The Death of Perry Many Paws
Read The Death of Perry Many Paws Online
Authors: Deborah Benjamin
The Death of Perry Many Paws. Copyright©Deborah Benjamin, 2013
All rights reserved
ISBN-10: 1494252597
ISBN-13: 9781494252595
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Author photograph: Mark Benjamin
Cover design and illustration: Marie Buckley
To my parents, Patricia and Richard Bessey, who brought me up in a world where everything had a funny side and laughter was always preferable to tears. I miss you every day
.
he following people have all contributed to making this book happen. Without their support I’d still be convinced that solving a murder is easier than creating a book.
My husband, Mark, for giving me time and space to write and for gently prodding me to keep moving when I got discouraged.
My readers and editors: Richard Benjamin, Melinda Ginter and Kathy Johncox.
Yes Richard, women do really talk like that.
Mindy, I have no idea how the fire in Tamsen’s library is always ready to be lit.
Kathy, thank you for hacking through the jungle of self-publishing and then being a good friend and coming back to lead me through.
My cover artist, Marie Buckley, who took a vague idea and turned it into reality.
My world revolves around six people. Without your daily love and support I’d be lost. Mark, Richard, Daniel, Mindy, Mama and Ope, I love you.
To: Timothy Fletcher, Editor
From: Tamsen Mack
Re: Draft of the opening page of Perry Many Paws Book #6
Date: September 1
Tim-
I want to go in a different direction for the sixth Perry Many Paws book. What do you think of this as a start?
Tamsen
Perry Many Paws stretched his six furry legs and tried to touch the top of his cave with his six chubby paws. He was hungry but he was happy to see the sun shining into the mouth of his cave. He rubbed his fat tummy and wiggled his back against the stone floor. Then he rolled over to his feet. It was a happy new day for exploring and adventure!
Perry stood at the opening to his cave and looked out. Suddenly Perry realized he wasn’t happy any more. Something was wrong with this day. He scratched each side of his head with his two front paws and rubbed his tummy with his two middle paws. Why wasn’t he happy? Then he remembered. Squeaky Squirrel and Friendly Frog were gone. He needed to find some new friends
.
Tamsen-
New friends? Are you insane? Absolutely not. The kids love Squeaky Squirrel and Friendly Frog. Don’t mess with a good thing. Keep to the formula
.
Tim
oes anyone else hate Perry Many Paws as much as I do?” I asked, grabbing the last chocolate cannoli and pacing around my library. I turned to the three other members of our Women of a Certain Age group, otherwise known as WOACA—Grace, Syra and Diane. Bing, Syra’s brother and our official pastry chef, ignored my familiar lament as he laid more pastries on the plate.
“All I know is that perimenopause is costing me a fortune in home pregnancy kits. These irregular periods are terrifying,” Diane said. “The doctor said this perimenopause stage can last for years. Sometimes I’m totally regular and other times I …”
“I’m talking about my character, Perry Many Paws, not your missed periods,” I said.
“Oh, well, him. We’re trying to be supportive of what you’re going through with your editor, Tamsen, but it’s hard to empathize with someone who actually has a career,” Diane said softly. Diane never raised her voice or got angry. She was the most serene person I knew. The only aspect of Diane that was not serene was her hair, which sprang up all over her head like a Chia Pet on steroids.
I agreed that I’d been pretty lucky with my writing and sank into the only remaining seat—my daughter Abbey’s beanbag chair. Hopefully someone would remember to help me out of it before they left or I’d
be stranded here indefinitely. The library of my rambling 19
th
century house was one of my favorite rooms and the beanbag chair didn’t really blend with the décor. But it was Abbey’s favorite chair and, even with her away at college, I couldn’t bear to move it.
“I can’t believe you and your editor, Tim whatever, can’t come to some agreement,” Syra said, stretching toward Bing’s dessert platter and helping herself. Syra had recently had a double mastectomy and was undergoing radiation treatments. She was suffering from hot flashes and other symptoms of menopause. We’d gotten used to her removing layers of clothing and fanning herself with whatever was available. Bing was devoted to her and dedicated to fattening her up and getting her back to her high-energy self. Bing rarely left their house but he always baked for WOACA and seemed content to help us stuff ourselves with pastry and listen to us bemoan the perils of middle age. Bing didn’t really have a life.
I heard the back door open and the clicking of toenails as my dog Mycroft, the world’s most lethargic bloodhound, slowly sauntered past the library door. He was followed by my husband, Cam, who poked his head in the door, saw that the weekly meeting of WOACA was still in session, and quickly disappeared after giving me a cross-eyed grin. I grinned back. There is really nothing cuter than a fifty year-old redhead with freckles, especially when you are still madly in love with him after twenty-five years of marriage.
“To be honest, Tamsen, I think you should either piss or get off the pot. If you don’t want to write anymore, then just quit.” Grace Trenary Kelly licked the cannoli filling off her fingers and slumped her Rubenesque body deeper into the sofa cushions. “Good cannolis, Bing.”
WOACA is our forum for dissent against middle age but not against each other, and we all sat and stared for several seconds, absorbing the change in the emotional atmosphere. Grace was one of
my dearest friends and she was rarely cross with anyone, especially me. Only her stepson, Ryan, could make her so surly.
“What’s Ryan done now?” I asked.
Grace slumped even deeper into the cushions until her legs stuck out straight in front of her and she seemed in danger of sliding onto the floor like a hunk of dough off a well-greased cookie sheet.
“I have no idea why I got married in the first place. Hugh and I were happy dating. We did it successfully for eight years. I don’t think people are meant to marry for the first time when they’re almost fifty years old. What’s the point?”
We were hard pressed to reassure her, as we all had the same thought when she and Hugh decided to get married two years ago. They seemed to have a perfect relationship. But then Hugh’s ex-wife had died in a car accident and his son, Ryan, had come to live with him fulltime. Hugh started pushing for marriage shortly after Ryan moved in and Grace had caved.
I was beginning to get a headache, feeling my own creative frustrations, worried about Grace’s marital woes, concerned about Syra’s health and anticipating Diane’s quiet, controlled rant about her elderly parents and her teenage children. Diane was the poster woman for the sandwich generation.