Groomed For Murder: A Pet Boutique Mystery (11 page)

“True. We’re a small town. But Pris, from Prissy’s Pretty Pets, and I have coordinated on several large events, and we make a pretty dynamic duo. Plus, Merryville has so much to offer your human guests: pet-friendly hotels and cabin rentals, great restaurants, and beautiful scenery.”

Pamela narrowed her eyes. “You sound like you work for the town’s convention bureau.”

That was good, because I was ninety-eight percent certain that Merryville didn’t actually have a convention bureau.

“For now,” she continued, “we’re just looking around. I thought I might pick up a little something for Tonga.”

“Let me show you a few of my newest items.”

I led Pamela around the store, pointing out an exquisite silver acorn dangle that Jolly had made, a hand-studded collar in an aqua blue that would really set off Tonga’s fur, and a few sundresses. I caught sight of Jinx on the top of her armoire, lazy eyes following every move Tonga made around the store. Tonga, too, kept her eyes on Jinx. I felt like Pamela
and I were standing in a Cold War demilitarized zone, just waiting for someone on either side to fire the first bullet.

The visit ended without any cat melee, and Pamela ended up buying both the acorn dangle and the collar, a nice sale for me and hopefully a good sign that the organization would give us fair consideration.

Rena popped out of the kitchen in all her dive bar glory, causing Pamela to shrink back and hold on to her cat carrier a little tighter. But when Rena smiled her contagious smile and offered Tonga a bag of freshly baked salmon crackers, Pamela softened a bit.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” I called as she left. She didn’t respond, but I tried not to let that dampen my enthusiasm.

“Can you even imagine having a cat fancier retreat right here in Merryville?”

Rena let out a low whistle. “That would be the bomb.”

Just then the phone rang, and I snatched it up, eager to tell someone else about our visit from Pamela Rawlins, but it was Sean and he had even more important news.

“It looks like the incorporation papers for The Woods, Inc., have recently been updated to show a new partner. Something called Ma Pa, Unlimited. I’ve searched the Web high and low, and I can’t find a trace of this corporation anywhere.”

“So it really could be a mob front.”

Sean hedged. “Well, it could be. But there are a lot of other reasons that people set up shell corporations for the purposes of conducting business.”

“But you’d think you’d find
something
about them out there on the Internet.”

“Yes, it’s a little strange, but I still don’t think you should go jumping to conclusions.”

I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. I wanted to wade right into the thick of things and find the truth.

Eleven

I
formulated my plan for the rest of the day while I sucked down another cup of joe and nibbled on a grocery store toaster pastry . . . my go-to meal for every occasion. Rena had popped out to take her dad to his podiatrist appointment, so she wouldn’t be back for at least an hour, which gave me plenty of time to savor the slightly dry pastry, the overly sweet filling, and the shellac of icing that covered the whole thing. With the exception of cheese puffs and ice cream, my kitchen-savvy friend had little patience for prepackaged food. But, for me, ripping open the shiny silver wrapper of overly processed sugar brought fond memories of eating “brunch” with Sean and Rena during our third-period study hall.

I’d just popped the last piece of pastry in my mouth when the bell above the front door tinkled. I quickly swept the crumbs and wrapper from my lunch into a
trash can and managed to form a tight-lipped smile around the last bite of strawberry preserves.

When I saw it was just Lucy and Xander, I promptly chewed and swallowed. No need to hide my sweet tooth from my sister.

Lucy stretched her face forward and sniffed three times. “What is that? Strawberry. Strawberry Toasties! I want one.”

Reluctantly, I pulled the box from behind the counter and let her grab a silver package. I offered the box to Xander, and he was raising his hand to accept my offer, but Lucy butted in. “We’ll share.”

Xander sighed and his expression of boyish disappointment brought a laugh that I worked hard to suppress. There was no doubt about it. Lucy was bossy. Actually, so was Dru, but in a very different way. Lucy took for granted that her vision of the way the world was and how it ought to be was the correct vision. She had no qualms about telling people they should or shouldn’t eat something, that they had pitiful personalities, or even that their butts looked fat in their jeans.

Poor, passive Xander didn’t stand a chance. It was the one fear I had for their relationship: that Xander would get swallowed up in Lucy’s massive ego and we’d never see the boy again.

Lucy broke off a piece of her pastry and handed it to Xander.

“I’ve decided that Xander needs a dog,” she announced.

I glanced at Xander for confirmation that he wanted a dog, but he just shrugged and took a bite of the Toasty.

“Why does Xander need a dog? He’s already got George.” George was Xander’s iguana. She—yes, she . . . she was named after George Eliot—was still the brilliant green of youth, and would likely live another seventeen to eighteen years. She was a whole lot of pet, her cage taking up much of a spare bedroom in the apartment above Spin Doctor.

“George shmeorge. You can’t cuddle with an iguana.”

“Not true,” Xander piped up. “I’ve told you before, she likes to sleep around my neck, and she practically purrs when I stroke her head.”

“I don’t believe you. The only sign of sentience that I’ve seen is that she tries to avoid the carpet.”

“And I keep telling you that iguanas are very territorial. You’re a threat. She won’t let her guard down when you’re in the apartment.”

Hmmm. Lucy had been in Xander’s apartment. He was a shy and private young man. Getting into his apartment was the near equivalent to getting him to utter the “L” word.

“Still, I think you need a dog and Izzy has one that needs a home.” Lucy faced me and batted her eyelashes. “Could Xander meet Daisy?”

While I was certain that Xander and Daisy had crossed paths in the past, they’d never really gotten a chance to interact. I saw the color drain from Xander’s face, but I really did need to get rid of Daniel’s dog, and I knew I could trust Xander to take good care of her.

I pulled a bag of treats off one of the shelves behind the counter and gave it a good shake. Packer, Daisy, and even Jinx came running. I gave everyone a couple
of treats, and they all hunkered down to gobble them up. Jinx was the slowest, but when Daisy tried to sidle up and horn in on Jinx’s snack, the cat managed to keep chewing while letting out a high-pitched keening sound that sent Daisy stumbling back. Packer glanced up, but he knew better than to try to steal food from my massive Norwegian forest cat.

“Go ahead, Xander. Play with the dog.”

“Lucy,” I snapped, suddenly channeling my mother.

She rolled her eyes. “Please play with the dog.”

Xander dropped to his haunches and Daisy promptly came to sit before him. He scratched her ears, and she leaned in for the pet. He stroked her head, and she licked his hand. They went through the rituals of nice man meets nice dog, but I could tell there was no love connection there.

“See,” Lucy said. “They’re a perfect match.”

Xander looked up at me with an imploring gaze.

I sighed. I wanted to find Daisy a home, but this wasn’t it. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Lucy. I appreciate your interest, Xander”—ensuring he would not catch the fallout later—“but like Xander said, iguanas are very territorial. They also have long sharp claws and tails that can be used to bludgeon other animals. I don’t think it would be safe for either Daisy or George to share the same space.”

Lucy snorted. “You just don’t want to give up the dog.”

“Not true,” I said. “For the love of Mike, don’t go telling people I’m keeping Daisy. I need to find her a
forever home ASAP. But Xander and George just aren’t the right family for her.”

She heaved a sigh. “Fine. Xander, let’s go. You can drive me to work.” Clearly Lucy was in full-on princess mode. The courthouse where she worked was only three blocks away, yet she was summoning Xander to be her chauffeur. It would take them longer to get to his car than it would take for her to just walk it.

She handed me the empty wrapper from the strawberry Toasty, turned on her heel, grabbed Xander by the hand, and headed toward the door. Before they left, Xander looked back over his shoulder and mouthed a big “Thank you.”

I’d saved both Daisy and Xander from a horrible fate, and I’d managed to resist my sister’s manipulation, but Lucy was right: I needed to find Daisy her own home, where she would be loved as much as she deserved to be loved. Maybe even with someone who had more time for her than Daniel had. And I needed to do so stat.

*   *   *

When it came time to go confront Hal, I had to leave Rena in charge of Trendy Tails. I would have loved to have her at my side, but we truly did need to mind the store. Since Dru, Lucy, Taffy, and Sean were all working, I settled on bringing Aunt Dolly with me. Not only was she a foxy old pistol-packin’ mama, but people tended to be truthful in her presence. Especially when she gave them her patented look: a stare so pointed and intense that it actually hurt your eyeballs to meet it.

As we made our way into the showroom of Olson’s Odyssey RV, Hal was right there to greet us. He held out his bear-paw hand to shake ours with a little more vigor than was strictly comfortable. “Good to see you, good to see you. Got a button yet?”

Without waiting for an answer, he reached into his pants pocket and withdrew two three-inch-round buttons. They said
MAYOR
in a stripe across the middle with
VOTE FOR HAL, HE’S
YOUR
PAL
curving around the edges.

Hal and I were a long way from pals, but I dutifully pinned it to the front of my bright pink Trendy Tails button-down.

“Looks good on you,” he said, his smile blinding against the perpetual golf tan that had leathered his face.

“You looking for some camping equipment? I can hook you up with Joel—Joel!—and he can help you find everything you need. Knows all the ins and outs.”

“Actually, Hal, I was hoping we could talk to you.”

Hal’s eyes narrowed. Last time I’d had a chat with Hal, I’d ended up accusing him of murder. Given the information I had at the moment, today might not end much differently.

“As much as I’d like to, Izzy, my schedule is pretty full. You know I’d love to give all my customers the Big Hal treatment, but when you’re the manager, you don’t always get a chance to do the fun stuff.”

He started to pivot and walk away when Aunt Dolly chimed in.

“Not so fast, son.” Her voice wasn’t especially loud or forceful, but it stopped him in his tracks. As
underhanded as Hal could be, he’d been raised, like most of us, in the tradition of “Minnesota nice.” People from far and wide talked about the knee-jerk politeness of most Minnesotans, how we’ll smile at you even while you’re serving us with divorce papers. Minnesota nice dictated that you did what your elders told you to do.

“We’re not here for camping equipment. This old gal does not camp.” Dolly spread her arms to draw attention to her low-cut silk blouse, her jeggings, and her short, pointy-heeled black boots. “We just have a couple of questions, and I’m sure you won’t mind answering them.”

Hal blew out a lungful of air, but then ducked his head like a chagrined child and waved at us to follow him back into his office. His office was surprisingly Spartan for a man whose outward persona was so much larger than life. Despite what he’d said about not being able to give personal attention to his customers, Hal actually did spend more of his days walking the lot, shaking hands and kissing babies, than he did in the bare white-walled room.

Dolly and I sat in the wooden chairs set in front of Hal’s desk, while he took the seat behind it. “So. What kind of questions do you ladies have for me?”

“We’re interested in The Woods at Badger Lake,” I said.

“Sorry to tell you, we’re not ready to start selling units yet,” Hal said.

“Honestly, we’re not really in the market,” I said. “We’re more interested in how the development is being built.”

Hal cussed beneath his breath. “Look, if you want to harass me about the house wrap and the siding panels we’re using, you can save your breath. Steve Olmstead has already given me an earful about how RJ’s Construction only outbid him because they’re using substandard materials. I’ve talked to a few other friends I have in the real estate world, and they assure me those products are perfectly adequate.”

“Adequate” sounded like a far cry from good, but I really didn’t care whether the siding would last more than six months or whether the condos would be drafty in the winter.

“That’s not what we were interested in,” I said, trying to slide into our rather inappropriate questions. Dolly had another plan altogether.

“Look, Hal, we know you’re in bed with the mob, and Daniel Colona was on to you, and you killed him to keep his mouth shut.”

I groaned softly. So much for subtlety.

“Mob? Are you kidding me?”

“Not at all,” Dolly responded. “You need capital to complete the Badger Lake development. You need it bad. And Pris said your investors are pretty insistent about remaining behind the scenes. That sounds like the mob to me.”

Hal waved his hands like he was calling a strike. “Good golly, no. I’m not getting wrapped up in any mob business. I saw
The Godfather
. I’m not waking up to a horse head in my bed. Pris would kill me.”

I made a mental note that Hal was more concerned
about Pris’s ire than he was about the actual damage the mob could do him.

“Well, if it’s not the mob, who else would want to keep so quiet?”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” he said.

I made a move like I was about to get up. “I guess I can just call Ama Olmstead and tell her about this secret outside investor. I’ll bet she could get to the bottom of it, and then the whole town would know.”

“Oh, for crying out . . .” Hal craned his head to look behind me, then hunkered down low to his desk. He spoke in a whisper. “It’s the Japanese.”

“The Japanese? Why would they care about keeping their participation secret?”

“Izzy McHale, you should know as well as anyone. Why do people shop in your fancy little boutique—your
expensive
little boutique—when they can go to Wally World and get all the pet clothes they want?”

“Because my stuff is cuter and better quality?” I proffered.

Hal waved off that answer, making a face like he’d smelled something rotten. “Oh, that’s part of it. But part of it is because it’s homegrown goods. Made in small-town USA, emphasis on the USA. We live in one of the most pro-union, pro-buy-American states in the country. People find out The Woods at Badger Lake is part owned by the Japanese, and there goes the business. I’m a savvy enough businessman to know that.”

“Then why take them on at all?” I asked.

He laughed. “Because I’m also a savvy enough
businessman that I don’t turn away money when it walks through my door. This bigwig from a Japanese electronics company, his wife read the Little House on the Prairie books and decided she just had to live in Minnesota. On a lake. In the woods. Frankly, I think she may be getting some of the details wrong. Anyway, that’s what she wants, and he wants to indulge her but wants to make a few bucks in the process, and voilà, our deal was born.”

Ma Pa, Unlimited.
It made perfect sense now. Ma and Pa Ingalls. This electronics tycoon sure was one doting husband.

“Still,” I said, “Daniel was clearly doing a story on The Woods at Badger Lake. Unless he had something else to interest him out there . . . ?”

Hal shook his head, his face turning the red of raw steak. “No. Absolutely not. Everything with the development is strictly aboveboard.”

“So the investor angle must have been what Daniel was investigating. Either he thought it was the mob, too, or he knew it was the Japanese and that was his angle. . . . He was threatening to expose a secret you very much want to keep. One that, if spilled, could cost you the thousands of dollars you’ve already sunk into the development and leave you with a half-developed eyesore hanging around your neck like an albatross.”

“What are you implying?” Hal blustered.

Dolly perked up in her seat, sending her blouse swaying precariously close to a wardrobe malfunction. “We’re not implying anything, son. We’re accusing you of killing Daniel Colona.”

I groaned again. I was never ever taking Dolly on one of my little investigative excursions ever again. Ever.

“Well, I never . . . ,” Hal growled, his Minnesota nice melting from the heat of his anger. “I can’t believe you’d accuse me of murder.”