Mutts & Murder: A Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery (2 page)

His eyes narrowed and his expression immediately hardened to marble.

It was a look that I’d become accustomed to getting after nearly seven years of being a reporter. One that didn’t usually get under my skin anymore.

But for some reason, this time it did.  

I glanced away quickly, wishing that I hadn’t decided to space off in his general direction. Though it was easy to see why my focus had indeed found its way to him.

Lt. Sakai wasn’t exactly handsome in a typical way. But there was something about him… Something that wasn’t hard on the eyes by any means.  

The doors of the stuffy room opened, and Myra Louden came waltzing back into the courtroom, the gold chain holding the glasses around her neck clanging loudly as she did. She kept a stoic expression on her face, but I was relatively sure that the retired high school principal and avid dog shelter volunteer was relishing all the attention.

I didn’t know Myra all that well. And maybe I was biased, being that my mother had worked for Myra for more than two decades and the former principal hadn’t bothered to show up to her funeral a year ago. I didn’t much care for Myra Louden. She was the kind of woman who had joined the dog board committee because she missed the power trips and the ego-stroking that had been her everyday life in the education administration field. 

Though as a reporter, I had to do my best not to let my personal feelings bleed into my coverage of these kinds of events.

“We’ve agreed on a verdict,” Myra said, placing those cat eye glasses on her face and unfolding a piece of paper.

I glanced over at Fern Whitelaw. She swallowed hard. The fate of Mr. Arthur J. Raffles was now in the hands of Myra Louden.

“After much deliberation, we’ve come to the conclusion that given the testimony, Fern Whitelaw’s dog, Mr. Arthur J. Raffles, did indeed kill six chickens owned by Delia Davidson of Dandelion Drive.”

Fern Whitelaw let out a horrified gasp that resounded around the room like a pinball.

“But he
couldn’t
have done it!” Fern pleaded. “He doesn’t have a mean bone in his little bod—”

“
Please
, Ms. Whitelaw. Enough blubbering,” Myra said, obviously reveling in the poor woman’s distraught pleads.

Fern Whitelaw stopped speaking, realizing that the verdict as to the fate of her beloved pooch was still undetermined.

“But although Mr. Raffles is responsible for this
ghastly
act, since this is his first offense, and since we all agreed Mrs. Davidson didn’t properly secure the chicken coop, we have decided that Raffles will remain with Ms. Whitelaw and suffer no other ramifications, so long as Ms. Whitelaw agrees to reimburse Mrs. Davidson for the loss of her chickens.”

Fern’s worried expression faded and she smiled as a few happy tears streamed down her cheeks.

“What a bunch of crap!” Delia Davidson said, standing up out of her chair. “That dog is a menace to the neighborhood! This isn’t the first time he’s broken out of Fern’s fence either. How many more chickens have to die before you do something about this?”

Myra completely ignored Delia’s protests.

“This is Mr. Raffles’ first and final warning,” Myra said, looking smugly at Fern. “If he is found responsible a second time, we may be forced to euthanize the dog. Do you understand, Ms. Whitelaw?”

The librarian nodded vigorously. Obviously thankful for Raffles’ second chance.

“That concludes the Dog Board Hearing for this evening. Thank you all for coming.”

I stood up abruptly, the conclusion being my signal to flag down those involved in the proceedings and get interesting quotes from them.

I glanced at the clock.

The meeting had run over by at least an hour.

Kobritz was going to have my head if I missed deadline.

I double-timed it, running through the room like a woman busting out of an insane asylum.

I hurriedly blocked the exit, grabbing my sources before they could go home for the night.

Chapter 2

“Lt. Sakai, do you believe justice was served this evening?”

He flashed those honey-flecked chocolate eyes at me again as I walked quickly alongside him down the courthouse’s long hallway.

“
No comment
.”

I furrowed my brow, surprised at the cold response.

In the movies, people often used that term when talking to the media. But I rarely heard it in real life, especially in my particular beat. Most of the time, people figured out that it was just easier to blow smoke or say something off topic rather than directly deny a reporter an answer.

Unperturbed and naturally persistent, I tried again as Sakai picked up the pace.

“As the officer who responded to the incident, do you agree with the dog board’s verdict this evening?”

“No comment,” he said, once again stonewalling me without the slightest hesitation.

I nearly scoffed.

What had I ever done to him? I hardly knew the man. And he was treating me like I’d accused him of police corruption.

He busted through the hallway doors like he had somewhere very important to get to.

“Would you say that Fern Whitelaw was lying about you manhandling her dog, Lt. Sakai?”

He stopped dead in his tracks without warning, and I found myself walking a few feet ahead of him before realizing it. He gave me a look that could have frozen Death Valley.

“Once again,” he said between gritted teeth. “
No comment
.”

I nearly scoffed.

These weren’t hard questions I was asking. They were basic, straightforward, to-the-point inquiries that didn’t require much more than a “yes” or “no” answer.

“Now if you’re finished,” he said. “I’ve got an early shift tomorrow and I’d—”

“I’m only doing my job,” I said, giving him a sharp look of my own. “You don’t have to act like such a—”

“Such a what?” he said, stepping toward me, anger suddenly glowing in his eyes.

I held his white hot stare, unmoved by any of it.

Because guys like him were a dime a dozen. And in my line of work, I’d come across plenty. Maybe not so much lately while covering the dog beat, but once upon a time, back in Portland, I’d had my share of stare-downs with men who thought their uniforms gave them special permission to act like jerks.

“I think you can finish that sentence for yourself, Lieutenant,” I finally said.

I brushed past him and swiftly walked down the hall. I descended the old creaky stairs of the courthouse, leaving Lt. Sam Sakai and his unbecoming attitude in my dust.

I could write the story easy enough without anything from him.

Chapter 3

After rushing back to the paper’s small downtown office and cranking out 15 dry inches on the dog board hearing, I found myself tired and hungry and longing for the comforts of home.

I got into my Hyundai – a car that was just about the only thing anybody on a small town reporter’s salary could afford, and I took that fuel-efficient puppy down Main Street, then Greenwood Avenue, winding around the base of Dog Mountain. 

In the decade I’d been gone from Dog Mountain, the place had changed tremendously. It used to be just a little town carved into the leafy, damp wilderness of the Willamette Valley. A town that wasn’t much different from any other small city in the valley. It rained a heck of a lot then, and it still did now. But the people had changed. They weren’t just blue collar working folks that populated the town anymore. In the last decade, plenty of new folks had moved in, attracted to the town by the area’s stunning landscape, fresh air, and proximity to Portland. Not to mention the attraction of Dog Mountain itself, a rolling butte that was renowned for its wildflowers and its stunning views of the entire valley.

These newcomers to the town were the folks responsible for all this dog nonsense. Somehow word got out that Dog Mountain was a dog-friendly recreation mecca, most likely a strategy by our local visitor’s association trying to capitalize on the town’s name. It wasn’t long before the dog nuts started pouring in. The locals got in on the madness, seeing that there was money to be made by being the dog capital of the country. Dog gear stores, dog grooming centers, dog exercise gyms, and even a type of dog beer are all businesses that thrive in this town. The dog frenzy’s only gotten worse since Dog Mountain was declared Dog Town USA. They adjusted the welcome sign into town after that. It now reads:

Welcome to Dog Mountain, Oregon a.k.a. Dog Town, USA.

Population: 30,342 people, 25,212 dogs and counting.

Mutts of all sizes, shapes and creeds welcome. Wipe your paws at the front door.

Dog Mountain has become the kind of place where if you don’t have a dog, or say you should have some other type of pet, you’re immediately an outcast.

I hooked a right down Labrador Lane – the street of my childhood home. Then I drove through the oak tree-lined road to the front driveway. I pulled up to the sunflower-yellow house, noticing that the lights were on inside. I got out, bringing my brown leather purse with me, and I walked up the steps.

As I ascended them to the porch, I saw that Buddy was waiting by the door. He turned his head back toward me and gave me a pleading look before letting out a long, ghoulish wail.

“Did Lou go and lock you out again?” I said, throwing my bag over my shoulder and picking him up. “Why that rude, inconsiderate lady. I have a mind to speak to her.”

I pet his soft little orange head before unlocking the door. By the time we got inside, he was purring up a hurricane of a storm.

I set the large, pudgy (though I wouldn’t
dare
call him that to his face), 14-year-old cat gently down on the wood floor of the foyer, then tossed my keys on the nearby counter.

The house was hot and stuffy. I kicked my heels off as I watched the cat walk down the hallway, crying out for food like he hadn’t eaten in a week. But with his large gut that nearly touched the ground, Buddy, our family’s orange tabby, wasn’t going to fool anyone with his contrived cries of hunger.

It wasn’t that I disliked dogs, exactly. In fact, when I was a seven, there was nothing I wanted more than the small, cute pug my best friend Heather had. That is, until that pug bit me and left me with a big scar on my wrist. And though it had been many years since I’d gotten over my fear of dogs, I still wasn’t particularly keen on them. Because unlike most people in this town, I knew that beneath Fido’s cute and unsuspecting exterior lurked something unpredictable and wild and possibly dangerous.

“That you, Sis?” a familiar voice sounded from somewhere deep in the recesses of the old, wallpapered house.

“Hey, Lou,” I shouted.

Our mother had named Lou and me after her two favorite aunts on her father’s side – Louise and Winifred. Naming us that had been a nice sentiment. But when you shortened our names, the way we usually did, then we came out to
Lou
and
Freddie
. Growing up, we had often been teased about how our names made us sound like a pair of beer-guzzling brothers.

“Poor Buddy was out there on the porch
starving
,” I yelled, looking down at the needy feline.

Lou scoffed.

“That cat’s the biggest drama queen I’ve ever known,” she said back. “I literally just fed him half an hour ago.”

I smiled.

I had suspected as much.

I pulled off my blazer and hung it up on the coat rack near the door. It had been one layer too many on this hot, humid summer day in the Willamette Valley. But unlike most of the other reporters at the paper, I’d felt the need to wear more than a pair of jean shorts and a lazy top to work. Being relatively new to the job, I didn’t want anyone to get ideas that I didn’t take it seriously.

I plodded down the hallway, following Buddy to the kitchen.

Lou was already there, cracking open another can of cat food for him.

She looked up at me.

“Well, just
look
what the cat dragged in,” my older sister said, smiling. “My, my. The legendary ace reporter Freddie Wolf has decided to finally show up to dinner.”

Lou scolded me, but I knew she didn’t mean anything by it.

Most days of the week I was late to dinner. It’d always been that way and was always going to be that way so long as I was a reporter. Things constantly came up. And being the perfectionist that I was, it was hard for me to pull myself away from a story that I’d written when I didn’t feel that it was 100 percent perfect.

Lou, though, hadn’t quite accepted my workaholic habits. We’d been roommates for just over six months now after we both inherited the house, and she still seemed to hold it against me when I didn’t show up to supper on time.

“I guess that implies that there
is
a dinner?” I said, looking at her hopefully as my stomach growled.

“Yes, but you’re lucky there is, Freddie” she said. “I made mom’s Pesto Genovese with basil from the garden. And let me tell you, I came close to finishing off the whole pot of it myself.”

I stifled a grin.

Since Lou’s divorce this past fall, her appetite had increased tenfold. She ate like there was no tomorrow. But Lou had our mother’s genes, meaning that she got away with eating like a 300-pound linebacker. She never gained a single pound of consequence. I envied that of her. I, on the other hand, had been unfortunate enough to inherit our father’s build, meaning that I was short, a few pounds over what I ought to be, and I could hardly stomach the occasional pastry or pint of beer without seeing it immediately converted by the scale.

And I guessed that was why Lou could own a pastry shop in downtown Dog Mountain and still maintain a slender build, while I spent my days rushing around, tracking down stories, hardly eating a thing, and looking more akin to a piece of fruit for all my troubles.

Life could be cruel, but that’s just how the chips had fallen. And frankly, I liked rushing around all day chasing down stories. It seemed more fun to me than being in front of a hot oven at the crack of dawn.