Bite the Biscuit (A Barkery & Biscuits Mystery) Page 7

  “I … I guess so,” I said, but the tears that ran down my cheeks told him I wasn’t doing so well after all.

  He came over, pushed up the sleeves of his white medical jacket, and took me into his arms. Arvie might look a bit frail with his increasing age, but he was definitely strong—a result, no doubt, of having to wrestle with pit bulls and dobies and Rottweilers and such while examining them.

  “It’ll be all right, Carrie,” he said softly.

  I pulled back and looked into his caring eyes. “Not sure you know the whole story,” I said. “I assume you heard about Myra Ethman, right?”

  He nodded.

  “As if a murder in my favorite town wasn’t enough … Well, it doesn’t matter that we weren’t best friends. I hate the idea that she’s dead.” I paused. “And are you aware that the police seem to think I killed her?”

  “Yes, I do know that.” He moved a little to rest his back against the metal examination table in the middle of the room. “The word’s out there.” He shook his head while pursing his thin lips. “People love to gossip.”

  “I wish they’d just gossip about good stuff regarding my new Barkery and Icing venture,” I grumbled.

  He laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m hearing about that too.”

  Dear Arvie. I knew he was on my side. For one thing, he wanted my venture to succeed because of the money he’d loaned to me. And I had no doubt he trusted me not to have killed Myra.

  Just as I trusted him that way. I recalled, as I stood there, the argument they’d had a couple of months ago. Myra had accused Arvie of misdiagnosing Davinia with ticks. It was impossible for Davinia to have ticks, she claimed. They sold only the highest quality repellents at the Emporium, and of course they’d used them on Davinia. But Arvie had already treated Davinia for ticks, and, at her next examination, she’d been tick-free—surprise, surprise.

  Even so, Myra had bad-mouthed Arvie publicly for his supposedly vile and erroneous claims. Had she done so recently enough to make him a suspect in her murder?

  I really hoped not.

  A knock sounded on the examination room door and it opened. Yolanda stood there. “Oh, sorry,” she said. “Just wanted to find out if you’re available, Doc, to examine a cat that got into a fight with a neighbor and may need stitches.”

  He was available. So was I, to help out—I held the cat during the exam as her nervous, worried owner looked on. I was careful to make sure her paws never got close to Arvie or me, since cat scratches can be downright nasty.

  Yolanda helped me shave the wounded areas and inoculate them with a numbing agent. Then Arvie cleaned the spot even more thoroughly and stitched the unhappy cat.

  “She’ll be fine,” Arvie assured the owner, who hurried over to the table to hug her unhappy, newly sewn baby. I knew the kitty would get some prescribed antibiotics to avoid infection.

  My day continued after that with helping to bring a batch of prescription weight-control food out for a dachshund whose tummy was large enough to touch the ground. Then I was called into another examination room, where Dr. Reed Storme was working with a Maltese mix with fleas. He needed me to bring in the pills and spray we recommended for that.

  When the owner took that dog out, I scratched at my arm. “Yick, fleas.”

  Reed laughed. I liked the sound of his deep voice as much as I enjoyed looking at him. But as much as I’d started to enjoy flirting with him, I didn’t feel much like doing so now. Grinning at him, I pivoted to leave the room.

  “Wait, Carrie,” he called. I turned back. He wasn’t smiling now. “I heard about what happened last night. About Myra Ethman, I mean. And I also heard—”

  “That I’m a major suspect,” I said in a sing-song voice. “I know.” I didn’t intend to sound so sarcastic, but I still preferred that with Reed instead of crying the way I had with Arvie.

  “I thought our police force was more intelligent than that,” he said.

  His words brought my smile back. “So did I.”

  He walked toward me and took my hands, looking down with his deep brown eyes. I willed myself to stay calm and not tear up despite how my eyes burned under his sympathetic stare. I started to pull away.

  “Hey, you know what? I want to hear how they’ve been harassing you, but we won’t really have time here. How about joining me for dinner?”

  I immediately thought of a dozen reasons why not to—and then realized it was something I actually wanted to do. In fact, I knew where I wanted to eat: at the Knobcone Heights Resort’s restaurant. While there, I could ask a few questions and even eavesdrop to hear which of Myra’s friends and relatives might have been likely to strangle her.

  “I’d love to,” I said warmly. And when I told Reed where I wanted to dine, he laughed again.

  SEVEN

  WHEN MY SHIFT WAS up at the clinic I retrieved Biscuit from doggy daycare, thanked Faye and her helpers, and headed back to my stores, which would still be open for another two hours—till six p.m. I hung out there with my staff, who were waiting on customers as they trickled in and out.

  “You’re still okay with being alone again when you come in tomorrow morning?” Judy asked. We stood in the Barkery as closing time approached.

  “Of course. Although either or both of you are always welcome to join me at five a.m. whenever you feel like it.” And, yes, I was feeling a little tired, but I was okay for now with my very long hours.

  “How about … never?” That was Dinah. She’d just joined us, and she was smiling. She erased her words with a wave of both her hands. “You know I’m kidding. Just say the word and we’ll come in at five or whatever.”

  “Hey, I was just going to say that.” Judy’s voice sounded grumpy, but she was smiling. Sort of.

  “Great,” I said. “Thank you both.” Though tomorrow was Monday, no longer the weekend, I still had both of them scheduled to come in; I would start alternating them soon. I myself would be working seven days a week, sometimes at two jobs each day, but I wouldn’t ask anything like that from them.

  I turned then and went back into the kitchen, leaving the two of them alone together—and my ears perked to eavesdrop on any argument.

  But all was silent in the Barkery except for noises suggesting that one of them was playing with Biscuit outside her crate and the other was reorganizing the remaining goods in the display case. No conversation, but no yelling either. I started breathing again while examining both sets of multi-row ovens to make sure they’d been cleaned, so I wouldn’t have to scrub them before starting to bake in the morning.

  I’d walked into this whole situation fully aware of the tension between my assistants. I was determined to be firm but kind. So far, we’d all gotten along reasonably well despite snipes now and then between my helpers. As long as things stayed that way, I’d keep them both on, especially since I needed more than one person’s backup to maintain my part-time job. If I needed to hire someone else as well, fine. I’d do all I could to afford it.

  But I would make sure nothing got in the way of my two stores’ success.

  Nothing … except my potential arrest for the murder of Myra Ethman.

  I couldn’t let that happen. But my mind roiled once more about that situation as I finished cleaning—as if it had ever stopped.

  With determination not to let it get me down, I removed the apron I’d donned and went into Icing. Dinah was there now and I said goodbye, then watched as she left. “Thanks,” I called. I locked the front door behind her, then slid into the Barkery, where Judy was also getting ready to go. I thanked her too as I retrieved Biscuit and the three of us walked out together.

  My car had stayed all day in the small lot behind the store. It was a bit of a trek along winding streets if Biscuit and I walked between our home and the stores, so I’d started driving here when the stores were under construction, just as I always had to the veterinary clinic. It was even better to do so now, when we had to arrive so early in the morning.

  But right now we wer
e going home. I needed to change clothes for my date with Reed tonight.

  My very important date at the resort, where I’d be enjoying the company … while subtly seeking information.

  At home, I fed Biscuit her regular, wholesome food in a reasonably sized portion. I’d been careful, both at Barkery and Biscuits and in what I’d instructed Faye about treats, to make sure Biscuit didn’t overeat, even on the wonderful stuff we were now preparing at the Barkery. Biscuit was part of my family, and I wanted her to stay fit and trim and healthy.

  Did she get more than she should some of the time? Probably. I’d just have to keep an eye on her—and on myself when I gave her treats.

  “You’re on your own here tonight,” I told her a little while later. After letting her into the dog run for a brief post-meal romp, I’d donned a lacy white top over a deep green skirt and traded my slip-on athletic shoes for heels. Neal was working late and I’d probably see him at the resort while I was there.

  I’d turned on the TV to watch some news and learned that the speculation now was that Myra had merely been rendered unconscious by the leash found wrapped around her neck. Though it hadn’t yet been officially substantiated to the media, the further speculation was that Myra had then been bashed on the head with a rock.

  I could never have done that. Any of it. But someone apparently did.

  Weren’t the police checking for fingerprints or other evidence? If so, they would surely stop focusing on me.

  I hoped.

  I quickly turned the TV back off.

  Feeling a little guilty about leaving Biscuit alone—and needing some positive attention myself—I knelt on the kitchen floor and hugged her, running my fingers through her curly golden hair. Seeing her mournful expression, I relented enough to give her a small piece of a treat I’d brought home from the Barkery.

  “I won’t be late,” I assured her. Not if I intended to stay awake for my entire date tonight—and wake up early again tomorrow. I slipped through the door to the garage.

  Reed had offered to pick me up, but he lived in the more elite hillside area of town, closer to the lake on whose shores the resort was located. Plus, his schedule at the clinic ran as late tonight as mine did at my stores. It was easier, and saved time, for me just to meet him there.

  The roads to the resort were twisty, as were most streets up here on the mountain. I drove down the hill, then onto Summit Avenue to follow its curving course to where it ended near Knobcone Lake. I arrived in about fifteen minutes.

  The resort was a bit north along the lake’s shore. It was a sprawling facility, each building two stories high with sloping slate roofs over thick white walls and dark wood-framed windows. The main reception building looked similar, including in its height, and inside the ceilings were tall and slanted with a couple of large stone fireplaces venting through them.

  At the rear, facing the lake, was the main restaurant, a highly popular locale not only for its view of the water but also because the food was excellent. That was where I was to meet Reed.

  The parking lot in front was, as usual, nearly full, but I found a spot near the entrance gate. It wasn’t cheap to park there, but I’d get my ticket validated at the restaurant. I pushed the button to lock my aging white Toyota sedan and headed toward the main door—me and a half dozen other people. Were they guests here, or had they come for dinner too? Or both?

  In any case, life apparently was continuing on here despite the death of the facility’s manager. I entered and saw a line at the long wooden registration desk off to the right. I also saw my brother behind it.

  That was a shame. I wanted to talk to him, learn whether he’d talked about Myra’s death with anyone at the resort or heard anything potentially useful about what had happened to her. Was the method of her death under discussion? But I didn’t want to bother him. He was talking with a middle-aged couple as I walked by, and I stood there just long enough to catch his eye and wave my head toward the restaurant to indicate where I was going.

  I passed beneath the thick, decorative wooden beams in the crowded lobby and glanced upward as if utterly captivated by them. My real purpose, though, was to casually meander around, eavesdropping on multiple conversations. Some were about how nice this resort was, how there were so many things to do here even now, in summer, with no snow on the ground. In fact, there were lots of recreational activities to do on the lake: boating, water skiing, kayaking, swimming, and whatever else people enjoyed doing around clean, appealing waterways.

  Interesting. I was glad to hear what was being said, since the more tourists were around, the better that retailers—like I now was—were likely to do. Plus, some of the people had their dogs leashed beside them since this was a pet-friendly place.

  Both sides of my shop could take advantage. Additionally, Neal might get scheduled for more tourist expedition gigs.

  But those weren’t my primary motivations for eavesdropping. I listened in on multiple and mostly hushed conversations about what had happened last night, and how the murder victim had been affiliated with this place. I even heard a bit of speculation about who had killed her. An “unidentified local resident” was the main suspect, someone the victim had argued with last night.

  I felt my shoulders sag more each time that was said. But what else had I expected? Gossip always grew exponentially as it was repeated.

  Had I really thought someone here actually knew who’d murdered Myra and would let all lobby visitors know that bit of truth?

  Hah.

  I stopped circling the lobby and strode toward the restaurant. As I passed the front door, Reed entered. He saw me at the same time I spotted him and came toward me.

  “You okay?” he asked immediately, his dark eyes looking con-

  cerned.

  I nodded. “I’m fine. Just hungry.” That was a lie. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to force myself to eat. But I didn’t want anyone to know how upset and, yes, frightened I was, so I’d do all I could to act normal.

  “Okay.” But his voice sounded dubious.

  I looked him up and down. He either kept a major wardrobe change at the clinic or he, too, had gone home. He wore a dark suit, a white tie, and a blue necktie printed with black doggy paw prints. He looked great, and I liked it. I liked him. Determinedly, I grabbed his arm, shared a smile with him, and strode toward the arched doorway to the restaurant.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” demanded a voice from behind us before we reached the entrance.

  Without slowing our pace, I closed my eyes for an instant, feeling all my muscles clench. I recognized the voice, of course. I’d heard it yesterday, mocking me in tandem with his wife.

  Harris Ethman, the new widower.

  Reed stopped, though, and since I was still holding onto him I had to cease walking. He turned back first. Then I did too. I didn’t want to look at all guilty, and my avoiding Harris might do just that.

  Before either of the men could say anything, I approached Harris and gave him the briefest of hugs. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” I told him, meaning it for many reasons. I backed away again.

  His eyes, which always looked a bit sad to me since they were turned down at the ends, blazed. “No you’re not,” he spat. “You killed her.”

  I felt, as much as saw from the corner of my eyes, the people nearest us stop their own conversations and stare.

  “Now, Harris,” Reed began, but I raised my hand.

  “I can understand your being upset, Harris,” I said, proud of how calm I sounded. “And everyone’s aware that Myra and I weren’t exactly on the best of terms yesterday. But you can be sure I didn’t do anything to harm her.”

  I watched his gaunt face, his dark brows dipping down at the ends, like his eyes, beneath a receding hairline. He glared, and his fists clenched beside his scruffy jeans as if he was barely restraining himself from punching me.

  But it could all be an act. Who was more likely to murder a person than her spouse? And Myra had clearl
y been an overbearing, critical wife who’d told Harris what to do—like how to run the Knob Hill Pet Emporium. Did Harris even like pets? The fact they owned a dog and a cat didn’t prove anything.

  And what had he really thought of his wife?

  Now wasn’t the time to accuse him, though. I was merely speculating. I hadn’t a shred of evidence … yet.

  “So you say,” he growled. “But—”

  “Please excuse us,” I said. “We’re here to have dinner.” I pulled at Reed’s arm and he began walking alongside me again.

  “You’re not welcome here.” Harris had hurried to place himself in front of us.

  I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could, Neal joined us. “Harris, I’m sorry to interrupt, but your parents have just arrived. They’re by the registration desk. I assume you’d like them to get the best suite available, right?”

  “Of course.” Harris glared at me again for an instant, then hurried away toward the desk. I glanced in that direction and saw a senior couple off to the side. I hadn’t met the elder Ethmans but had a ridiculous urge to go thank them for their perfect timing.

  I knew whom I should really thank, though: Neal. I didn’t know how long the Ethmans had been there, so it was actually my brother’s timing that had been perfect—and from his both sympathetic and slightly amused glance, I recognized he knew it.

  “I get a break in fifteen minutes,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll grab a cup of coffee with you then.” He followed Harris back toward registration.

  Reed looked down at me. “Ready for dinner?”

  “Absolutely, as long as I also get a glass of wine.”

  Though the restaurant was crowded, we were seated immediately and couldn’t have requested a better table. It was near the huge windows looking out over the lake. The sun was setting, and a brilliant pink glow outlined the homes and hotels on the far side of the water.

  This almost made the turbulence so far feel worth it. Now, if only I could somehow glean further information about Myra’s death, and who, besides Harris, might have had a motive.