if I’d killed Sherry Harper, do you think I’d actually tell you?”

  He had a point.

  “Second, I sent out a plate, but I guarantee Sherry didn’t eat anything on it. When Rena asked me to put something together for her, I placed a few chicken skewers, a beef pasty, and a little crab cake on the plate, wrapped it in foil, and sent it out for the vegetarian.” He shrugged. “I suppose it was petty, but after she boycotted my restaurant and slandered my food, the last thing I wanted to do was feed her.”

  “But we found the plate empty.”

  “You found the plate empty in an alley filled with Dumpsters. If I had to guess, that’s why Sherry was back there in the first place: so she could throw out that food, because God forbid she litter.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed him, but there was really no way for me to prove or disprove his assertion.

  “Let’s say you didn’t poison Sherry.”

  “Yes, let’s,” Ken deadpanned.

  “You were back in the kitchen,” I said. “Surely you heard or saw something that night?”

  “Nothing useful. At one point I thought I heard someone out there, raised voices like maybe someone was arguing, but I was busy keeping the kitchen in order. When I finally did take a break, pop out the back door for a breath of fresh air, I didn’t see a soul. If I had to guess, Sherry was already dead by then. I only stepped out onto the back stoop for a smoke, and I couldn’t see around to the front of the Dumpster. Her body could have been there without me ever being the wiser.”

  “Am I just supposed to believe you?”

  “Izzy, Izzy, Izzy. I can see you’re not inclined to let this go, and I can’t afford to have you spreading rumors about me, so I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I didn’t like Sherry Harper very much, but she didn’t ruin my life.”

  “But she cost you your business,” Sean said.

  “Her boycott of the Blue Atlantic didn’t bring down the restaurant. I had other . . . issues.”

  “Issues?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve had an on-and-off love affair with blow.”

  Sean nodded, but Dolly and I stared at him blankly.

  He sighed. “Cocaine?”

  “Oh,” we said simultaneously.

  “I’ve got it under control now, Dolly. I want our business dealings to be completely transparent. You should know I had this problem, but I’ve taken care of it. I go to NA meetings at least once a week.

  “But when I was trying to get the Blue Atlantic off the ground, I was under a lot of stress. It’s not easy being both the chef and manager of an upscale restaurant. I started taking the coke so I could squeeze more hours into the day, but I didn’t make the best business decisions under those circumstances. The restaurant was hemorrhaging money, and I was burning up even more buying drugs. That’s what put me under. Not Sherry.”

  “But you told me it was her fault,” I said.

  “I told everyone it was her fault. Better to let everyone think that the boycott was my downfall. I certainly didn’t want them to know the truth. Ultimately, though, as much as I disliked her, I had no reason to kill Sherry. Heck, if we’re being honest, my business actually picked up a bit when she first started her protest . . . people coming in to see what all the fuss was about.”

  Dolly reached out to pat Ken’s hand. “That’s very brave of you, telling us that.”

  Ken lifted a shoulder. “To be honest, I wasn’t going to be able to hide my past indiscretions for long. Even if they have thei
r sights fixed on Rena, they’ll have to at least consider me as a suspect. Eventually, everyone will know about my old drug problem.”

  “Well,” Dolly said, “you just know that I’ll be rooting for you. We all make mistakes, and we shouldn’t be judged solely by our lowest moments.”

  Good heavens. I was afraid Dolly was about to whip out her checkbook and write Ken a fat check right there, right then.

  Ken, thankfully, took that moment to bow out. “I have a busy afternoon,” he said. “But I hope I settled some questions for you all.”

  When he’d left, Dolly took us to task. “I know Rena didn’t kill that young woman, but neither did Ken.”

  “How can you be so sure, Aunt Dolly?” I asked.

  “I just know. He’s a little uptight, but he’s a good boy. No killer could make a crab cake as tender and delicious as his.”

  “I don’t think ‘crab cake’ is a legal defense to murder,” Sean said, his mouth twisted in a wry smile.

  “Oh, hush, young man. You know what I mean.”

  “Actually, I don’t,” Sean answered. “But for the moment, there’s not much we can do to check out Ken’s story. I think we’ll have to take a different approach.”

  “What approach?” I asked, hoping Sean had a brilliant new tack to take.

  “I think we need to talk to Nick Haas.”

  “But I thought we’d already decided that Nick was unlikely to be the killer.”

  “True. But no one knew Sherry better than Nick. If we’re going to get any insight into who might have wanted Sherry dead, Nick’s our best lead.”

  • • •

  The next morning, we found Nick Haas where I imagine one could generally find Nick Haas: on a barstool at the Silent Woman. Never mind that it was 8:30 a.m. on a Tuesday.

  He’d found a perch right next to the cut-through in the bar where the waitresses passed to deliver and pick up drink orders. It was prime real estate for chatting up the bar staff.

  Merryville wasn’t a dry town. You could order beer and wine at most of the nicer restaurants, the Thistle and Ivy styled itself as a genuine pub, and we even had two liquor stores (one high-end that sold imported beer and one more down-to-earth place where outdoor enthusiasts could pick up a twelve-pack before casting their lines in Badger Lake or holing up in a deer stand for the day).