Bite the Biscuit (A Barkery & Biscuits Mystery) (27 page)

The table to my right emptied of diners. The man and woman who’d been sitting there looked at us before they left. Because they recognized our illustrious City Council member … or because they’d been eavesdropping?

“Maybe,” I said, “we’d be better off putting this conversation on hold till we’re done eating. Assuming you want to continue it?” I hoped he did. Of all the people I could discuss this situation with, Les knew more of the players more intimately than anyone else—or at least anyone I might be able to get to talk to me.

So that’s what we did. We talked about pleasantries during the rest of our dinner, including how my shops were doing, how our dogs were doing, and generalities about Knobcone Heights and matters the City Council might be considering soon—not including chastising the police department for their slowness in solving a murder.

From there, after I convinced him I’d pay for my own meal, we adjourned to the resort’s bar. On the way through the well-lighted but nearly empty lobby I glanced toward the desk and no longer saw Neal there.

He knew where I was, and I assumed he’d peeked in to see who I was with. Wisely, he hadn’t interrupted. But I figured he’d be full of questions later.

Maybe I’d have a few answers for him then.

The resort’s bar was substantial in size, and there was a television in the main area that was broadcasting a game—British soccer, as far as I could tell. There was a small crowd watching, and other patrons were seated at even more intimate tables than in the restaurant.

There was also a patio area overlooking the lake that wasn’t open for customers, but when Les made it clear to the chief bartender who he was, he had no trouble getting them to open it up for us.

It was noisy enough out here, with the water and occasional sound of boat motors, that I doubted there’d be any equipment turned on to record patrons’ conversations. It was a good place to talk, even though it was a little chilly.

“Okay,” I said after our drinks were served—mine a hearty glass of a delightful Cabernet from the Napa Valley, and Les’s a locally brewed beer. “For purposes of our conversation and, hopefully, the truth, we’re both innocent. But let’s try some hypotheticals now.” The first one I threw out was the one that seemed to contain the most logical motive. “What if Myra was having an affair and Harris found out? He might have wanted to dispose of her out of anger or embarrassment, or to keep her from getting a fortune from him if he divorced her. Or maybe her lover’s wife wanted to get rid of Myra to end the affair.”

Les’s smile under the bar patio’s dim light was full of wryness. “Or perhaps her lover’s wife had the motive of wanting to get rid of Myra so she could take her place in running this resort.”

I nodded as I smiled back at him. “I think we’re on the same wavelength.”

“Maybe, and I’ve considered Elise a possible suspect all along, although I hate the idea that my niece might not only be a killer but that she could have killed a relative, even one by marriage. I’ve dropped enough hints that I believe the police have looked at her too, but so far she’s free. I still consider her a possible suspect, and maybe more probable than you. But I’m not a cop and I have no evidence, just suspicions.” He took a long swig of his beer, not taking his eyes off me. “Who else?”

I went through my sparse list, including Manfred the chef and even Jack Loroco, who’d argued with Myra some time ago.

I didn’t hint that Neal could be on the cops’ list, although he certainly wasn’t on mine.

“Then there’s your brother Trask and his wife Susan,” I said. “If they found out about the affair, maybe they’d have wanted to dispose of their daughter-in-law.” I shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t really suspect them, but neither can I completely discount them.”

“I think you can forget about them,” Les said, “although that could just be my Ethman blood talking.”

Soon we left my suspects and got into his, but he’d pretty much considered the same list I had—or at least that was all he was ad-
mitting.

We’d ordered second drinks by then, and as we spoke I sometimes glanced back inside the darkened bar through the window, and sometimes toward the even darker lake.

When we were finished with our drinks, our discussion was over, too.

“’Fraid we didn’t solve it.” Les shook his head. He looked even older in the dimness, since the shadows emphasized the lines in his aging face.

“No,” I agreed. “But I hope you trust me a little more now, and that our presumption of each other’s innocence is the reality we’ll both go with.”

I watched his face to see if there was any indication he was hiding mistrust, but he just looked at me, and then, as we prepared to leave, he gave me a hug.

“I hope for both our sakes that this gets resolved soon, Carrie. I know I’ll have to deal with the situation some more at City Council, and until someone’s arrested I can’t express my opinions there about who’s innocent or guilty—not without getting myself and my family into even more trouble. But I’m glad we talked. And, yes, I still believe you’re innocent.”

“Thank you, Les. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. I’d hate to think you really believed I could have done this—and brainstorming with you was … well, it was enlightening, but even more, it made me feel like a person again, not just a suspect.”

He insisted on paying the bill this time, and as we walked together through the bar and then into the lobby, he stopped and looked down at me.

“I hope you’re not lying, Carrie. Oh, and I’ll bring Sam in one of these days for some more of your Barkery treats.”

“Thanks.” I gave him another brief hug before heading to the parking lot.

Neal was watching the end of an L.A. Dodgers baseball game on TV when I got home. He must have been listening for me, since he, along with Biscuit, sprang into the garage as I drove in. They both stayed in the doorway, Neal holding onto my girl’s collar.

We talked for a while. I told him about my conversation with Les Ethman. He’d already heard, of course, about my confrontation with the cops the other day as well as my visit to the attorney. My bro was clearly concerned about me but had no suggestions or further insights, and so we soon both went to bed.

A couple more days passed. Thursday and Friday were ordinary—as ordinary as anything was these days.

Then came Saturday. It should be no different from any other weekend day as far as I was concerned. I got to my shops early with Biscuit and dug in.

One good thing about it being the weekend was that both Judy and Dinah were on board to help out. The routine we’d gotten into during the week was working out fine, and they both remained flexible if I needed them, but it was better now that we were all around when the crowds came in to shop at both stores.

Crowds! I couldn’t have been happier … about that. We sold lots of both kinds of baked goods that day, and also on Sunday. Then the next week arrived and all worked out well again, even though Dinah and Judy still alternated which days they came in to help out. They quarreled a little when they were both around, but not a lot. Fortunately, they both seemed to enjoy what they were doing here. Neither made noises these days about wanting more—or less—responsibility.

And during all of that, I still managed to put in an hour or two most days at the vet clinic.

We baked. We sold dog treats and people treats. I packed up leftover dog treats to be taken to the vet clinic and, mostly, to Mountaintop Rescue. I also selected leftover people treats to periodically be picked up and taken to homeless centers down the mountain.

I talked to Brenda now and then. Her mother remained about the same. She missed Icing, and me, and hoped to visit someday soon. And I would be delighted to see her.

But oh, how I loved the routine—even as my mind still grappled with the problem looming over me now like an alien spaceship in a classic movie, ready to swoop down and change my life forever.

My potential arrest for murder.

I didn’t see the detectives, nor did I hear that they’d arrested someone else. The media kept prodding, and the next City Council meeting would be on Friday. I knew what Les had said, and that local citizens wanted answers.

So did I.

I got a call from Jack Loroco. He was finally able to get away and venture up here again—soon. He still wasn’t sure when, though. Hopefully on the weekend.

I saw Reed often at the vet clinic, and although he asked me to join him for coffee a couple of times, I declined and took a rain check—and, yes, there was a rainstorm predicted for this mountain community. Soon. So maybe I’d use that as an excuse to join Reed.

But the reason I saw him next wasn’t at all what I’d anticipated. He called me late on Thursday. “Carrie, could you please come to the clinic when you close up your shops today.” It was phrased as a question, but the tone made it a command.

“Sure,” I said, then added hesitantly, “Is something wrong?”

“See you later,” he said without answering. “Arvie will be here too.” And then he hung up.

I felt a bit stunned. We hadn’t gone on another date recently, but we talked often. I’d gotten the sense that we were at the beginning of what could become a good relationship.

But Reed had surprised me before with his bad mood. And I had no idea what was going on now.

I considered ignoring his command. But I was curious.

And if Arvie was involved …

I locked the doors, loaded Biscuit into my car, and drove toward the clinic. I realized while driving that I had some leftover treats I could have brought along, but I’d be there tomorrow and could take them then. Or, as I’d been doing, I could send one of my assistants.

No doggy patient would be deprived as a result of my mood-initiated forgetfulness that night.

The clinic was quiet. It was late, too late for doggy daycare, so I just brought Biscuit in the back door with me as I headed down the hall past the examination rooms and toward the end where the veterinarians’ offices were located.

A door opened about halfway down the hall and Yolanda, my fellow vet tech, hurried out with a plastic bag in her hands.

“Hi,” I said, smiling at her.

She just glared as she passed, not even bending to greet Biscuit, who was wagging her tail. She headed toward the lab area and disappeared into another door. Odd. We were usually good friends.

One of the senior vets, Dr. Paul Jensin, also passed by, just nodding and mumbling hello as if I were the owner of a patient he’d never seen before.

Very odd.

I’d already felt a lot of apprehension about coming here and what Reed had hinted at. Now I felt even more concerned. Were they all somehow convinced that I had killed Myra? But why would they be worrying about it now? And even though none of them would condone murder, it was an unlikely reason for a veterinary staff to get so upset.

I tried to keep my breathing even as I guided Biscuit toward Reed’s office. I didn’t have to knock on his door; it opened as I reached it. He must have been watching for me.

“Come in.” He stood back so I could enter.

Arvie was there too, sitting in a chair facing Reed’s desk. My kind friend and mentor, dressed in his white medical jacket, turned to look at me, and I smiled tentatively.

He didn’t smile back.

My already fearful mood turned almost to panic. What was this?

I knew I’d find out soon. They wouldn’t have demanded my presence merely to say they were angry about some unidentified peeve. They’d tell me what it was, and then I’d deal with it.

I hoped.

Reed motioned for me to sit down beside Arvie, then reached into a drawer and pulled out one of the boxes I used at the Barkery. I knew it was one from there, even though I used some of that size and larger at Icing, since this one had a Barkery sticker on the end. Sometimes I used these boxes for transporting treats here, and sometimes I used bags—whatever worked for the batch of biscuits I was sending along on any particular day.

Reed reached across his nearly bare desk and planted the box firmly in front of me. “This was in the kitchen where we keep dog treats, including the ones from you that we give away here.”

As I nodded, an even greater feeling of dread passed through me. I was afraid I knew what was inside.

I reached for the box, opened it—and saw I’d been right.

Yes, I did make dog treats resembling cookies at the Barkery, but I purposely made them look different from the human cookies sold at Icing. That way, there wouldn’t be any confusion about which was which.

And yet, the cookies in the box that had been in the kitchen here—which techs or volunteers or other helpers or even vets could have fed to patients—were human cookies.

A kind with large chocolate chips baked inside, only a hint of how much showing at the top.

And although it was not always fatal, chocolate was poison to dogs.

TWENTY
-
FIVE

“
O
H, NO!”
I
CRIED.
“This is terrible! Did anyone—”

“No, fortunately none of these were fed to any dogs.” Arvie’s uncharacteristically cool gaze seared right through me.

I couldn’t blame him. I wanted to thrash myself for this carelessness. “Thank heavens,” I said.

“As you know,” he continued, “we usually let the techs parcel out your treats. Yolanda’s the one who discovered the problem—which was fortunate, since we had a bunch of volunteers here today from the high school and would have let them be the ones to give them out to our patients.” His glare softened, but only a little. “I’m sure you didn’t mean it, Carrie, but if the stress you’re under leads to this kind of negligence, we really don’t want you to bring any leftovers here until the problems in your life are resolved.”

It was Reed’s turn to add his two cents. “I’ve heard you developed a lot of the dog treats you sell now at the Barkery while you were working here, before you started your shops.” His tone was even, but accusation was woven into it. “The effects of chocolate on dogs—it’s elementary, Carrie. Even if you weren’t an expert, you should have known that.”