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

Once more, I caught her nod to her colleague. He brought up another picture. “This was found near Ms. Ethman,” he said.

He passed the phone to me, and I tried not to gasp.

It might not be true, of course. They could just be attempting to rattle me. To trap me into a confession—one that would be false, of course.

But the item found near Myra’s body did look familiar. Too familiar. It appeared to be a large portion of one of the dog treats from the Barkery: bone-shaped, with a stylized B&B that I’d etched into the dough to promote my new venture.

It had apparently come from right here, in my shop.

FIVE

M
Y MIND BEGAN SWIRLING
like an expanding vortex. Could I possibly recall everyone who’d gotten one of these treats for their dogs? Unlikely. I’d passed out a bunch of our products, but so had my assistants and even Neal, and some treats had just been left on trays for people to pick up.

“There were a lot of these given out yesterday,” I managed to say, snapping off all attempts at remembering specifics and turning to face both detectives. It wasn’t easy. My knees threatened to buckle, especially under their chilly stares. Fortunately, I remained standing. “It doesn’t matter that they were baked here. Anyone who came to our party could have gotten one and left it at … at the site.” Wherever the murder site was. I still wasn’t sure, but the TV news had suggested Myra was found outside her garage, on the edge of some nearby woods. If my flimsy reciprocal alibi with Neal wasn’t enough to remove me from their suspect list, I couldn’t claim innocence based on having no idea where Myra had lived. She was an Ethman by marriage. Everyone in town knew where they lived.

“You could have too,” Bridget said.

She’d seemed to be such a caring person when I’d met her at the veterinary clinic. At least she loved her cat. But that affection clearly didn’t spill over onto an acquaintance she apparently considered a murder suspect.

“So what’s your opinion about why the biscuit found there was broken?” Wayne asked.

What was he looking for? I hesitated briefly, considering how to respond. “I don’t know,” I finally said. “All I know is that I didn’t leave it there and have no idea who did.” I looked from one of them to the other. “I know I’m a convenient suspect. I argued with Myra, I admit that, but it wasn’t that huge a disagreement. Even if it had been … You don’t know me very well, but I can assure you I’m not stupid enough to argue with someone in public and then kill them.”

“She’s not,” Neal confirmed. “In fact, my sis is pretty smart.”

“Then she’d be smart enough to plant a clue against herself so she could claim later that she’s being framed.” A snide grin bisected Wayne’s wide face.

“I can’t believe you’re zeroing in on me,” I said softly. My fear must have been obvious to poor Biscuit, who sat leaning against my leg looking up at me. I bent to pat her, wishing I felt secure enough to reassure her.

“They’re probably just trying to trap you and doing the same thing with everyone else they consider a suspect,” Neal said, also drawing closer. I appreciated the protective presence of my brother, especially when he maneuvered around Biscuit and put his arm around my shoulder.

“Including you,” Wayne said casually to Neal, and I felt Neal stiffen.

“But I didn’t—” he began.

“Argue with her?” Bridget cut in. “No matter. You undoubtedly heard your sister arguing, and protecting a family member is a good enough motive.” Neal released me and opened his mouth to reply, but Bridget continued. “Look, we know neither of you is going to step right up and admit today that you killed Myra. It’s time for us to go. But you can be sure the whole Knobcone Heights Police Department will continue to investigate this homicide and collect evidence a whole lot better and more efficiently than those unreal clowns you see portrayed on TV shows. Then we’ll arrest the person who murdered Ms. Ethman and make sure the charges stick. Goodbye, Neal. And bye, Carrie. I hope the next time I see you is at the veterinary clinic when I pick up some vitamins for Butterball—but I wouldn’t count on it. It’s more likely to be when we have more questions for you.”

With that, both detectives strode out of the Barkery—and it was a good thing, too. A couple of customers were waiting outside the front door since it was a few minutes past seven a.m. The man and woman glanced curiously toward the two cops, but hopefully they didn’t know that’s what they were. At least the detectives hadn’t been in uniform.

I noticed then that Judy was just inside the doorway to the kitchen. She stepped into the Barkery quickly to greet the customers but shot a glance over her shoulder toward me. Her expression was blank, all except for a look in her eyes that I couldn’t quite interpret. Fear? Accusation? My imagination? I wasn’t sure, but her face appeared paler than I was used to seeing it.

She must have been listening in.

“It’ll be okay, Carrie.” That was Neal. He was still standing beside me. “But I’d better get to work now. You call me if they come back, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

He gave me a hug and Biscuit a pat, and then he left. And despite the customers who stood by the full display case, I felt completely alone. Even Judy had disappeared into the kitchen after greeting the visitors.

I put Biscuit into her large, open-topped crate, then approached our guests, but before I could do more than say hi Judy returned, carrying one of our trays. This one was covered with a layer of dog cookies shaped like spaniel faces with long ears.

It wasn’t the kind of biscuit in the photo relating to Myra …

“Thanks,” I told Judy. I went behind the counter and just watched, smiling while she waited on the customers, who seemed happy to buy a dozen of the newly baked dog treats.

“We’ll want more later,” said the lady. “Other kinds, too. I left our little Missy at the resort and will probably bring her here a time or two before we leave. We’ll be around for another week, so that should work well.”

“That would be delightful,” I said. Judy had already packed the order into a decorative bag, and I impulsively grabbed another biscuit from the tray. “Let’s make it a baker’s dozen today.”

Both the lady and the man with her smiled, said thanks, then left.

“That was nice.” Judy remained beside me behind the display case. She was smiling too, although her long face didn’t look particularly cheerful.

“It’s always a good thing to make a customer happy,” I said, “and since we opened a few minutes late, it didn’t hurt to add a little extra to encourage them to return.” I sounded as if I’d been running a store for a long time rather than just trusting my instincts as a new retailer—instincts derived from my own experiences as a customer.

Judy didn’t look impressed. “You’ll need to give us instructions on when to add that little extra to an order.” She paused. “Brenda never wanted us to do that.”

I didn’t want to say anything against my friend, but I wondered if Icing on the Cake would have been more successful if Brenda had been a little more impulsive that way.

“I may regret it,” I said, “but let’s give it a try.”

“Okay.” Judy turned slightly, as if preparing to return to the kitchen, then stopped and looked back at me again with her soft blue eyes. They appeared sad. “Those detectives. Do they … I mean, they were asking Neal and you questions, right? About Myra. And … um, do you know how she was killed?”

“I … well, the cops indicated she was strangled,” I told her. “With a dog leash. But they indicated there might have been more to it, too.”

“And the police think you did it?” Then Judy bit her narrow lips as if she regretted saying it.

I lowered my head for a moment, resting my gaze on Biscuit. “I gather that, yes, I’m on their suspect list. But I didn’t do it, and they’re sure to figure that out soon.”

“Who do you think did it?” Dinah had just entered the Barkery from the kitchen behind us.

Both my assistants stared at me, as if waiting for a huge revelation that would make them feel a whole lot better about the situation. But even if I’d hazarded a guess, I had no idea if it would have any potential validity. Even so, I needed to reassure them that all around here was fine. That I’d be around and able to keep this shop open and maintain their jobs.

“I didn’t know Myra well enough to say who would have wanted to hurt her,” I told them. “She seemed rather … domineering to me.” And officious and nasty and over-the-top for no reason. “And not everyone likes that.” Like me. But it still hadn’t driven me to murder her. “The natural guess would be her closest friends and family, maybe one of the other Ethmans. But I’ve met several of them, including her husband Harris, and my initial reaction isn’t to point fingers at him or any of the rest.” I paused. “Do you two have any ideas?”

Both pairs of eyes opened wide. “Me? Oh, I didn’t know her much either,” Judy said.

“Me neither,” Dinah added.

“But you’re right, Carrie.” Judy nodded. “Books and TV shows and all would indicate that the people who knew her best would make the most likely suspects. I just hope the police do a good job of investigating and finding out the truth.”

“Me too,” I said fervently. “Now let’s go back into the kitchen. I want to see what you’ve started baking for both shops and help decide what should come next.”

A couple of hours later, I felt better. A little, at least. I hadn’t heard again from Neal, so I assumed he’d gone to work at the resort.

Since Myra had been the executive manager, I wondered who was in charge now. I didn’t believe they’d shut down the whole resort in mourning, but I was curious about how things were being handled there today. Myra had been an important member of the family even though she wasn’t born an Ethman.

I’d talk to Neal later. Right now I was working at Icing, finishing up with some new customers—three women I recognized from seeing them in a store or somewhere else in town. But I didn’t really know them, so I assumed they didn’t have any pets to bring to the veterinary clinic. They’d bought some people-cupcakes for a lunch that their book club was holding at one of their homes. I thanked them and gave them an extra treat too, hoping they’d mention it to the others in their group.

When they left, I realized my mind hadn’t really settled down yet. I needed a break. It wasn’t time for me to head to the vet clinic, though. Did I feel comfortable just leaving for a while?

Why not? After our initial difficulties with getting started that morning—and the discussion about who might have killed Myra—Dinah and Judy had been hard at work, apparently enjoying trading off which one staffed which store, and fortunately their interaction remained peaceful. We’d finished baking today’s people and dog treats unless we got low on something and had to bake some more, and even though we had a steady stream of customers, neither of my assistants appeared to need help.

I decided to take advantage of all this and head to Cuppa-Joe’s, a family restaurant owned by a pair of dear friends of mine, Joe and Irma Nash. And, yes, they served good coffee.

I gave my assistants my instructions and my thanks. They both had my cell phone number, and I told them to call if any questions arose, no matter how insignificant. I assured them I’d be back for an hour or so before heading to my other job.

Then I went into the Barkery, where I’d left Biscuit in her comfortable open-air crate, and she and I left.

Cuppa-Joe’s was on Peak Road at the far side of the town square. It was a sprawling one-story structure with several different dining areas inside, as well as a couple of patios. One patio was in the center of the small complex, accessible by a path between the buildings. That was where Biscuit and I headed.

For the moment, my dog was the only canine there. It was a little early for lunch, and some people appeared to prefer the other patio. I didn’t think Biscuit would mind. There were quite a few customers around and she might get extra attention.

I sat at one of my favorite tables. I came here as often as I could, partly because I enjoyed the family-style food and the attentive service. But I also visited often because I was so fond of the owners.

“Hi, Carrie,” said Kit, who then knelt and said, “Hi, Biscuit,” but without patting my dog. She was, after all, part of the restaurant’s wait staff, so if she petted visiting animals a lot she’d be washing her hands constantly. She rose again and grinned at me.

Kit was around twenty-five years old, with curly blond hair shorter than my wavy mop. She had pink cheeks and a huge, toothy smile. Like the other wait staff members, she wore a knit shirt with buttons and a collar, which had a steaming coffee cup logo on the pocket. The staff all wore different colors. Today, Kit’s shirt was orange.

“Hi,” I responded. “I just want a quick, early lunch—tuna salad sandwich on wheat bread, lettuce and tomato, and some low-fat chips on the side. Oh, and joe, of course. Black.”

“You got it.” She wrote it down on a small pad of paper, then said, “I’ll let the Joes know you’re here,” and took off.

The staff, and others—including me sometimes—referred to Joe and Irma Nash collectively as “the Joes,” since this place was Cuppa-Joe’s, and it was theirs.

Joe and Irma came out onto the crowded patio a couple of minutes later, pulled up chairs, and sat down with us—after each gave me a big kiss on the cheek and patted Biscuit’s head. They weren’t serving food, so they wouldn’t need to wash their hands right away. They had, however, each brought a cup of coffee to the table with them. Good. That meant they intended to stay awhile.

“Great to see you, Carrie.” Irma was in her sixties but looked much younger, with stylishly cut and highlighted brown hair framing a face made up as well as any model’s. And she hadn’t resorted to Botox or anything artificial.

“Ditto,” said Joe. “But what brings you here on the day after you opened your new shop?” Unlike his wife, Joe looked his age, partly thanks to the grayness of his hair beyond his receding hairline. He also had deep divots on either side of his mouth, which only seemed to frame his frequent smiles.

They’d both popped in at the party, separately and briefly. They had their own business to run, of course, and their limited participation hadn’t hurt my feelings. I knew they’d been with me in spirit.