Bite the Biscuit (A Barkery & Biscuits Mystery) (2 page)

A lot of our visitors were familiar—friends, even. I’d met quite a few of them when their dogs were patients at the Knobcone Veterinary Clinic; I still worked there, part-time now, as a vet tech. And some of these people were also neighbors who lived near my home.

I greeted as many as I could by name, welcoming them and ensuring that they received samples of baked goods for their pets to try. Biscuit, at my feet, helped too in her limited way, wagging her tail at both people and dogs.

At least some of the people I didn’t know had to be tourists visiting our lovely town of Knobcone Heights, California. I’d had help making sure that word had gotten out.

“Hi, Carrie.” Les Ethman, a moderate-height guy with eyes that turned down at the corners and a forehead that kept expanding, was a member of the City Council and was owned by an English bulldog named Sam. I wondered whether he had dressed up to make an impression at the party or if he had some official business to conduct, since he wore a blue shirt with a striped necktie and nicely creased slacks.

“Hi, Les,” I said. “Where’s Sam?”

“Left him home for today. But I want to bring him some of your treats. Give me a recommendation.”

“They’re all good, of course.” Would I really say otherwise? Never. But it happened to be true. I raised my voice, since some people around us had started to listen in. “I use all natural ingredients. The treats come in different flavors, from liver to peanut butter to chicken, beef, or cheese, and even some dog-healthy fruits and veggies. They’re all labeled.”

Saying “excuse me,” I wended my way sideways with Biscuit enough to be able to gesture with my free hand toward the large refrigerated display case, which was identical to the one in Icing. Both shops also had shelves along their back walls that held treats less likely to go stale fast, like small cookies in glass jars. Like the refrigerated case in Icing, the one in the Barkery was filled with baked delights—but all for dogs. “See?” I asked my audience, pointing to the sizeable ingredients labels stuck on toothpicks on each plate. I also hoped they noticed that some of the items had “B&B” etched into them, representing “Barkery and Biscuits.”

“They sound good enough for people to eat.” Another member of City Council had just joined her colleague. Wilhelmina Matlock, who preferred to be called “Billi,” was also an acquaintance of mine thanks to her frequent visits to the veterinary hospital. She owned a couple of dogs, but I knew her more for her private shelter where she took in rescues. She was one busy lady, since she also owned a day spa that catered to the wealthy human residents and tourists who came to Knobcone Heights.

“You can always sample them yourselves,” I said. “The ingredients are just as good for people as for their pets—although there are a few you should avoid if you have a peanut allergy. I’d be glad to point them out.”

Some of those around us made faces that suggested they’d rather do anything than taste any kind of dog treats.

“Please come over here,” I called to Judy, to whom Brenda had handed the sample tray. “This first tray contains our cheese biscuits,” I told the crowd. “As gourmet as your dog could ever want, with three kinds of cheese as well as wheat germ, pureed veggies, and other highly tasty ingredients baked until nice and crunchy.” I loved them. So did Biscuit and every other dog I’d given a taste to.

By the time Judy got close to me, only half a dozen bone-shaped biscuits remained on the tray.

“Looks like they’re popular, so grab what’s left,” I told our patrons, “and we’ll bring another flavor out soon.”

I saw that some people were forming an irregular line at the cash register on the counter, most pointing at treats in the adjoining display case.

“Please serve those folks,” I told Judy in a low voice. She nodded. I figured that Brenda and Dinah were handling sales on the bakery side.

The men and women around us, including the two I’d been speaking with, managed to take samples before they were all gone. I laughed. “I think it’s time for me to get the next tray.”

But I couldn’t bring Biscuit into the kitchen. That was one restriction in the city permit that had allowed me to divide the original Icing on the Cake bakery into two parts. Pets were permitted in Barkery and Biscuits, but only the store area, since the kitchen was used for cooking products for both people and pets.

I’d divided the equipment and counters up in the kitchen, and put in a special ventilation system so the aroma of meaty animal treats wouldn’t contaminate people-goodies containing things like sugar and chocolate, and vice versa. And I’d made it absolutely clear to my assistants that those ingredients had to be kept separate, for taste reasons but also for dog health, since chocolate was dangerous to them.

Right now, I wasn’t about to let Biscuit loose while I entered the kitchen, especially as this throng of people also held open the front door. The area I had planned to keep Biscuit in wasn’t completely set up because of the party. What could I do with her while I got the next round of dog treats?

Fortunately, one of the people just coming in was Neal, my brother. He wasn’t looking toward me but back outside as he gestured for someone else to enter.

“Hey, Neal!” I called. Somehow he heard me over all the conversations going on among the shoulder-to-shoulder people.

I couldn’t have been happier to see him. Not only could he take care of Biscuit while I went into the kitchen, but he could also help with crowd control, starting to get this group flowing in and out.

Neal is twenty-eight—four years younger than me—and quite a few inches taller. Like me, he’s got the Kennersly longish nose and blunt chin, plus some fairly sharp cheekbones as well as our family’s typical medium-blond hair. An athlete and leader of fun tourist expeditions, as well as one of the front desk receptionists at the Knobcone Heights Resort, Neal keeps his hair short and a shadow of a light beard on his cheeks and chin.

He lives with me. We’re about as close as siblings can be, which is a good thing. We’re all we’ve got.

And he’s used to taking orders from me.

It took him a minute to scooch through the crowd, not only because he had to keep excusing himself but because, friendly guy that he is, he greeted everyone, mostly by name. His job at the premier local hotel meant that he’d even met many of the tourists. In fact, at my urging, he’d told a lot of tourists about my grand opening.

“Hey, Carrie,” he said as he reached me. “Hi, Bug,” he added, bending over to rough up Biscuit’s wavy fur. He stood straight again and looked down at me. “Good crowd, huh?”

My bro was wearing a snug, navy Knobcone Heights Resort T-shirt that showed off his muscular build, and jeans. Dressing up wasn’t in his vocabulary—unless he had a hot date who demanded it. And since lots of women seemed eager for his attention, he apparently could have one of those hot dates whenever he chose.

“It sure is,” I said. “I need to get something in the kitchen, then pop in on the Icing side. Will you take care of Biscuit for me?”

“What do you think, Bug?” He looked down at my dog again. “You gonna take good care of your uncle Neal?” Without waiting for Biscuit to answer, Neal held out his arms and I gently turned my pup over to him.

But before I could inch my way to the kitchen, I heard the undercurrent of excited party voices ramp up to a crescendo, then stop. What was going on?

I turned to look toward the door.

Two people I recognized were shoving their way in. They were relatives of Les Ethman, but Les remained standing at the side of the store talking earnestly with Billi. And unlike their uncle, they clearly had an attitude—one they’d merely hinted at over the last months of my remodeling. Was it about to erupt?

“Happy opening day,” shouted the woman, Myra Ethman, in a sing-song sarcastic tone that sent a tendril of dismay creeping up my spine.

“We hope you close tomorrow,” called her husband Harris.

And I wondered if the party was already over.

TWO

M
YRA SLITHERED HER WAY
through the crowd and reached me first. She was slender to the point of near emaciation, although I bet she considered herself gorgeously svelte. Her brown hair, filled with gleaming highlights, formed a wispy cap surrounding a face so perfect that I had no doubt she’d availed herself of cosmetic surgery at least once. She was, after all, at least fifteen years older than me.

I made myself smile at her, although I knew the curve of my mouth wasn’t reflected in my dubious eyes. “Thanks for your good wishes, Myra,” I said. She had, after all, said something positive about my party, even though I knew it had been sarcasm.

At least Harris had been genuine in his statement. But I had no intention of closing tomorrow or anytime in the next zillion years.

Harris had followed Myra over to me and now edged his way in front of her, confronting me.

Like Councilman Les, Harris was an Ethman, a member of one of the town’s most wealthy and privileged families. His eyes looked similar to Les’s, turned down at the edges; on Les, those eyes appeared a bit wistful and invited people to say something nice to make him feel better, but on Harris, they looked angry and challenging. Or maybe I was just reading the obvious mood in his eyes today.

“Would you like a sample of my treats to take home to Davinia, Harris?” I asked sweetly.

As with most people I knew in this town, I’d met Harris and Myra when they brought their pets into the veterinary clinic. They owned a black standard poodle named Davinia and a Manx cat named Beauregard. I wondered how the animals got along together in the same household, but maybe they’d formed an alliance to deal with their nasty owners.

“No, thank you.” Myra was the one who responded. She almost sounded polite—until she continued. “All of the dog treats and other products at Knob Hill Pet Emporium are of much superior quality to any of your poisonous little pieces of garbage here.” She made a face like she had just ingested dog feces.

I wanted to slap that face. More realistically, I wanted to shout at her to get out of here. She didn’t have to come to my opening party. And I thought I’d made it clear enough, when she and her nasty husband had appeared to oppose my application for a permit to remodel this building, that they weren’t any more welcome here than I was now at the pet store they’d established a couple of years ago.

But Myra was Neal’s boss. She was the executive manager of the Knobcone Heights Resort. I hadn’t turned around to see how he was reacting to this conversation, but I was sure my usually devil-may-care brother was listening closely with his teeth gritted.

Before I allowed myself to show any reaction, I glanced at the unrelated guests surrounding us. Several faces looked horrified. Others seemed caught up in fascination, as if the people enjoyed fights and were waiting for the next ugly round. A few who held their dogs in their arms appeared to have turned, so that if the situation came to blows their beloved small family members would not get creamed. I knew most of these people and understood their loving concern.

Those friends and neighbors, more than anyone else except Neal, caused me to take a few deep breaths and order myself to calm down. I wanted pet owners to come here for the benefit of their fur-kids. I wanted them to try, and then buy, treats that I’d been baking the past few years for the patients at the veterinary clinic, which included products for dogs with special dietary needs. The vet patients had been my guinea-dogs, and it was because they and their owners seemed so happy with my products that I was now sharing them with the world.

Or at least the world of Knobcone Heights.

I decided to show everyone what a good sport I was. “You know, Harris, I won’t be in direct competition with the Pet Emporium,” I said. “I have a limited supply of products, and they’re not the same kinds of things you carry anyway.”

I’d visited the Emporium several times in the past, while I was still welcome, to get stuff for Biscuit—and to check it out. Like Barkery and Biscuits, it fronted on the Knobcone Heights town square, but it was at the opposite side from my two shops on Summit Avenue, and therefore a couple of blocks away. Both were in the town’s premier retail area. The Emporium was one among many upscale establishments that catered to wealthy tourists and the town’s elite.

The rest of the people around here, including me, drove out of town a ways to some of the nice but cheaper strip malls. One of the chain pet supply companies maintained a store there, and they too carried brands of healthy foods.

“We sell treats,” Harris huffed back. “Better than this junk.”

“There’s nothing in the area—no, in the world, the universe—that’s better for dogs than my home-baked dog treats,” I retorted, through gritted teeth that I bared as I pretended to smile. “Anyway, you’re entitled to your opinion, but I can assure you there’s room in this town for both of our stores. But I think you’ve worn out your welcome here. Hadn’t you better go back to your emporium to see if there are any customers there you can browbeat—I mean, wait on?”

I turned my back on him, but not before I noticed his nasty frown.

Myra had maneuvered away, and she was standing in the corner of the Barkery talking to Les and Billi.

Even though Harris was the born Ethman of that couple, when they’d married Myra had apparently donned the cloak of eliteness and done her best to outdo the blood-related kin. Harris might have the money, but Myra appeared to have the brains. I’d heard that she had been the one to purchase the Emporium, to give Harris something to do besides spend their kids’ inheritance. Their human kids, that is. They had two, a girl and a boy. The girl was off at college and the boy was still in high school—the best private preppy school in the San Bernardino Mountains.

I noticed that Judy, behind the counter, appeared a little frazzled, so I went over to help her, which also got me far away from Harris.

“I’m fine,” she whispered to me. “But we need some more sample treats out here.”

“You’re right,” I said, recognizing that my nasty exchange with the Ethmans had delayed my retrieving more treats. I moved around Judy to duck into the kitchen and brought out a second tray full of my dog treat samples—some small, crunchy training rewards that contained beef, yams, and more. I began moving slowly through the crowd, allowing people to take more than one of the treats, particularly acquaintances who had their dogs with them. I chatted casually with most of them, sharing smiles and thanking them for their good wishes.