Paws For Murder

by Annie Knox

  She shook her head, and I could see there were tears in her eyes.

  “She smiled when she saw me. She took the bag of poison from me and said ‘thank you.’ I couldn’t believe how easy it was. I could walk right back into the Grateful Grape and no one would ever be the wiser.”

  “Except you messed up,” I said. “You took her phone because of that one suspicious text to Carla, and you tried to take the ginseng bag back from Sherry after she’d eaten the poison and stuffed the bag in Gandhi’s sling.”

  “Ridiculous, carrying around that rodent in a harness. Blasted thing bit me.” She held up her finger, still wrapped in its bandage. Apparently she’d lied about the uncorking accident.

  “But I don’t see how that was messing up. Even if my print is on that scrap of packaging, it won’t prove that I’m the one who tampered with it, or even the one who gave Sherry the bag. And the phone . . . I don’t have the phone anymore, and there’s no way to prove that I ever did have it.”

  “No way except this.” I held out my fist and uncurled my fingers to reveal Pris’s tiny digital recorder. “I’m afraid you just confessed on tape.”

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-nine

  Sean swung by Trendy Tails the following evening, just as we were locking up. Rena was wiping down the big red table where she’d spent the day cutting fish-shaped kitty treats, trying to restock after the huge glut of treats we’d given away at the Howl.

  In a rare show of camaraderie (undoubtedly brought on by the icy wind slipping over our window sills and finding cracks in the hardwood floors), Jinx and Packer were curled up together in Packer’s fleece bed. Technically speaking, Packer was being held captive by the gigantic cat that had draped herself over his head. I occasionally saw his foot twitch, but there was no way he’d risk getting up and disturbing the sharp-clawed behemoth above him.

  Outside, snow fell in small, icy crystals. All day the pace of the downfall had been picking up, as had the wind, and the forecast called for blizzard conditions before midnight. I silently said a prayer that Ingrid’s plane had taken off before the weather hit and that she was happily winging her way toward her Harvey, her last Minnesota winter fading in the distance.

  “It’s a bad day for the Harper family,” Sean said, shaking snow from his scarf. “Mother and daughter were both arraigned today, one for murder, the other for fraud, theft, and a host of other more minor charges.”

  Rena, who had been positively ebullient all day, whooped with joy, then quickly sobered. “Oh, Sean, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be celebrating. This must be hard for you.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Given the cloud you’ve been living under, you’re entitled to a little celebration.”

  She threw her arms around him, dragging him down to give him a big smacking kiss on the cheek. “Tomorrow, I take you out for dinner at La Ming to properly thank you. Uh, uh, uh,” she said as he opened his mouth to protest, “it’s the very least I can do.

  “For now, though, I need to get home before I’m socked in for the night. Last I checked, Dad had eaten all the canned ravioli, so I need to swing by the store on the way home, or we’ll turn into the Donner party before the week’s out.”

  She hugged me tight. “I’ll see you tomorrow, assuming the roads are clear.”

  And with that, she was gone, leaving me alone with Sean.

  “So,” I said.

  “So,” he replied.

  Tension crackled in the air between us.

  “Ready to hug it out?” I asked, hoping to break the tension.

  He said nothing.

  “Too soon?”

  “Definitely too soon.”

  I lowered my chin and studied him through my lashes. The ghost of that boy who’d proclaimed his love outside my bedroom window was still there, just beneath the surface of the handsome man who stood before me. Even his stance was the same: legs braced apart, hands clenched at his sides, body rocked forward on the balls of his feet, as though he were preparing for a fight.

  My heart yearned to take his hand, run off to my parents’ basement, and play a game of gin rummy while laughing over the stupid little details of our day. My heart yearned to unwind all the years I’d lost tailing Casey around. My heart yearned to be eighteen again and say yes on a stormy summer night.

  “It’s been great catching up with you these last couple of weeks,” I said, and then mentally kicked myself for the banality of it. I’d found a body in my alley, he’d lost his girlfriend, and together we’d caught a murderer. We hadn’t just been “catching up.”

  Thankfully, he took pity on me. “Yeah,” he agreed, a note of surprise in his voice. “It actually has been good seeing you.”

  “You know,” I said with forced cheer, “Rena and I were planning to have a movie night at my place next Saturday. Screwball comedies, pizza, just hanging out.” I cleared my throat, trying to keep my tone light. “You should join us.”

  “Izzy.” He sighed. “I can’t just suddenly be your friend again.”

  “I didn’t know we ever stopped,” I said.

  He leveled a “get real” look at me.

  “Look, it was just one night, one mistake.”

  “That’s just it. I didn’t say anything until that night outside your bedroom window. But for me, we’d stopped being friends long before that.”

  “Well, thanks for that.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” He paused to run his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Look, that night had been a long time coming for me. I’d hit a point where I couldn’t be just your friend a long time before that night.”

  “It’s been fifteen years. You’ve moved on,” I argued.

  “Sure, I’ve moved on with my life, but that doesn’t undo what happened. I told you I loved you, Izzy. I was a teenage boy, and I told you I loved you. Do you have any idea how hard that was? And you tried to tell me I was wrong about my feelings . . . and then you tried to go on like nothing ever happened.”

  “I was young and stupid. Dizzy Izzy. Lord, if you had any idea how many stupid things I’ve done, before and after that night. But that was fifteen years ago,” I repeated, emphasizing each syllable, imbuing it with all the significance of a life spent missing that boy and the man he had become.

  “Not to me. To me, it feels like just yesterday. I can’t just slip back into your life like a puzzle piece.”

  “So, what, we go our separate ways and never speak again?”

  “Of course not. I can’t slip back into my old place in your life, but I can create a new one. I don’t know what that will look like, but I’m willing to find out if you are.”

  “How do we start?” I asked.

  “How about this: Hi, my name is Sean Tucker.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sean. I’m Izzy.”

  About the Author

  Annie Knox doesn’t commit—or solve—murders in her real life, but her passion for animals is one hundred percent true. She’s also a devotee of eighties music, Asian horror films, and reality TV. While Annie is a native Buckeye and has called a half dozen states home, she and her husband now live a stone’s throw from the courthouse square in a north Texas town in their very own crumbling historic house.

  RECIPES

  Human Chow

  Rena’s sweet cereal mix is a surefire winner for chocoholics of every age!

  1 14.5 oz. box chocolate crisp rice squares cereal

  1½ c. candy-coated peanut butter drops

  1½ c. powdered sugar

  ¼ c. cocoa powder

  1 c. chocolate chips

  ¼ c. peanut butter

  ¼ c. butter

  1 tsp. vanilla

  In a large mixing bowl, combine the cereal and candy. In a smaller bowl, combine the powdered sugar and cocoa powder.

  In the top of a double boiler (or a bowl set over a pot of simmering water), combine the chocolate chips, peanut butter, butter, and vanilla. Allow the ingredients to melt together, stirring often. Remove from heat
and pour the chocolate mixture over the cereal mixture. Stir to coat evenly. Place half of mixture in a 2-gallon sealable bag, add half the powdered sugar and cocoa mixture, and shake until well-coated. Repeat with the second half of the cereal and powder.

  Spread coated cereal on a large cookie sheet covered with parchment paper, waxed paper, or foil. Allow the chocolate/peanut butter coating to cool until set. Break up any pieces that have stuck together and serve!

  Rena’s Spinach Lasagna

  This easy spinach lasagna makes a great midweek treat for the family, but it’s also decadent enough for a weekend dinner party. Serve with a crisp green salad and a side of golden garlic bread for a hearty yet simple meal that will satisfy year-round.

  2 15 oz. containers skim, low fat, or fat free ricotta

  1 egg

  ½ tsp. fresh ground black pepper

  1 tsp. salt

  ¼ c. grated parmesan

  12 oz. frozen chopped spinach, thawed

  1 package oven-ready (no boil) lasagna noodles (for a 9” x 13” pan)

  3 c. shredded mozzarella

  Sauce:

  1 Tbs. olive oil

  2 tsp. crushed garlic

  2 28 oz. cans tomato puree (use a good brand)

  1 tsp. dried oregano

  1 tsp. salt

  1 tsp. sugar

  2 tsp. dried or ¼ c. fresh basil

  1 Tbs. balsamic vinegar

  Preheat oven to 375°.

  To make the sauce, heat olive oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Add garlic and sauté until the garlic is fragrant. Add remaining ingredients. Bring to a low boil, then reduce heat to low and allow to simmer gently, covered, until the filling is prepared.

  For the filling, press as much water out of the spinach as possible. Combine the ricotta, egg, black pepper, salt, parmesan, and spinach in a large bowl.

  Spread ½ cup of the sauce in the bottom of a 9” x 13” pan. Top with one third of the lasagna noodles, covering the bottom completely. Spread half of the filling on the noodles, then add 1½ cups sauce and 1 cup of shredded mozzarella. Add another third of the lasagna noodles, the second half of the ricotta filling, 1½ cups sauce, and 1 cup of shredded mozzarella. Finally, top with remaining noodles and remaining sauce, making sure none of the edges or corners of the noodles are exposed. Cover with foil and bake for 30–40 minutes, until the noodles are cooked and the sauce is bubbling. (Test the noodles by inserting a sharp knife straight down in several spots; the knife should not encounter any resistance.)

  Remove foil, top with remaining cup of mozzarella, and bake another 10 minutes.

  Remove from oven and allow to set for 10 minutes before cutting and serving.

  Read on for a sneak peek at the next book in Annie Knox’s

  Pet Boutique Mystery series,

  GROOMED FOR MURDER

  Available in print and e-book from Obsidian in September 2014.

  “What do you think of the meatball?” Ingrid Whitfield handed Harvey Nyquist a tiny paper plate bearing a single bite-size meatball speared with a toothpick and resting in a small pool of creamy brown gravy.

  Harvey shoved his well-used handkerchief into his pocket and reached up from his seat on my sofa, careful not to shift my dog, Packer, who was snoring loudly in his lap. As he grasped the plate in his liver-spotted hand, I detected a faint tremor, and he grabbed at the toothpick with the sort of lunging movement of a person whose fine motor skills were deteriorating.

  He chewed the meatball thoughtfully. “Good,” he said. Packer snorted softly and raised his head, his doggy dreams distracted by the rich scent of meat.

  “Good? Don’t you think the nutmeg’s a little strong?”

  “Maybe.”

  Ingrid heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Well, do you want them as is, or do you want less nutmeg?”

  “Ya, sure.” He rubbed the end of the toothpick in the leftover gravy and sucked it off, his eyes closed and a contented smile gracing his face. Packer whined and licked his chops, Harvey held out the plate for him to clean, and Packer looked up at Harvey like he was the king of dogs. My little four-legged traitor.

  “‘Ya, sure’? What kind of answer is that? Pain-in-the-ass old coot,” Ingrid muttered, but there was no heat to her complaint, and she gave Harvey’s shoulder a flirtatious little shove before she returned to my galley kitchen. No doubt about it, brusque and brash old Ingrid had a soft spot, and its name was Harvey Nyquist.

  When the couple had first arrived in Merryville, I couldn’t figure out why Ingrid was so smitten with Harvey. They’d been high school sweethearts torn apart by his family’s decision to send him to military school, and before Ingrid had flown off to join him in Boca Raton, I’d seen pictures of the lithe, handsome man he had been. Ingrid had rhapsodized about the love notes he had written to her and the numerous times he had serenaded her in front of God and everyone.

  But Harvey Nyquist sixty-some years after the serenading stopped? The man didn’t say boo, he had some sort of chronic sinus problem that produced earsplitting sneezes on a regular basis, and he looked like someone had stuffed a madras sack with sunburned potatoes.

  When I had met Harvey, I decided Ingrid’s determination to live happily ever after with him was driven by nothing more than the memory of a love long ago.

  But during the week since their arrival, I’d watched Harvey as he watched Ingrid bustling about my apartment, rearranging my knickknacks, finding hidden deposits of dust to clean away, and cursing about the little details of their upcoming nuptials. He looked at her as though she were his last mooring to this earth, all the light in his face reflected from her vitality. He didn’t just love Ingrid. He needed her. And having someone need you is a powerful aphrodisiac.

  “Well?” I asked, pointing at the meatball-filled tinfoil takeout box on my counter.

  “I guess they’ll do,” Ingrid groused.

  Ollie Forde, who’d made literally hundreds of thousands of Norwegian meatballs for the residents of Merryville over the years, would be delighted to learn that his spherical masterpieces would “do.”

  “That’s good,” I said, struggling to hide my frustration. “The wedding is tomorrow, after all, and we should probably finalize the details today.”

  As if to punctuate my pronouncement, Harvey whooped and sneezed. I heard Packer whimper from the bluster of it all, and Jinx—perched on the pass-through between my kitchen and dining nook—swished her tail in annoyance.

  In truth, we should have finalized the details the day Ingrid and Harvey rolled into town, with absolutely no advance notice, and declared they were going to get married in Merryville within the week.

  Ingrid had decided at the last minute that she wanted to get married in her hometown, in Merryville, instead of the Cherub Chapel of Bliss on the Las Vegas Strip. More specifically, she and Harvey were getting married in my store, Trendy Tails, the space Ingrid had called home. Trendy Tails occupied the first floor of 801 Maple, a house Ingrid had owned for decades. The second floor had been Ingrid’s apartment, and I still lived in the third-floor apartment. Ingrid and Harvey’s announcement had turned the entire house on its head.

  The wedding plans got off to a rocky start when Ingrid had discovered that the tenant I’d found for her apartment was still in residence, so she and Harvey had to bunk with me. “There goes the nooky,” she’d complained.

  The plans had only gone downhill from there. Soon she was chafing under the froufrou influence of my mom and aunt Dolly. If Ingrid had had her way, she would have dressed in her best plaid shirt, signed the paperwork, and been married in ten minutes. But Mom and Aunt Dolly had managed to find her an actual wedding dress, had ordered a huge bouquet of lilacs, and had even stitched a deep purple lace-edged pillow to one of Packer’s harnesses so he could serve as a canine ring bearer. “It’s just me and Harvey,” she’d muttered, “not the damn royal wedding.”

  Yesterday, we’d hit a new snag. Ingrid, who was usually perfectly happy with a bowl of canned soup a
nd some soda crackers, suddenly became hypercritical about all the food options we had (which were scarce, given our short timeline). “Not as good as mine,” she griped about every single dish we proffered. For someone who claimed not to want a fussy wedding, she had become quite a demanding bride.

  Now she looked at me with narrowed eyes. “You know I love you, Izzy McHale, but I don’t appreciate the sarcasm. Ollie Forde makes a good meatball, but you have to admit the man can be a little heavy-handed with the nutmeg. We’ll have the wedding tomorrow with or without meatballs, but I’m not paying through the nose for a plate of crapola.”

  I narrowed my eyes right back. “You know I love you, Ingrid Whitfield, but you’ve become an irascible old biddy.”

  Ingrid’s frown melted away, and she threw back her head in laughter. “‘Become’? I’ve been an irascible old biddy since the day my mother birthed me. That’s precisely why you love me.”

  I snickered. “True enough. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing.”

  “Well, if it wasn’t for that interloper on the second floor . . .”

  “Hey, no fair. You asked me to rent out the apartment, and when Daniel asked for an extra couple of weeks, I had no idea his stay would interfere with your wedding. You weren’t due back for another month. A little notice would have helped,” I added pointedly.

  Ingrid plucked another meatball from the small tray. “So, what’s up with this Daniel Colona guy?” she asked before popping the morsel in her mouth.

  “Honestly? I don’t really know. He pretty much keeps to himself. He comes down to the shop pretty regularly to buy Rena’s treats for his Weimaraner, Daisy May, but he doesn’t talk about himself much at all.”

  “You said he’s a writer?”

  In the other room, Harvey sneezed again. I waited until he was done trumpeting into his hankie before answering.