Doghouse

Praise for
COLLARED

“Charming. . . . Vivid descriptions of Seattle's Ballard neighborhood are a plus in this cozy tale.”

—Publishers Weekly

“The plot moves quickly, enhanced by smart dialogue and good characterizations. . . . A strong beginning to what should be an entertaining series.”

—Library Journal

Praise for
FIXED

“There's really no way to see where this suspense story is going or what the final, action-packed chapters will reveal.”

—BookLoons

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In memory of Mooshu, all fluff and heart

1

T
heodore—Teddy to nearly everyone
not related by blood—Tonica was king of his domain. Or maybe ringleader was a better description, he thought with a grin, snapping the bar towel in his hand at a patron who tried to reach over the bar and change the music. “Hands off the dial, Joel.” The radio was set to a local jazz station, and it didn't get turned up any higher than could be heard at the bar itself. Those were the rules, and everyone knew it.

The joint was jumping—well, jumping for a relatively quiet part of Seattle early on a Thursday evening, anyway. The eleven bar stools were in use, and most of the chairs were taken, too, people settling in to stay for a while. It wasn't the crazed rush of a weekend, but there was enough work to keep both hands busy. Teddy set up two beers and pushed them across the bar with a professional flourish, then paused to check on his waitress.

Stacy was working the floor, moving around the tables with economy, unloading her tray, taking orders, and swiping empties. He'd been worried that once she was boosted up to off-shift bartender she'd not want to waitress anymore, but Stacy seemed to slip between the two roles
without hesitation or ego. He suspected that she made more money in tips as a waitress, anyway. The regulars here weren't stingy. You couldn't be, if you wanted to keep coming back week after week. And people did.

The phone in his pocket vibrated slightly, and instinct moved his hand toward it, even though he knew better. The motion was checked when the guy leaning against the bar held up a hand with several bills folded between his fingers. Teddy nodded in the guy's direction, holding up his index finger to say he'd be right there. He fished the phone out of his pocket and checked the number, even though he was pretty sure who was calling. “Not now, people, not now,” he muttered, tapping the button to refuse the call, and shoving the phone back into his pocket. His sisters and cousins seemed to think that he needed to be dragged into the latest family flap. He disagreed, vehemently.

This was why he'd
left
the East Coast.

“What can I do for ya?” he asked, finally turning to the new customer. The guy ordered a winter ale and a Pink Squirrel. Because Teddy was a professional, he didn't roll his eyes at the order, even though he wanted to. It embarrassed him that he actually knew how to make a Pink Squirrel. Mary's was a respectable neighborhood bar, a place for draft beers and classy drinks, not foofy sugar-bombs. But the customer was always right, so long as they were sober.

He supposed it could have been worse. After a local newspaper did a puff piece on the “crime-solving bartender”
and the exotic cat smuggling case they'd worked last year, Patrick, the owner of the bar, had suggested that they create a specialty drink, something cat-related. Teddy had managed to avoid doing it long enough that he hoped that idea had died a natural death. He was a bartender, not a mixologist, or whatever the trendy title was these days. Patrick could run specials like that at his new place when it opened, not here.

“Besides,” Teddy said now, lifting his head to look at the top of the shelves behind him, “you're the only cat that this bar needs.”

Only the tip of her tail and the edge of one white-dipped paw were visible, but he was pretty sure Penny's whiskers twitched in agreement. Not that an animal could understand the words, but the fact that the little tabby considered Mary's her domain—and Teddy her human—was a fact among the regulars of the bar. Even he'd come to accept it. He laughed at himself now. Who knew letting a bedraggled kitten come in out of the rain would turn him into . . . well, a pet person was overstating the matter, but a specific animal person, anyway.

The front door opened, a burst of wet air rushing in, and someone yelled out a complaint before the door was quickly shut again. Even without looking up, Teddy knew who had come in, because Penny leaped down from her perch, landing gracefully on the back counter. She only ever reacted like that for one visitor.

“One gimlet, just like the lady likes,” he said, pulling up the ingredients even as Ginny slid up to the bar. As
crowded as it had been, a stool suddenly opened for her, and she took it like a queen accepting her throne.

“One of these days,” the blonde said, “I'm going to come in here and order a beer, just to mess with you.”

“No you won't.”

Ginny laughed. “No, I probably won't. But I might.”

She might, he thought, especially if she thought she could catch him out. Ginny Mallard had a streak of mischief a mile wide for all that she looked like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth just then. Either she'd had a good day at the office, or he was about to get hit with the worst joke he'd ever heard. Or, possibly, both.

“And hello to you, too, Mistress Penny,” she said to the cat, who gave her a delicate sniff and then leaped down to the floor to visit with the newcomer she was actually interested in, Ginny's shar-pei, Georgie, who was happily settling at her mistress's feet.

Until recently, Georgie, like all other canines whose owners frequented Mary's, had been relegated to the sidewalk outside. There was an unofficial tie-up next to the bike rack where dogs could rest in the shade, out of the way of foot traffic. Since Teddy had become manager, those rules had been loosened, until Georgie now took it as much her right to come inside as it was Ginny's.

One cat and one dog. That was as far as he'd let himself slip.

“Try not to get stepped on,” Ginny said to both animals, and then turned her attention back to the human across the
bar. “Busy, for a Thursday. Did every other bar in town close?”

“Hah. And actually, yeah. The Fish is having renovations done, so their space is about half the usual.” Teddy made a face. “I think we're getting the overflow, based on the level of hipster tonight.”

Like most neighborhoods in Seattle, Ballard had an assortment of drinking establishments, each with its own atmosphere and clientele. The nearest competitor, Fish, was upscale, while Nickles, across the avenue, attracted college students. Mary's had intentionally cultivated a “neighborhood joint” feel. It was the place you went to talk your best friend out of a bad idea, or took a date when you were finally ready to introduce her to your friends. There was no jukebox or band, no pool table or dance floor, and only a small bar menu with just enough choices to soak up your beer, not to replace dinner. The only time outsiders showed up in any number was for Trivia Night, which had the reputation as being one of the toughest, most fiercely contested competitions in all of Seattle. The rest of the time, Teddy could identify 90 percent of his customers by name.

He'd worked flavor-of-the-month clubs before. He much preferred this.

He'd met Ginny the first week he'd started here. The curvy blonde had walked in that first Trivia Night, sat down with her team, and helped dismember every opponent—including his own newly joined team—with a combination of razor-sharp mind and good-natured snark.
The two of them hadn't clicked so much as clacked, and it had taken another year for that to ease into a comfortable rivalry.

In fact, it was only in the past year that he could really say that they had become friends, and most of that probably had to do with Georgie. Penny had taken to the shar-pei puppy the very first time they'd met, which gave the two humans more reason to converse. That friendship had only deepened, much to both their surprise, when she'd talked him into working with her. Ginny had taken her real job—personal concierge services—and used it to start a sideline of private investigations, or what she called “researchtigations.” It had been against his better judgment, helping her out, and he was still amazed that he had agreed.

Still, he admitted that the challenge of these side jobs had intrigued him enough that he'd said yes not just once, but
four
times.

And that challenge had also gotten him shot at, attacked by a big cat, padlocked to a walk-in freezer, and his family name bandied about. That last had probably bothered him more than anything else, he admitted.

Teddy squinted at her suspiciously now. If she had a new gig, she was on her own. He wasn't going to let her talk him into anything more. But saying that up front would only challenge her.

“You here to drink away your cares, or celebrate your brilliance?” he asked instead, setting a napkin down and placing her drink on top of it with a flourish.

“Neither. Or both. To celebrate my brilliant cares?” She shrugged, and took a sip of her drink. “I made one client deliriously happy with me today, and have two new clients waiting for me to send them contracts, so Georgie gets to keep in kibble for another few months. Life is good.” She picked up the wedge of lime and sucked at it delicately.

Every time he saw her do that, he cringed. “Jesus, what're you, at risk for scurvy? At least have the decency to drink tequila if you're going to do that.”

“Wuss.” She left the rind in her mouth, pressed up against her teeth, and gave him a green smile, making him roll his eyes. Ginny Mallard looked like a classy dame, but some days she had the sophistication of a fifth grader.

“If I can interrupt this group hug?” Stacy came up behind Ginny, sliding her tray onto the bar and ducking quickly to make her greetings to Georgie, who responded with an enthusiastic face-licking, if Stacy's giggle was any guide. The waitress resurfaced, grinning. “Boss, I need three Black and Tans with back, and a glass of the Cabernet. Hi, Ginny. Still up for bowling next weekend?”

Ginny flinched, dropping the lime wedge onto her napkin. “I really agreed to that?”

“You did. And bring the man. I can't believe you've been dating for months and we haven't met him yet.”

They hadn't even learned the guy's name yet, for that matter. “She's afraid to bring him here,” Teddy said, pulling the first of the beers. “That's assuming he even exists, anyway.”

“Don't start,” Ginny warned them. “I adhere to the
six-month rule for relationships. Let them get comfortable before you throw them to your friends.”

“Yeah, but we're not friends, we're
Mary's
,” Stacy protested.

“Yeah, well I don't live here like some people . . .”

“Ginny, you're in four days a week,” Teddy said, finishing with the beers and pouring the wine. “If you actually drank worth a damn, we'd engrave your name on one of the stools.”

“And on that note, I'm gone.” Stacy loaded her tray and disappeared back into the crowd.

“So,” he said, leaning forward and waggling his eyebrows like a cut-rate Groucho Marx. “It's
almost
been six months. . . .”

“Don't start,” she repeated, her eyes narrowing in clear warning, and he backed off. He could tease her about Georgie, about her endless love of her technology, of her impatience and her lack of schmoozing skills, but not about her personal life. Fair enough. He had no desire to open up about his, either. That thought made him look guiltily at his phone, then he went back to work, leaving her to her drink.

“G'night, Gin,”
someone called out, and she raised a hand in farewell, even though she hadn't actually talked to him tonight. It had been pretty crackling when she walked in at seven thirty, but the bar was starting to clear out by ten—apparently the overflow from Fish were early-to-bed
types. Ginny had switched to ginger ale about an hour ago, as usual, but sitting at the bar people-watching was preferable to going home and trying to do more work, or staring at the television. Rob—the boyfriend of speculation—was heading out on a business trip first thing tomorrow, so she was on her own for the weekend.

Georgie clearly didn't mind hanging out here: the dog was snoring happily at Ginny's feet, Penny curled up between oversized canine paws, also asleep. Ginny looked at the two of them, and shook her head fondly, then pulled out her tablet and snapped a picture and posted it to the bar's Facebook page. Then, unable to help herself, she checked her email. One message was from her mother, which she ignored. The other . . . “Oh, are you kidding me?” She sighed. So much for not working anymore tonight, but if she left it until the morning the client would work himself into a frenzy—and she wouldn't be able to sleep well for worrying.

Grumbling, she started pulling up the information she'd need to put out this particular fire. Fortunately, she'd developed the ability to shut out the ambient noise and movement of the bar around her, and lose herself in the work.

Sometime around ten thirty, an older man wearing cargo pants and a gray sweatshirt under a mostly clean apron came out from the back and sat down next to her, glaring at the thirtysomething couple who had been leaning against the bar waiting for service, until they made room for him. Ginny turned her head and gave him a curious look. A
former boxer, Seth was in his sixties, balding and wrinkled, but his body was still strong enough to give would-be troublemakers pause. The older man ran Mary's kitchen, if you could call the galley space behind the bar anything that grand, and he wasn't a fan of Ginny, or Georgie, or Penny, for that matter. In fact, Ginny wasn't sure he was a fan of anything, although Tonica said that he was actually a good guy. For a professional grouch.

When he sat there and didn't say anything, Ginny decided to return the favor. It seemed only polite. After a while, though, it got to be weird, of the creepy-weird variety, and she swiveled around on her stool to look directly at him.

“Kitchen's closed?”

“Stacy knows where to find me, anyone wants to put an order in.” He was staring at the mug of coffee in his hands—at least, she thought it was coffee. She'd never actually seen Seth drink alcohol. Not that she spent much time watching him, or anything.

“Uh-huh.” She might not have Tonica's people-sense, but something was definitely weird. She looked up, trying to find Tonica, catching his eye and tilting her head to let him know that he was needed down here. Whatever was up, she didn't want to get hit with it alone.