Sleeping Dogs Lie by Jen Mearns
2019
All rights reserved.
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Sleeping Dogs Lie by Jen Mearns
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Sleeping Dogs Lie
A Lavender Hills Cozy Mystery
Chapter One
“Daisy, come!” I called to the Golden Retriever currently zooming around the dog park, frantically circling a small, bemused French Bulldog. The French Bulldog, a sometimes client of mine, yipped excitedly with his chest down and his nub tail wagging frantically.
Daisy ignored me in favor of Howard, the French Bulldog.
Eventually, I wrangled Daisy into her leash and walked her home. I got her into her house, changed her water and gave her a treat. After locking up, I returned to my car.
This is what I do. I own my own house sitting and pet sitting business called Hannah’s Happy Houses and Pets. People (my mother) think that it’s what I’m doing before I start my “real career.” I graduated from business school seven years ago and, I’ll admit, I floundered a bit. I couldn’t find a job in this market and moved home after school.
My name is Hannah Cavender and my parents and I live in a small mountain town called Pine Forest, right outside of Boone, North Carolina. They live in the historic section of town where the houses are big and old and you have to have paint colors approved by the historic society.
I looked for a job at home or in Boone but eventually, eyes full of pity or so I imagined, my parents’ friends and neighbors started offering me work pet sitting or house sitting when they went away, which was often.
I realized how much money there was to be made in this business. I was constantly busy! I named my business, got a business license and insurance, and perhaps most importantly, made a Facebook page and Instagram account for my business.
I housesit for retirees who cruise the Mediterranean for a month or take walking holidays in the Peruvian mountains. I pet sit for young upwardly mobile couples whose pets are their children and families taking vacations on school breaks.
I still live at home. That’s why, I think, my mom is waiting for me to start my “real career.” Perhaps if I moved out on my own, she’d take my business seriously. But honestly, why would I move out? I spend probably six months or more out of the year sleeping in other people’s houses and getting paid for it! Why would I get my own place when I’d never be there? It doesn’t make any sense.
During the week I have several pups I walk at noontime while their owners are at work. My next stop was Davey the chocolate lab and Chuck the standard poodle. They live next door to each other and are great friends, so I usually walk them together.
I used my key to enter Chuck’s house first. He greeted me at the door in his usual way, springing into the air, his head eye level with me as he jumped over and over. He loved his walks.
Chuck’s owners are Sarah and Mike Bridges, an awesomely hysterical couple. They moved here three years ago and own a chocolate shop in town called S&M Chocolates. I think the name makes them giggle.
“Don’t you look handsome, Chuck?” I praised as he bounced. He’d had a groom since yesterday and had two blue bows in each of his fluffy brown ears. I clipped his leash on and we headed outside to grab Davey from next door.
Davey greeted us, tail wagging and I clipped his leash to his collar and headed down the sidewalk, poop bags in hand. Davey is a little less exuberant than Chuck, but then, he’s older. Davey’s owners are Jess and Todd Chambers, a young couple who commute to Boone for their jobs.
We walked for about a mile, both dogs taking care of business on the way. We turned around and headed back to their houses. These guys were my last clients of the day.
I returned each dog to their home, gave them their treats and got back into my car. I had some errands to run before I returned home.
When I arrived home a few hours later, I headed upstairs to my room. I dropped all of my stuff on my desk and changed into some cool, comfortable clothes. Summer in North Carolina can be scorching, even in the mountains. It was at least ninety degrees that day.
My mom, Theresa, stuck her head around the door. “Are you here for dinner tonight?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I just have to pack some things for tomorrow. I’m staying at Jill’s Bed and Breakfast for a couple days while she’s in Nashville.”
“I remember,” Mom said. “We’re having tacos for dinner. It’ll be ready in twenty.”
“I’ll be down,” I called after her. I grabbed some clothes for tomorrow and stuffed them in my bag, along with my allergy medications and toiletry items. I could always return home for more when I need to.
My cousin Jill used to be a lawyer at a prominent Atlanta firm. After her divorce two years ago, she moved back to our town and purchased the old Lavender Hills house two streets over from my parents. An eight-bedroom Victorian mansion, she worked her butt off renovating the old house. She turned it into a profitable Bed and Breakfast, a place I help out occasionally when I’m slow.
She was going to a B&B owners conference in Tennessee, presumably to learn how to be a better B&B owner. Her divorce had rocked her foundation, undermined her confidence and just generally beat her down. She was finally starting to get her stride back. I was happy to help out at the B&B while she got out of town for a while. She had one guest that was checking out tomorrow morning and then it would just be me and Roscoe, her 170-pound Irish Wolfhound and Chester, her enormous fluffy black and white cat. Jill would be back on Saturday after lunch.
Downstairs, I sat down at my place between my mother and my younger brother Ted. Ted is a senior in high school and, despite the age difference between us, one of my best friends. He’s the only one who gets our crazy family.
“Hey, ask Mom what she’s drinking tonight,” Ted insisted.
“Hey Mom, what are you drinking tonight?” I asked.
“None of your beeswax,” she replied as she pours red wine into a dinner glass.
Incredulous, I cried, “Mom! You hate wine!”
“I do not! I happen to love a good glass of Merlot in the evenings.” She took a sip of the deep red wine and didn’t manage to conceal the slight grimace at the taste of it.
“See! You hate it!” Ted was gleeful. “Why are you drinking it?”
“It so happens that red wine has many health benefits,” Mom said.
“Yeah, what health benefits? Alcoholism?” Dad piped up.
“Marybeth-“
“Marybeth! There’s an alchie if I ever saw one!” Dad was triumphant.
“She is not an alcoholic. She says that there are antioxidants in wine that help prevent cancer or
something.”
“It’s really hick to be drinking wine out of a regular dinner glass, Mom.” I said.
She frowned at her glass. “Well. I don’t have any wine glasses. I don’t like wine. Oh!”
“Ha! See!” Ted jubilantly folded his taco and pointed it at Mom, meat and lettuce falling to his plate.
I smiled inwardly and applied myself to my own tacos. I love tacos. I swear they are one thing that you can cook at home and it is just as good or better than tacos from a restaurant.
After dinner, I headed back up to my room to finish packing for the B&B. I love staying there. I stayed in Jill’s apartment off the kitchen and her decorating kept with the whole Victorian theme of real antiques mixed with clever fakes. The floral comforter, feather-filled mattress cover, the four-poster bed was so cozy, and I never slept better than I did in her apartment’s guest room.
She had asked me to come live there and buy in to the B&B, taking an actual salary instead of just payment here and there for my help. I could still have my pet sitting business and we’d even talked about renovating the basement into luxury kennels that could house the pets of guests of the B&B. Or I suppose clients of mine who are on vacation.
I was thinking about it. It would be an amazing opportunity. My only hesitation is that it would likely not allow me to do the housesitting part of my business. Food for thought anyway.
I fell asleep thinking about the opportunity, our family dog, a Corgi named Corkey curled at my feet.
Chapter Two
The next morning, I gathered my bag and headed over to Lavender Hills. It was just shy of seven a.m. so I might have been able to catch Jill, though she did say she was leaving early in the morning. I decided to walk the two blocks to the B&B, the cool fresh mountain air revitalizing, preparing me for the day ahead.
The streets of our town were leafy, providing shade during the heat of the day, unnecessary now with the cool mountain temperature below 70. The day promised to heat up to nearly 90 degrees; the shade would be a reprieve from the heat if I returned home this evening for dinner.
I loved our home town. Moving to Chapel Hill for college was great and I looked for jobs in the triangle after I graduated but secretly, I missed home. Our town’s major industry was tourism which is why Jill’s B&B did so well from the start.
There were three B&B’s in town now and plenty of custom for all of them. People came for the small-town mountain charm, staying in one of the B&B’s or the Inn. Others came for the camping, hiking, kayaking on the river and other outdoor sports. There was skiing in the winter at the nearby ski resort. There was barely an off season for our town.
Arriving at Lavender Hills, I used my key to enter and headed toward Jill’s apartment. “Hello?” I called out, using my key to enter the apartment. After a quick search of the three rooms and bathroom, I deemed the apartment empty except for the massive wolfhound and Chester.
I tossed my bag on the guest room bed and headed for the back door.
“Come on, Roscoe,” I said and led him out the separate entrance of Jill’s apartment. Her Jeep was gone so I could only assume that she’d already left on her trip. It was over five hours to Nashville. Roscoe did his business and I brought him back in for breakfast. I left him to it and entered the kitchen of the B&B, Chester on my heels.
I pulled out eggs and bacon and began making breakfast for the one and only guest before she checked out. According to the guest ledger, her name was Heather, she was 38 and she was traveling alone. Nice for some, I guess. Seems lonely to me.
I fried the bacon and scrambled five eggs, added garlic and cheese, salt and pepper, took a helping for myself and covered the rest and placed in in the oven on warm. I would make the toast when Heather came downstairs. I finished my food and cleaned my plate in the sink. Roscoe whined at the door to Jill’s apartment so I let him in the B&B proper. He was a model resident of Lavender Hills. Most of his time was spent horizontal in front of one of the three fireplaces, whether there was a fire or not. Chester usually curled in the hollow space Roscoe left when he sprawled in front of the fireplace.
Roscoe sniffed the air, tasted it, looked at me hopefully and wandered to the kitchen fireplace, turned in exactly six circles and laid down. This was his settling routine, every time--six circles, no more, no less. I tossed him half a piece of bacon for being such a good boy.
It was slightly after eight. I had no idea what time Heather would come down for breakfast, though check-out was at ten. I fiddled around the kitchen, wiping the already sparkling counters. I checked the guest rooms and bathrooms, restocked toilet paper and toiletries.
No sound from the Green Room in which Heather reposed.
I killed some time updating my business’s social media. I had to remain active on Facebook and Instagram so my business page would be shown on people’s feeds. It was honestly kind of a pain in the butt.
When I checked the time again, it was ten-thirty. I headed up to the Green Room, aptly named for it’s spring green walls and matching floral comforter and curtains. It was one of my favorite guest rooms.
I knocked on the door. “Hello? Heather?” I called out. There was no answer so I knocked a little harder. When there was still no answer, I used my key to open the door.
I cautiously stuck my head through the door. “Heather?” I called again. I walked the rest of the way into the room. The bed was made. That was odd. Either she didn’t sleep in it or she was anal about things like making beds.
From the part of the room I could see, there was no sign of her so I checked the bathroom. Empty. I came back out and to my horror, I saw a woman, Heather I assumed, on the floor beside the bed. She wasn’t visible from the door which was why I didn’t see her initially.
I gasped and ran to her side. I pushed at her shoulder and yelled, “Heather!” Heather didn’t answer, however. Heather was dead.
Chapter Three
Judging by the wound on the back of her head and the heavy lamp on its side, Heather’s death was not an accident. Drawn by the screams, Roscoe poked his head in the Green Room and Chester shot to my side. I stood up, grabbed the cat and staggered to the door to block Roscoe entering.
I nudged Roscoe out into the hallway and slammed the door to the Green Room. I gazed dazedly around, unsure of my next move. Police. I had to call the police.
I dropped the cat on the floor, dug my phone out of my pocket and dialed 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
I breathlessly detailed what I’d found upstairs and gave the address of the B&B. I was assured that the police would be there momentarily. I sat in a chair in the parlor, clutching my phone and waiting.
A few minutes later, a knock came at the door. I opened it to the town’s sheriff Mac Strickland, a burly man in his early fifties. Mac had been sheriff for nearly ten years. His deputy, Grant Fisher, a young African-American man I’d gone to high school with, followed him into the entryway.
“Hannah!” Grant said, surprised. I nodded, wide-eyed as I gestured up the stairs where the body was.
“That’s quite a dog,” Mac said and I realized I was absently scrubbing at Roscoe’s head. “Are you the resident here, Ms. Jenkins?”
“Yes. I mean, no,” I stuttered. “I mean, sort of.” Could I sound any guiltier?
Mac’s eyebrows were raised. “Sort of?”
“This is my cousin’s B&B. I just help out here sometimes. She’s gone to a conference in Tennessee.”
“Have you contacted her?” Mac asked.
Duh. Seriously. What was wrong with me? “No. No, I haven’t. I mean, I should have. I should have called her right away. It’s her place. It’s her guest. That’s dead. The guest. Is dead. I mean, I don’t think Jill killed her guest. That would be a terrible way to run a B&B. I mean, no repeat customers, right?” Shut up.
Grant looked semi-amused at my rambling. He took the lead from the sheriff and headed upstairs. Should I follow them?
“Which room, Ms. Jenkin
s?” the sherriff asked.
“Oh! Um, the Green Room. On the left.” I hurried up the stairs behind them. I reached the doorway after they’d entered.
I hovered there while they checked for a pulse and Grant radioed for an ambulance, minus the sirens. Then I ducked back into the hallway to call Jill.
When she answered I launched straight into it. “Jill! You have to come home. Heather’s dead. Your guest. Is dead. I found her this morning. She’s dead!”
“What?!” came Jill’s voice over the phone. “What do you mean she’s dead?”
“Like, dead. Gone. Someone made her dead.”
“She was murdered?” Jill was still in shock. Join the club.
“Yeah, I mean, unless she hit herself over the head with a lamp.” My god, it was like the game Clue come to life. Was Colonel Mustard the culprit here too?
“Oh my God. I’m turning around. I’m almost to Nashville so it will take a while.”
“Ok. See you soon.” I jabbed at the end button.
When I looked up, Grant was standing in the doorway. “Jill’s on her way home.”
“Good,” he replied. “The sheriff will need to ask you some questions.”
“Oh. Ok. Sure.”
“Why don’t you wait downstairs? You don’t have to stay up here.”
“Right, ok.” I turned and headed downstairs. I took my previous seat in the parlor and Roscoe sat beside me, forgoing his usual spot by the fireplace. I guess he figured I needed some support. I patted his head and scratched him behind the ears.
The ambulance and the coroner arrived simultaneously. Dr. Abrams nodded to me as he hurried up the stairs behind the paramedics and their stretcher. Roscoe stared at all the commotion. I guess this wasn’t a typical day for him at the B&B.
After some time passed, the paramedics brought the stretcher down with the sheet covered body strapped to it. I tried not to think about what was under the sheet, but that proved impossible.
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