Death by Chocolate Lab (Lucky Paws Petsitting Mystery) Page 2

  I loved that Tom never made me buy anything. When he said “check it out,” he wasn’t suggesting that I just look at the volume. He frequently let me borrow books, like he was running a library. In return, I always volunteered to watch his and Tessie’s ancient poodle, Marzipan, for free. But the truth was, the Flinchbaughs didn’t go out much and had never vacationed, that I knew of.

  “Thanks, Tom,” I said. “I’ll be in.”

  “Don’t forget that Marzipan has an appointment with me Monday,” Piper added.

  Tom didn’t reply. He just nodded, hurrying to close the window against the coming storm. In the distance, the first streak of lightning crossed the sky. Socrates and Artie seemed unconcerned—well, Artie shivered constantly, so it was hard to tell if he was nervous—but big, supposedly tough Macduff, Hamlet, and Iago flinched.

  If any of the trio—especially the pack leader, Macduff—ever really bolted, I’d be in serious trouble, so I forced myself to stay calm. Animals always fed on human emotions. And there really was no reason to panic. My van was half a block away. At least, I was pretty sure I’d parked my distinctive, flower power–pink VW in a space obscured by a huge, shiny green pickup truck.

  “Will Tessie be selling dog stuff at the trial?” I asked, waving to the proprietor of Fetch! who was kneeling in the display window, tying a cheerful summery bandanna around the neck of the shop’s mascot, a life-size plush Irish wolfhound called Shamrock. Although I didn’t think Tessie Flinchbaugh was more than fifty, like her husband, she appeared older. She was stout, with silver-streaked hair, and had a penchant for wearing shirts that featured seasonal embroidery. She had sunflowers on that day. I saw them when she waved back at us. As Piper and I moved past the store, I returned my attention to my sister. “You said there are other vendors coming. And it seems like dog people would like her high-end merchandise.”

  “Yes, Tessie’ll have a tent,” Piper said. She gave me a rare look of approval. “I’m impressed by your business acumen.” Then she arched her eyebrows. “I’m assuming you plan to market Lucky Paws, too? Perhaps even had some promotional materials made? Such as tennis balls with your logo on them? Frisbees? Something like that?”

  I hadn’t even remembered the event, so obviously I hadn’t done that. Nevertheless, I said, “Oh, I’ll be promoting. Don’t you worry about that.”

  “Good,” Piper said, stopping in front of her office, which was located in one of Sylvan Creek’s oldest buildings. Of course, my sister had turned the once eyesore into the prettiest structure on the street. Templeton Animal Hospital’s ancient wooden siding was painted a lovely shade of pale blue-green, which contrasted nicely with the crisp white trim. Each window featured a box filled with pink, red, and purple flowers, which I was incapable of identifying by name. The door was a welcoming sunny shade of yellow. “Maybe someday you’ll be able to pay me rent for the room you’ve squatted in at the farm,” Piper added.

  Like I needed that reminder again. I knew I was a freeloader, but I didn’t see how it was such a bad thing. Piper could never use all the space she had, and who had kept her company since Steve Beamus had ended things in his cold, callous, obnoxious way?

  I didn’t bother pointing those things out. Arguing with Piper was usually futile. Instead, I assured her, “Business is about to take off. Just you watch!”

  As if on cue, lightning struck again, and business really did “take off”—in the form of three rottweilers who tore free of my grasp, sending me sprawling on my butt as they ran pell-mell down the street.

  Poor Artie didn’t even yelp when the tote went flying, too.

  How bad had his life been if he just rolled with punishment like that?

  “I’ve got Artie,” Piper promised. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her and Socrates move to aid the Chihuahua. “You get the runaways.”

  I scrambled to my feet, fighting the urge to run after the dogs. I knew that chasing scared animals would only make matters worse. And I was pretty sure Virginia Lockhart would not only sue me, but would also kill me if anything happened to all three of her prizewinners. She was that kind of lady. I believed that she was fond of the rotties but really loved the glory they brought her.

  “Come!” I called to Macduff, Hamlet, and Iago. “Come!”

  Before the dogs even had a chance to respond, though, someone appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

  A tall, imposing, despicable guy, who somehow managed to block all three dogs’ retreat, then stop them in their tracks with an ear-piercing wolf whistle and the strange guttural command “Hold, enough!”

  Chapter 2

  “You really shouldn’t be walking dogs you can’t control,” Steve Beamus informed me in his know-it-all way. He was escorting Macduff into my van with a hearty pat to the dog’s rump, but he managed to look me up and down. I didn’t like the way he smiled crookedly when he added, “You can’t weigh more than ninety pounds soaking wet.”

  Ugh.

  Had he just leered at me?

  What had Piper ever seen in him?

  I mean, Steve was handsome enough, if your taste ran toward Sears catalog models. He had even features and thick fair hair that was somehow remaining under control even in the developing gale, while my curls were repeatedly smacking me in the face, like I was in a Three Stooges routine gone horribly awry.

  “I normally don’t have any trouble with these dogs,” I said, guiding first Hamlet, then Iago into the VW, too. Giving them each a scratch on their oversize, silky black-and-tan heads, I dared to release their leads. “They just got spooked by the storm.”

  Of course, thunder had to rumble right then, and Hamlet nearly jumped back out of the VW bus. I caught his thick leather collar just in time, but he weighed well over one hundred pounds and practically bowled me over. “Easy, Hammie,” I urged, pushing him back into the van and getting slobber on my T-shirt when he butted his big skull against my chest. “It’s just a little storm!”

  “No offense, but maybe you’re just too petite to handle these big boys,” Steve said.

  The comment was offensive and yet borderline flirtatious, too. I turned to see that Steve’s lips—which my sister had kissed—were twisted up in a smirk.

  Yuck. I’d rather be covered in dog saliva than touch his mouth.

  And speaking of Piper . . . The moment I got Hamlet settled down, I glanced around.

  Where the heck were she, Socrates, and Artie? They had certainly beaten a hasty retreat.

  Then again, I couldn’t really blame Piper for avoiding her ex. I wanted to be free of him, and I’d never even dated him.

  Still, he had helped me, and I wanted to be gracious. As he closed the van’s side door, giving it a self-satisfied pat—like he was Superman and had saved all of Metropolis—I said, “Thanks for the assist.”

  Steve shrugged with mock humility. “It was just fortunate timing. I was about to leave, after hanging around for a half hour. If you and Piper hadn’t finally shown up, I would’ve been gone.” He nodded, gesturing past me, over my shoulder. “Axis doesn’t like sitting in the truck for too long. He gets restless.”

  Turning around, I finally realized that the big forest-green pickup that was parked next to my vehicle was Steve’s. I hadn’t even noticed the professionally applied gold seal on the door, which advertised Blue Ribbon K9 Academy.

  Not that I was ashamed of my ride, but I couldn’t help comparing Steve’s logo to the one on my van. My friend Moxie Bloom had insisted she could paint a cute puppy and do the lettering, but while Moxie was artistic, she’d obviously overestimated her talents when it came to painting large scale on metal. The misshapen dog was often mistaken for an equally misshapen pony, and the airbrushed, bulbous letters looked like they belonged on a subway car or highway underpass.

  Lightning flashed again, even closer, momentarily illuminating a face that was peering at me from the window behind the truck’s driver’s seat. I recognized Steve’s prized agility and breed champion, a pedigreed chocolate Labrador r
etriever with the long-winded name Colebrook’s Axis Hero-of-the-Day.

  When Piper had dated Steve, I’d enjoyed annoying him by referring to the sweet-faced, good-tempered dog as Cookie Puss.

  “Hey, Cookie!” I said, going up on tippy toes, the better to peer through the glass. I assumed the Lab, who had stood up on the seat, his tail wagging, would be competing at the upcoming trial and said, “See you tomorrow, I guess!”

  Just then, the rain, which had been barely holding off, started to come down, and I turned back around to find Steve scowling at me for using the nickname. And someone else had joined us, too. A much more welcome person, who was accompanied by Socrates and had the tote bag containing Artie slung over his shoulder.

  I looked between the two guys, and it suddenly struck me that neither one of them really should’ve been standing in front of my sister’s clinic on a stormy evening, after the hospital was technically closed. And although we were all starting to get soaked, I couldn’t help frowning and asking a question aimed at both men.

  “What in the world are you doing here, exactly?”

  Chapter 3

  “I guess Piper didn’t want to see Steve, huh?” I ventured after Socrates, Artie, and the guy I sometimes dated, Dylan Taggart, had all taken refuge in the VW, out of the rain, which was hammering the roof of the van. Fortunately, the rottweilers had settled down now that they were out of the wind and lightning, because there was no way my faulty windshield wipers could handle the buckets coming down. We were stuck in the parking spot for at least a few minutes. I turned to Dylan, who was sharing the front seat with a clearly displeased Socrates. Actually, Dylan didn’t look too happy, either, to have a wet basset hound right under his nose. “Is that why she sent you out with the dogs?” I asked. “To avoid Steve?”

  Dylan, who was a vet tech with my sister’s practice, shrugged in his mellow fashion. “I don’t know, Daph. I probably shouldn’t gossip about my boss.”

  I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Since when?”

  Dylan laughed, revealing even white teeth. He was handsome in a hippie-surfer way, with a lanky, lean but muscular build, a blond ponytail, and a slight tan, which managed to outlast the worst Pennsylvania winters, probably because he’d soaked up a lot of sun during three years of wandering in Hawaii. Piper was forever threatening to fire him for wearing board shorts under his lab coat.

  “Seriously, Dylan,” I said. “Was Piper avoiding Steve? And why was he—obviously—here to see her?” Less than two months before, Steve Beamus had shattered my sister’s heart by unceremoniously dumping her via text message. She had never made an outward show of being upset—Piper didn’t like to exhibit weakness—but I knew she’d been really hurt. I stared hard into Dylan’s light blue eyes, pressing him for answers. “What did that jerk want?”

  Dylan merely grinned. “I don’t know, Daph! Piper doesn’t talk about her love life with me. She directs me.” He made a stern Piper-esque face, and although he might not have approved of gossiping about his boss, he wasn’t above mimicking her. “Run that urine test, Dylan! Vaccinate the cat in room three! Look for worms in that specimen!”

  Socrates and I both reared back, and I made a face. “You have to do that? Look for worms?”

  Dylan kept smiling. “Did you really think Piper handles those duties? I do all the dirty work.”

  “I guess I thought somebody anonymous in a distant lab tested the specimens,” I said, studying Dylan. It might take me a while to get some unpleasant images out of my brain. Then again, I was a pet sitter. I might not get my hands that dirty, but I’d scooped my share of poop. “Getting back to Steve . . .”

  “He probably just came to apologize,” Dylan said, shifting on the seat. Socrates, I noted, was somehow managing to take up more than his share of worn fabric and sprung springs, so the human was practically pressed against the window. “I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this.”

  I felt my eyes grow wide. “What do you mean, Steve needed to apologize? Are you telling me they had a fight? Because I didn’t know they even talked anymore.”

  Dylan opened his mouth, but he didn’t say anything. He’d clearly already said more than he’d intended.

  I narrowed my eyes, demanding answers. “When? What did they argue about?”

  Dylan sighed. “That is my cue to go.” The rain had let up, and he reached for the door handle, which might or might not work. Then he hesitated. “I almost forgot why I volunteered to bring the dogs out to you. . . .” He craned his neck to look past Socrates to the backseat, where Artie was waiting patiently in the tote, his eyes bulging extra large. “That is a dog, right?”

  Socrates made a snuffling noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

  “Yes, that’s a dog, and you know it!” I said, defending Artie. “And what did you want?”

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about Dylan “volunteering” to see me. We had an unusual relationship, because we liked each other, but we disliked commitment and prized our freedom. If I were the kind of person who posted about my relationships on social media, I definitely would list our status as “complicated.” I was not that kind of person, though.

  “I’m playing a set at the Lakeside next week,” he said. “I thought you might want to come. I wrote some new stuff.”

  It wasn’t clear if he was asking me on a date or just trying to fill seats at Sylvan Creek’s only “pub,” which was really just a wooden shack, barely balanced on a rickety pier that looked like it was about to sink into Lake Wallapawakee. Regardless, on Fridays, Saturdays, and Open Mic Mondays, locals and tourists alike jockeyed for prime spots around tables made from old wooden barrels, to sit under the twinkle lights, eat beer-battered fish or crabs delivered daily from Baltimore, and enjoy the water views. I probably would have made an appearance even if Dylan hadn’t invited me.

  “I’ll see if Moxie wants to come,” I said. Dylan might’ve been suggesting a date, but I didn’t want to sit alone while he was onstage, playing guitar. “She hates folk music, but she likes to crack crabs.”

  Dylan grinned again. “Sounds good.”

  The rain had dwindled to a drizzle, and I really needed to deposit the dozing rottweiler triplets at Virginia Lockhart’s McMansion before returning to Winding Hill, so I dropped a hint by turning the key in the ignition and resuscitating the VW. It was always a happy surprise when the engine sputtered to life. “See you then.”

  “I’ll be at the agility trial tomorrow, too,” Dylan said, opening the door. Immediately, Socrates seemed to spread out even wider on the seat, forcing Dylan to put one foot on the pavement. “In case there’s an animal emergency, you know?” he added, leaning back into the van. “It’s supposed to get really hot.”

  I turned on the windshield wipers and was pleased to discover that they were also working that night. And when they cleared the glass, so I could see outside, I sucked in a sharp breath, because walking right past me was quite possibly the most handsome man I’d ever seen, not counting guys on movie screens.

  I glimpsed him for only a second, but he looked right at me, too, and there was something about how his dark hair fell over his forehead, and the set of his jaw, and the way he carried himself. . . .

  Easy, there, Daphne!

  The whole thing was over in an instant, and I turned back to discover that Dylan was still halfway inside the van—leaning closer, right past a disgruntled Socrates, as if the guy I dated now and then might want a kiss good night.

  Chapter 4

  The worst of the storm might have passed quickly, but a light rain lingered on until nearly 11:00 p.m. As I stood at my bedroom’s open window, enjoying a cool breeze while I called my friend Moxie, I could still see lightning flickering far off to the east.

  When the faint sound of thunder faded away, I was surprised to hear a different rumbling noise, caused by tires on gravel. Leaning out the second-story window, I looked down the unpaved road that gave Winding Hill Farm its name and saw headlights h
eaded in our direction.

  I glanced down at Socrates, who was ostensibly asleep on his dog bed—yet managing with one of his big paws to ward off Artie’s repeated stealthy attempts to join him. The Chihuahua was quiet, though, and not reacting to the sound of the approaching car. I made a mental note to let Giulia know that Artie didn’t get yappy about noises at night.

  “Are you there?” Moxie asked, interrupting my thoughts. “Hello? Daph?” She sounded impatient. “Did you butt dial me or something?”

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, apologizing, my eyes trained again on the approaching vehicle. “I was just watching this car that’s coming up the road—which, as you know, dead-ends at the farm.”

  “Do you think Piper invited somebody over?” Moxie asked, clearly intrigued. “Because I’ve never known her to stay up past ten thirty!”

  My sensible sibling was a stickler about her own bedtime. She liked to get a solid eight hours of slumber, while I slept and usually woke when the mood struck.

  “I’m pretty sure Piper’s not having a party,” I said. “She’s hosting this dog club’s agility trial tomorrow, and it starts early. Now that the rain has finally ended, one of the vendors is probably coming to set up. Or maybe somebody’s delivering the obstacles and equipment.”

  I was just wondering who might be in charge of creating the actual courses when the vehicle drew close enough for me to identify it as a truck. A familiar pickup, with gold lettering that glittered on the front door when the driver parked under a light near the barn.

  I kind of forgot about Moxie again and grumbled, “Really? Steve Beamus? Again?”

  “What did you just say?” Moxie was really interested at that point. I could picture her in the turret of her tiny attic apartment above the Philosopher’s Tome, her green eyes wide as she gnawed on a brightly painted fingernail, waiting for the gossip. Moxie, owner of Sylvan Creek’s unique hair salon, Spa and Paw—which served humans and had a cute room where pets could get prettied up, too—was a key cog in the local rumor mill. “Steve Beamus is there?”