Groomed For Murder: A Pet Boutique Mystery (7 page)

“What the . . . ?” Sean leaned back to look around Daisy’s back and meet my eyes.

I shrugged.

“She’s watching TV,” Rena said. “Look at her.”

Sure enough, Daisy had settled and become very still. Her gaze was pinned to the television, her head cocked and ears perked up as though she were trying to follow the plot.

I managed to pull my leg out from under her weight, forcing her to waggle her butt to find her balance again, but her focus on the television never wavered.

“At least she’s got good taste in movies,” Sean quipped. We shared a smile over the back of the couch.

It might have been my imagination, but I thought I detected a spark in his eyes, a glint of heat that lingered just a smidge too long.

“I’ve never seen a dog watch TV,” Rena whispered.

We were all staring at Daisy as if she’d suddenly started reciting passages on quantum mechanics.

“Seriously,” I added. “Occasionally, Packer will pay attention to something moving fast on the screen, but he gets bored after about five seconds. What about Blackstone?” I asked Sean. Blackstone, Sean’s elderly basset hound, didn’t move much. I figured maybe he was enough of a couch potato to invest himself in some police procedurals or soap operas.

“Nah. If he hears an animal sound, his ears will perk up, but he never seems to put two and two together to realize that the sound is coming from the TV.”

At that point, we were past the credits and Cher had been making vacuous chitchat with her vacuous friends for nearly fifteen minutes. Still, Daisy had not moved a muscle.

“You know,” Rena said, “I’ve heard that some dog owners who are gone for long periods of time leave the television on for their pets, so they don’t get lonely. Maybe that’s why she’s doing this.”

I huffed a little sigh. “I guess that must be it. Still weird, though.”

“Amen,” Rena answered, raising her hand so we could high-five.

“Weird or not, I’ve got to get her off me,” Sean said. “If she cuts off the supply of blood to my leg any longer, they’re going to have to amputate.”

Rena and I laughed, even as we hauled ourselves off the couch and physically shifted Daisy until she was resting with her narrow butt on the couch cushion.

“I guess Daisy has hijacked our movie night,” Sean
said, as he stood and gingerly tested his weight on the leg Daisy had been sitting on.

“Yeah,” Rena said. “I’ll walk you out. But we’re still on for tomorrow morning, right?”

“Absolutely. Let’s meet on the porch at, say, nine thirty? You two can fight over who gets to handle Daisy’s leash.”

“I feel like Daisy and I shared a moment there. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do to walk her, right?”

“That’s the spirit,” Rena said, throwing her arms around Sean’s middle.

He hugged her back. “Don’t get your hopes up. I still think this is a terrible idea. But if it moves from terrible idea to terrible situation, I want to be there.”

Six

I
gave Jinx some extra snuggle time that night, trying to make up for her rude eviction from my lap during the evening. As soon as I bedded down on the couch—having given my room to Ingrid and Harvey—she sprawled her massive, twenty-pound cat self across my torso and generously allowed me to scratch her chin and ears. Occasionally, she would scoot forward a bit until we were practically nose to nose. Eventually, she began to drift off to the sound of the quiet snores emanating from Packer’s fleece bed.

Draped in that heavy cat blanket, I tried to unscramble some of the puzzle pieces we had at that point . . . which weren’t much.

We knew that Ama knew more than she was willing to tell, but the substance of her knowledge could have been anything. And we knew that Ken West was being secretive about what he was doing in the alley the night
of the murder. Either he was doing something he shouldn’t have been doing, or he wasn’t in the alley at all. . . . He could have been on the second floor killing Daniel Colona. But why?

At the moment our best lead was that Daniel was working on some sort of exposé; that’s what he did. According to Richard Greene, he’d been looking for a hunting and fishing guide, someone who could help him find his way around the less populated parts of the Merryville area. And, currently, the most exciting event happening on undeveloped land was the development of the old camp by the always-slippery Hal Olson.

I drifted to sleep with visions of dark woods and dimly lit rooms, Daniel’s broken and bloody body accompanying me through my dream-walk through Merryville.

*   *   *

Sunday morning greeted me with the scent of frying bacon and fresh brewed coffee. It had been years since I’d eaten meat, but that particular combination of smells sent endorphins running through my brain straight to my happy place. I crawled out of the nest of quilts on the couch and let my nose lead me to my kitchenette.

To my surprise, I found Harvey manning the skillet. Daisy, Packer, and Jinx lined up like little soldiers at his feet, each hoping some of that bacon might jump out of the pan and into their waiting mouths.

“Ingrid is busy getting gussied up. Wants to go to church this morning.”

He speaks!
I thought.
In full sentences, even!

“Nice of you to make breakfast.”

“Hope you don’t mind me using your pans for the
bacon. I found some of that fake-on stuff in your freezer and I’m making some for you.” He pointed toward a smaller skillet, where three uniformly rectangular pieces of mock bacon were sizzling softly in a little oil.

Every day, I understood a little more why Harvey was Ingrid’s Prince Charming.

“Thank you, Harvey. You and Ingrid have a wild night last night?” The two had gone out before Sean and Rena had come over and hadn’t returned home until long after I’d drifted off on the couch.

Harvey smiled, and I caught a glimpse of the boy Ingrid had fallen in love with. “Just a little supper and an evening at the Moose. Playing pull tabs and drinking beer.”

“So romantic,” I teased.

“That’s what I love about Ingrid,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “For her, that is romantic. Every minute we’re together, it’s romantic.”

I caught back a sigh. What must it be like to be so madly in love? I hoped I would get to find out someday.

“How are you two holding up after the wedding?”

He shrugged. “The attempted wedding, you mean. We’re fine, I guess. We’re both a little disappointed that we didn’t officially get married yet, but that pales next to that poor young man’s death.”

“Oh dear! I hope we can figure out a time to reschedule. I want you two to have the wedding you deserve.”

He looked past my shoulder, making sure Ingrid wasn’t right behind me. “Ingrid says we should just go down to the courthouse. That it would be romantic,
like eloping. But I know she wants to get married with her friends and family around her.”

“Harvey.” Ingrid had come out of nowhere to stand at my shoulder. “I told you I want to be married to you more than I want anything else.”

Good heavens, these two were killing me. All this lovey-dovey stuff was so out of character for Ingrid, and a little too saccharine for so early in the day. Still, it was hard to be immune to so much romance.

“We could try again,” I suggested. “Downstairs.”

“When?” Ingrid asked. “Trendy Tails is getting busy these days.”

She was right. As the first wave of tourists hit the streets of our tiny burg, Rena and I had seen traffic in the store pick up tremendously. We got lots of compliments on both the merchandise and the treats, so we were hoping that word of mouth would boost business even further.

I had a sudden thought. “Would you . . . ? No.” I hummed to myself, trying to figure out whether my question would be insulting. In the end, I took the plunge. “We already have next Saturday afternoon blocked off for Pearl and Romeo’s wedding. Would you mind sharing your festivities with a couple of pooches?”

Harvey looked horrified, but Ingrid laughed. “Harvey, can you even imagine? We’ll live on in Merryville lore forever: our first wedding cut short by a dead body, our second shared with a couple of dressed-up dogs?” She hooted. “I love it!”

Harvey raised his eyebrows and bobbled his head
like he was weighing the pros and cons. “Darling, if it makes you happy, I say let’s do it.”

The three of us feasted on Harvey’s amazing scrambled eggs—apparently the secret ingredients were mountains of butter and rivers of heavy cream, bacon (both fake and real), sourdough toast, and a fruit salad of strawberries and cantaloupe in some sort of light, minty syrup. As I chewed, I idly tried to come up with an excuse for Harvey to stay on in Merryville and cook for me every day. And then I idly tried to imagine just how many pounds I could gain eating Harvey’s fare.

“Harvey said you’re going to church.”

Ingrid nodded. “I’d say that I want to go to say an extra prayer for Daniel Colona, but it would be a lie. I want to go to hang out with all those Methodist biddies and find out what I’ve missed over the past few months.”

At least she was honest.

“Do you have a few minutes to help me out downstairs before you have to go?”

She glanced at the clock on my stove. “Absolutely. I don’t have to leave for another half hour or so.”

Ingrid practically skipped down the stairs when she followed me to the shop after breakfast. Sean and Rena and I had our trek to Badger Lake all planned out, but I had about half an hour before we left, just like Ingrid, so I figured we’d work on making the big display cabinet in the middle of the store more springlike.

“What do you think, Ingrid? Should we go with gauzy pastels or brighter spring colors like crocus purple and daffodil yellow?”

Ingrid rolled her eyes. “Why would you even ask? You know what I’m going to say.”

“Right. Bright colors.”

Ingrid popped into the barkery and came back with a huge vase of lilacs, the bouquets and smaller vases from her wedding consolidated into a single vessel. She set the overflowing vase on the display case and took a step or two back. “Definitely bright colors.”

Looking at her beautiful wedding flowers, already starting to wilt, I felt myself tear up. “Ingrid, I am so, so sorry that you couldn’t get married. It’s completely unfair.”

Ingrid looked me square in the eyes. “Hey. Do you see me crying or moping around?”

“No. But you’re Ingrid. You never cry or mope around.”

She laughed. “That’s not entirely true. I’ve had my down days before. But this isn’t one of them. I’m sorry that poor man died, and I wish Harvey and I were an old married couple already. But the bottom line is that I’m surrounded by good friends, I have Harvey at my side, and we already have a new plan for a wedding in just a week.”

Most people thought of Ingrid as a tough old broad. They weren’t wrong. But she could whip up a silver lining for any cloud that came her way. She grouched a lot, but she was also surprisingly optimistic.

Ingrid pulled me into a brusque hug and then set about pulling together the brightest of the wares I had on display, putting together little outfits for our specially made dog and cat mannequins (each carved and
painted picket-fence white by Chimpy Lassiter, a local woodworker whose intricately carved bedsteads and dining tables were a hot commodity among the hipster crowd in Minneapolis).

I swiped the dampness from my eyes and joined in. We had already put together a hot pink tutu with a ridiculously cute Daisy Duke halter top and picked out a dozen of the most flamboyant collars in my inventory when there was a knock on the door.

I spun around, expecting to find Sean waiting on the doorstep—after all, Rena had her own key—but I was stunned to see Jane Porter.

I glanced at Ingrid. She had pulled herself up to her full height and had wiped all expression clean off her face. My friend had suddenly become a totem pole.

Jane knocked again, and I bustled over to answer. I only cracked the door enough to wedge my own body in the opening.

Jane wore a cloak the color of ripe strawberries over a pale blue dress. Her feet were encased in a pair of low heels that matched the dress to perfection, and the feathered hat perched on her snowy head mirrored the cloak’s vibrant red.

At first glance, her pale skin and wide blue eyes made her look like a china doll. But even in the kind light of morning, Jane was showing her age. The powder that coated her cheeks rode unevenly across her wrinkles and made her skin look more papery than flawless. She’d built a Hadrian’s Wall of lip liner to prevent the savage red of her lipstick from overrunning her white, white skin.

The march of time had taken its toll, but she was still a pretty woman. I guessed that in her day she would have been a great model for a sailor’s pinup tattoo, all exaggerated curves and lush femininity.

“Good morning, Jane. I’m afraid you’ve caught us a little off guard. We don’t open until noon on Sundays.”

“Oh no, dear. I didn’t come to shop. I was hoping to chat with Ingrid.”

I didn’t know Jane Porter well. She was Lutheran; I was Methodist. She lived in Quail Run, an upscale housing complex; I lived in a downtown apartment. I’d heard she had an enormous cage full of lovebirds, but I didn’t really sell to the bird crowd. Short story, our lives rarely overlapped.

Still, I’d heard Dolly mention Jane’s cutting wit at the canasta tables, and I knew the history between Ingrid and Jane. Maybe Jane’s intentions were pure, but for all I knew, she had come to rub Ingrid’s nose in her failed wedding. And I couldn’t let that happen.

I shot a quick glance back at Ingrid, who gave her head a tiny shake.

“Gee, Jane. I still can’t help you. Ingrid isn’t available at the moment.”

Jane closed her eyes, revealing wobbly black eyeliner.

“Dear, your door is made of glass. I can see her standing behind you.”

I felt heat licking up my cheeks. “Well, yes. But she isn’t actually available.”

Jane’s ruby lips thinned in a tight smile. “What you mean is that she isn’t available for me.”

“Oh, no, of course . . . I mean . . .”

She held up a calming hand. “Don’t worry, dear. I don’t blame Ingrid, and I certainly don’t blame you. I meant to give this to Ingrid before her wedding, but never seemed to find the right time.” She flicked the kiss lock on her black patent handbag and pulled out a flat rectangular package wrapped in pink polka-dot paper. “Would you mind giving it to her now? Tell her to call me if she wants to.”

I took the package from hands that trembled ever so slightly. She snapped closed the lock on her purse and made her way down my steps before climbing into a burgundy Lincoln and driving away.

I closed the door slowly and turned to face Ingrid. Her expression was grim. She nodded toward the package in my hands. “That for me?”

I nodded, and held it out to her.

She shook her head. “I don’t want anything from that woman.”

I looked from the package to Ingrid and back again. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, but I saw a twinge of uncertainty in her eyes. She had to be burning with curiosity just like I was.

“Well, then, what should I do with it?” I asked, starting to make my way to the trash can we kept behind the front display counter.

“Oh, here,” Ingrid blustered, shoving her hand out to take the package. I handed it to her, and she ripped open the paper . . .

And gasped.

“What is it?” I asked, growing worried by the wavering emotions on Ingrid’s face. All I could tell was that she was holding a picture frame in a white-knuckled grip. I couldn’t imagine what the picture could be that would upset her so.

She handed the picture to me, as much to get it out of her hands as to show me what it was. I turned the frame around so it was upright and saw a picture of a man. The tones of the picture were washed-out, suggesting it was old, maybe from the sixties or seventies. The man himself looked to be middle-aged, hair thinning on top even as it brushed his collar below. He was handsome, with strong features and a firm, square jaw, broad shoulders and a trim physique. In the photo, he was staring off into the distance, his mouth turned up in a smile of quiet joy.

I tried to place him. He was vaguely familiar, but since the picture seemed to outdate me, if I knew this man, he was much, much older.

“It’s Arnold,” Ingrid offered. “I’ve never seen that picture before. Jane must have taken it.”

I felt a little sick. I wished I could dial back time about five minutes and throw the package in the trash without even showing it to Ingrid.

“Why would she give you such a thing?” I asked.

“I don’t know. To hurt me, I guess. Maybe to remind me that she wooed my husband. Maybe to suggest she could do it again. I have no idea what goes on in that woman’s head, and I certainly don’t want to.”

“I’m sorry, Ingrid.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t be. I’ve
spent the better part of thirty-five years putting that period of my life in the past, and I’ll be gosh darned if Jane Porter is going to send me back there with a single picture. What I have now is what matters, and what I have is the love of a very good man.”