Dial Meow for Murder Read online

  Praise for Bethany Blake’s Death By Chocolate Lab:

  “When murder is unleashed in the idyllic town of Sylvan Creek, it’s up to spunky pet sitter Daphne and her darling duo of misfit mutts to catch the killer. A doggone charming read from start to finish!”

  —Cleo Coyle, New York Times bestselling author

  “I had such a delightful and fun time reading this book! . . . The characters are hilarious and quirky and I just fell in love with them and the small town of Sylvan Creek. The mystery was unpredictable, suspenseful and brilliantly plotted. I can’t wait for the next installment! Bethany Blake, the author, has a fan for life!”

  —Night Owl Suspense

  “This is already marked to be on my Best Books of 2017 list.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  “Death by Chocolate Lab, is the best first in a new series of 2017. I am calling it now. . . . Even though I can only give five stars, this book is easily eight paws and two hands up!”

  —Bibliophile Reviews

  “I loved this book.... The book is engaging from the very beginning and kept me entertained throughout.... I can’t wait for book 2.”

  —Sleuth Café

  “Bethany Blake gets a blue ribbon for her ‘paw’sitively charming dog cozy, Death by Chocolate Lab. From the get-go, the pets steal the show.... Adorable dogs, a good murder mystery and a dash of romance make Death By Chocolate Lab a delicious concoction that mystery and dog lovers alike will adore.”

  —Mutt Cafe

  Also by Bethany Blake

  Death by Chocolate Lab

  Dial Meow for Murder

  Bethany Blake

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise for Bethany Blake’s Death By Chocolate Lab:

  Also by Bethany Blake

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Recipes

  PAWPRINTS & PREDICAMENTS

  Teaser chapter

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Bethany Blake

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-0740-6

  First Kensington Mass Market Edition: October 2017

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0741-3

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-0741-9

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2017

  For my father, Donald “Butch ” Fantaskey, a gentle soul who loved all creatures, whether great, small, easygoing or ill-tempered.

  Acknowledgments

  Like all books, this one is the result of collaboration with and assistance from a lot wonderful people—way more than can be credited here. However, I would like to take some space to thank, in particular, my editor, Wendy McCurdy, whose incredible support and patience were much appreciated over the course of the last year.

  Thanks, in fact, to everyone at Kensington Publishing, including Norma Perez-Hernandez, as well as Lauren Jernigan, Karen Auerbach and Kimberly Richardson on the awesome PR and marketing team. I’m also grateful for the guidance of my agent, Helen Breitwieser, who always supports me when I tackle a new project.

  In addition, I’d like to acknowledge my friends and family, including my fellow spinners at the gym, the stylish women at the Styling Nook, and everybody in our little town who cheers me on. If I am able to write about a cute, tightly knit community, it’s because I am lucky enough to live in one. Speaking of friends, a special thanks to Jackie Kelly, Mary Leo and Marjorie Priceman, who all dwell in the world of publishing and offer encouragement on rough days.

  I’d also like to thank my in-laws, George and Elaine Kaszuba, and my sister-in-law, Sandra, all of whom are shameless promoters of my work. And the biggest thanks to my parents, Marjorie and Donald “Butch” Fantaskey, who always encouraged me to be a writer, as well as to my supportive husband, Dave, and my children, Paige, Julia and Hope.

  Without all of your help, guidance and good wishes, this book wouldn’t be here. Thank you!

  Chapter 1

  Flynt Mansion sat high upon a hill just outside Sylvan Creek, Pennsylvania, its twin turrets stabbing at a huge October moon that was obscured now and then by passing dark clouds. Local legend said the sprawling Victorian house, which overlooked Lake Wallapawakee, was haunted, but the evening of the Fur-ever Friends Pet Rescue gala fund-raiser, the place was spirited in a different way.

  “This is so cool,” my best friend, Moxie Bloom, said as we passed through tall, iron gates that had concealed most of the property from the road. The gates clanged shut behind us, and I jumped, nearly dropping a big, plastic tub full of pet treats I’d cooked up for the party, which would support my favorite local charity. “Wow,” Moxie added. “It’s spooky gorgeous.”

  I had to agree. The curving stone pathway that led to the house was lined with at least fifty glowing jack-o’-lanterns, their flickering faces carved into leering grins, grimaces of agony, and threatening scowls. The twisted branches of the property’s many crabapple trees were strung with twinkle lights, while three ornate, black-iron chandeliers—each holding at least twenty candles—were suspended from the sturdier oaks, so the grounds were bathed in a soft, mysterious light. More grim-faced jack-o’-lanterns were propped on the railing that surrounded the house’s wraparound porch.
It looked like the pumpkins were guarding the mansion, which was dark inside, with the exception of single, lit candles that burned in most of the many tall, narrow windows.

  The estate was already movie-set eerie, but the Fur-ever Friends decorating committee—chaired by my perfectionist sister, Piper Templeton—wasn’t finished yet. A few people still bustled around the lawn, setting up chairs and lighting even more candles.

  Standing just inside the fence with Moxie and my canine sidekick, Socrates, I took a moment to drink in the scene. Then I frowned and turned to Moxie. “Umm . . . Why are we the only people in costumes?”

  “I’m not wearing a costume,” Moxie said, sounding confused. She looked uncharacteristically demure in a vintage, mint-green, wool suit with a high-collared jacket and a pencil skirt that hit midcalf. A string of pearls circled her neck, and she’d dyed her hair from flame red to a soft blond. “Why would you think that?”

  “I thought you were Tippi Hedren, from The Birds.” I resumed watching the volunteers, most of whom wore sweaters and sweatshirts, then I adjusted a tall, pointed hat that kept slipping off my long, unruly, dirty-blond curls. I didn’t see one other witch, not to mention any ghosts or ghouls, and I began to get a little sweaty under my polyester cape. “I’m the only person who dressed up!” I glanced down at Socrates, taking some comfort in the fact that he was also in costume—only to discover that he looked like he always did: like a contemplative, sometimes morose basset hound. “Where is your wizard hat?”

  “Didn’t you see that fly out the window of the van, halfway up the hill?” Moxie asked, answering on behalf of Socrates, who was pretending he hadn’t heard me. He stared straight ahead. However, I noticed that the very tip of his tail twitched the way it did when he felt guilty. “I assumed you noticed,” Moxie continued, “and just didn’t want to turn around, because we were running late.”

  I’d heard Socrates shuffling around in the backseat of my distinctive 1970s, pink VW bus, which advertised my business, Lucky Paws Pet Sitting, and featured a large, hand-painted dog that was often mistaken for a misshapen pony. I’d thought he was cranky about losing the front seat to Moxie, and I’d ignored him.

  “I should’ve known you’d never really wear the hat,” I complained to Socrates, who had started snuffling. The sound was very reminiscent of a snicker. “You were far too agreeable about putting it on. I should’ve guessed that something was up.”

  Socrates finally looked up at me and blinked his droopy, brown eyes, as if to say, Indeed, you should have known that I would never deign to don a costume.

  “Maybe I should go home and change,” I said, starting to turn around.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” my sister called, hurrying across the lawn. She took the tub of snacks from me, like she couldn’t wait one more minute to get her hands on it. “You’re a half hour late! There’s no time for you to return to Winding Hill, change clothes, and come back before the gala starts.”

  Of course, she was right. It would take me at least twenty minutes to drive to Winding Hill Farm, where Piper—a successful veterinarian—let me live rent free in her gorgeous, restored 1860s farmhouse. Well, actually, I was moving into a cottage on the property. The adorable tiny house had recently become available when the former tenant, Winding Hill’s caretaker, was arrested for the murder of Piper’s ex-boyfriend. I’d solved the crime—not that anyone would give me credit.

  “This is Fur-ever Friends’ biggest fund-raiser of the year,” Piper added. “People and pets will start arriving in less than an hour. You need to set up the snack table for the dogs. . . .” She finally looked me up and down. “No matter how silly you look.” Then she turned to Moxie and knitted her brows. “And who are you supposed to be? Tippi Hedren?”

  Moxie’s cheeks flushed, just slightly. “It’s more of an homage than a costume,” she said, lifting her chin high. “The woman was Hitchcock’s muse. An icon!”

  She was in costume. I’d known it.

  “What happened to you?” I asked, thinking Piper was being a little judgmental for someone whose blouse was soaking wet.

  My sister brushed ineffectually at a dark stain on her sleeve. “Pastor Kishbaugh and I were trying to move the apple-bobbing tub. Water sloshed everywhere.”

  I located Pastor Pete Kishbaugh, who was across the lawn attaching fake ravens to the branches of a crabapple. If he was also soggy, his black shirt hid the problem.

  “All three of you, come with me now,” Piper added, leading the way down the path. Temporary stain aside, she was dressed appropriately in dark slacks and a rust-colored top that hinted at fall, but didn’t scream “Halloween,” like my getup. Her straight, shiny, brown hair—the polar opposite of the chaos on my head—was smoothed back and held in place with a pretty peach and brown patterned headband. “There’s still plenty to do before the guests show up,” she informed Moxie and me, over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  We all followed Piper, who lugged the plastic bin, while I tried to keep a grip on the billowing fabric of my cape, which kept flapping perilously close to the gauntlet of jack-o’-lanterns. The last thing I needed was to make a bigger spectacle of myself by catching on fire. The tag on the cape had warned that the fabric wasn’t flame retardant.

  “This is where you’ll set up,” Piper said, stopping in front of a table with a placard that advertised Howling Good Dog Treats in a spooky, drippy script. The tabletop was already decorated with two life-sized ceramic black cats, their backs arched high and their tails sticking straight up. Cute orange and black platters featured similar hissing felines, in a vintage design. The table was also scattered with dog-appropriate bones, all real and available for the munching. Piper set the bin on the grass. “As you can see, I did most of the work, in your absence.”

  “Why are you so grouchy?” I asked, because Piper, always type A, was even more tense than usual. “This is supposed to be fun.”

  All at once, my sister’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried because Lillian Flynt, who is supposed to be hosting this event, is nowhere to be found. I’ve somehow ended up in charge of the whole thing. And to make matters worse, the power is out in the house, for some reason. These candles aren’t all just for show.”

  “Miss Flynt isn’t here?” Moxie asked, looking around, like she might locate the older woman, who was semi-affectionately known as Sylvan Creek’s “professional volunteer.”

  Gray-haired, never-married heiress Lillian didn’t lack for money, so she’d made charity her life’s work. The local Weekly Gazette’s About Town society column almost always featured at least one photo of Miss Flynt in her signature knit cardigan, doing good things for others. One day, she’d be pictured delivering meals to folks even more elderly than she was, and the next, she’d be accepting an oversized grant check on behalf of the public library or ladling stew at a church soup kitchen. But while Lillian might have appeared kind and grandmotherly, she had a spine of steel. I’d worked with her quite a bit on behalf of Fur-ever Friends, and she always acted like she was my boss, and I was an intern.

  As I bent to open the bin, I flashed back to the day she’d approached me about “volunteering” for the gala.

  “You are aware of the upcoming Fur-ever Friends party, correct, Daphne?” Miss Flynt had said, stopping me on Sylvan Creek’s main street by slamming a cane in my path. She couldn’t have been more than sixty-five, and she was probably in better shape than me, so I didn’t think she needed the stick for support. I was pretty sure it was a tool to keep others in line.

  “Yes, I know about it,” I’d told her. Then I’d cut right to the chase. “What do you need?”

  “Treats for at least twenty dogs. From your pet bakery.”

  She always acted like I had a storefront, and I always corrected her. “Um, I just cook for fun, at home. I don’t really have a bakery. . . .”

  Miss Flynt had answered the way she always did. “Well, get to it, Daphne! What are you waiting for?” Then she’d no
dded briskly to Socrates, nearly dislodging her wiry, gray hair from its bun. “Good day to you, wise Socrates!”

  A few moments later, Miss Flynt had moved on down the street, and I’d stood there with Socrates, both of us needing a second, as usual, to recover from the very direct, almost curt, exchange. Yet, I admired Miss Flynt. She had a different approach from me, but she was a big supporter of Fur-ever Friends.

  “It is odd that she’s not here micromanaging,” I told Piper, as I removed containers of home-made goodies from the bin. Prying the lid off one tub, I began to place Tricky Treats on a platter. The snacks were “tricky” because they looked and tasted like peanut-butter cups, but I’d substituted dog-friendly carob for the chocolate, which could be lethal to canines. “Where do you think she is?”

  “I have no idea,” Piper said. “And, as if things aren’t bad enough, when Tamara Fox went into the house to get some matches, she accidentally let Lillian’s prized Persian cat, Tinkleston, run out the door. Now we can’t find him.”

  Moxie and I shared a look, then we both started snickering.

  “What is so funny about a missing cat?” Piper demanded. “Especially since I’m sure I’ll get blamed for his disappearance.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, slipping Socrates a Tricky Treat. He feigned disdain for a few moments, then accepted the sweet from my fingers. “But what kind of name is Tinkleston?”

  “It’s a horrible name for a horrible cat.”

  We all turned to realize that we’d been joined by none other than Tamara Fox, who made a mock shudder, so I got the impression that she wasn’t upset about the feline’s disappearance.

  Tamara, whom we’d all known since high school, didn’t bother to really greet us. Kind of like she’d snubbed us back in school, too. Tossing her long, dark hair over her shoulder, she gave Moxie and me a skeptical once-over, then didn’t ask about the costumes, either. It was almost like she assumed we’d misread—or lost—our invitations, as I had done.