Bite the Biscuit (A Barkery & Biscuits Mystery) (8 page)

“Oh, well … ”

“Spit it out,” Joe insisted.

“And don’t pretend,” said Irma. “We heard about Myra Ethman, along with some rumors that you and she had a bit of a falling out at your party.”

“More than that,” I said. “But it wasn’t enough for me to have killed her, as the police seem to think.”

“Oh no.” Irma rose and came over to hug me. “I was afraid of something like that when I heard those rumors.”

“Who—” I began.

“Some of our early morning customers who like to talk too much,” Joe interrupted. “We made it clear we’d be glad to serve them food but we don’t allow gossip around here.”

“Thanks.” The word spilled from me in a throaty sigh. “You two are the best.”

In fact, Joe and Irma were like family. No, they were better than family—at least, better than Neal’s and mine.

Neal and I had been brought up by our family in nearby Riverside, California—two sort-of misnomers. First, although the northern part of Riverside is actually beside the Santa Ana River, most of the town doesn’t exactly front the water. Second, except for each other, Neal and I don’t have much of a family. Our parents divorced years ago, and both remarried and had other kids. Those younger stepsiblings were all-important to each of them.

Neal and me? Not so much.

The Nashes had been here forever. The restaurant had been started by Joe’s parents when they were younger than me, or so I gathered. Joe and Irma’s own kids were grown, and their daughter remained in Knobcone Heights. She and her husband helped to run this place and apparently were teaching their two daughters how important it was. Their son had become a lawyer and moved to L.A. but visited often with his own family.

Yes, the Nashes believed in family, their own and those they’d adopted into the fold. Like Neal and me.

Kit soon served my sandwich, and I shared my chips with Joe and Irma. Everything was delicious—particularly the charming conversation about some Hollywood types who’d recently come to town and visited Cuppa.

I was about to take the last bite of tuna when I saw two people stroll onto the patio from the front of the restaurant—two people I’d prefer to never see again, and definitely not this soon. The detectives.

Joe and Irma followed my gaze as I put the sandwich down. “Them?” Joe asked.

I nodded. “They’ve been asking me questions.”

“We know they’re cops. They eat here a lot, usually inside. But I’ll be glad to throw them out.”

“No need,” I said. They’d probably seen me and decided to take the opportunity to silently harass me. Maybe make me so nervous that I’d run right over to them and confess.

Not.

“But honey,” Irma began.

“It’s okay. Really. I’m pretty much finished, and I have to head back to my shops for a while before going to my other job.”

“You’re still working as a vet tech too.” Joe didn’t make it a question, since he knew the answer. “You’re really something, Carrie.”

Yeah. Something. A new business owner, a veterinary technician—and a murder suspect.

I waved Kit over and requested my check. The Joes had offered to let me eat free, especially now when I was starting a new venture, but I insisted that I’d continue to pay my own way.

“Believe me,” I told them both quietly. “If I hadn’t been finished, I wouldn’t be leaving now. I wouldn’t let them scare me, honest.” I began to stand, and Biscuit immediately rose to her feet too and shook her curly golden fur. I patted her, then managed a small smile that I shot first to Irma, then Joe. “But if you happen to overhear any of your customers confessing to killing Myra, please let me know.”

SIX

B
ISCUIT AND
I
WALKED
back to the Barkery and went inside. Judy was there but no customers were. “Everything okay here?” I asked.

She gave me a rundown of who’d stopped in. Fortunately, it didn’t include any cops, or at least none she’d identified. Instead, it sounded mostly like a bunch of Knobcone Heights residents who hadn’t been at the party yesterday and came to scope out the new section of the store and buy some of our products.

Dinah came in and said that nearly the same had held true for Icing. We’d had a lot of foot traffic, although the place hadn’t gotten especially crowded at any time.

“Great. Let’s see how we do for the next hour before I head to the vet clinic,” I said.

The day continued pretty much as Judy had described and Dinah had seconded. There was a nearly steady flow of customers, not overwhelming but definitely encouraging.

I—we—might really make a go at this new venture, I thought. Of course it was still the weekend, but even so …

I felt pretty jazzed by the time I had to leave for the veterinary hospital. Especially since Dinah and Judy appeared to be getting along okay today.

Because I owed the clinic a lot and always wanted the best for its patients, I loaded a sack with dog treats. I’d leave them with the clinic’s greeters to pass out in the reception area to dogs who’d been cleared to nibble on wholesome snacks. I didn’t have anything prepared for dogs with particular dietary issues, since I’d only do that if I was made aware of a pet with special needs.

Then I opened Biscuit’s crate door and clipped her leash to her collar. She’d accompany me there. The Knobcone Veterinary Clinic also had a doggy daycare facility, so I’d always been able to bring my dog to work after I’d adopted her. Biscuit had been an injured stray, brought in as a puppy two years ago. I’d fallen in love with her as I’d helped her heal, and, after futilely attempting to find her careless prior owner, I delightedly adopted her as soon as she was well enough to leave the clinic.

The doggy daycare part was separate enough from the rest of the hospital that I didn’t worry about any of the patients’ health issues affecting Biscuit, or else I’d have found someplace else to care for my best friend when I couldn’t be there for her. She’d gone through enough trauma as a pup. She didn’t need any more now.

The walk to the clinic wasn’t far. It was located close enough to the town center to be convenient for the area’s most privileged families, just a block behind the town square. Mountaintop Rescue was a block beyond that, so I particularly liked this neighborhood.

The veterinary hospital had been designed to be as stylish as a lot of the places in Knobcone. Like some of the mansions owned by the town’s elite, including members of the Ethman family, it had the look of a Swiss chalet. It was only one story high but had a tall, sloped roof, an inviting front porch where people and pets waiting for appointments could hang out in good weather, and multiple paned windows. Its exterior walls were of textured blue.

Biscuit and I didn’t worry about going past the animals and their owners on the porch, which was crowded since the weather today was good. I wondered how many others were inside in the waiting area.

I had a feeling this would be a busy afternoon for a certain veterinary technician, which could be a good thing. It might keep my mind off the situation that had never come close to evaporating from my consciousness that day, even when I was busy waiting on customers at my shops.

Using the path at the side of the hospital, we walked to the back parking lot. I opened a rear door and let Biscuit lead me into the familiar hallway to the daycare area, which was one large room with a gleaming, beige linoleum floor—easy enough to clean if any of their charges had an accident. Along the walls were crates of various sizes, in case any of the visitors did not play well with others. We had a special staff dedicated to the daycare, who got groups of compatible dogs together for learning and playing and having as great a time as possible.

I sometimes dropped in unexpectedly when Biscuit was here, just to make sure thing were going well for her, and they always were. She was smart, she was friendly, and she was one of the staff’s favorites.

“Hi, Faye,” I said to the chief caretaker, a forty-something woman whose thinness I attributed at least partly to the energy she used in caring for and playing with her charges. Her dark hair resembled that of the many terriers she helped to watch here—short, kinky, and in disarray. “Here’s my baby. She’ll be here for the next couple of hours.”

“And you know I’ll take good care of her,” Faye responded with a huge smile. “
We’ll
take care of her,” she amended as a couple of other staff members approached, both part-timers who were college kids deciding whether they were interested in becoming veterinarians. They both wore T-shirts that said “Knobcone Vets Rock” over jeans.

“We sure will,” said one of the boys, Charlie. He reached for Biscuit’s leash and I handed it over.

“Hey, Biscuit,” said the other one, Al. “Let’s dance.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small doggy treat—not one of mine—and encouraged Biscuit onto her rear paws and into a spin.

I laughed. “Better watch out or she’ll start training you.” I touched my baby on her head. “See you soon,” I told her.

I walked through a different door, the one that led into the hospital. I left my bag of treats with the receptionist on duty and she promised to put it in the spot designated to hold items to give out to the patients. Then I went into the rear dressing room, opened my locker, and changed into my well-worn blue vet tech uniform shirt and matching pants.

When I exited into the main hallway, one of the other techs was walking by, holding a squirming little Shih Tzu. “Teeth cleaning,” Yolanda explained. I nodded and followed her back to the general treatment area, where other dogs under observation were confined in different-sized crates along the wall. She handed me the dog. “Her teeth are in good condition so we don’t have to turn this into major dental care, sedate her or anything like that.”

“Good.” I watched while she prepared the toothbrush and special canine toothpaste. Her blue uniform shirt looked a lot newer and crisper than mine. Her black hair was pulled back into a bun at her neck, which as always emphasized the sharpness of her dark-complected face. Even so, she was an attractive lady about my age—and as skilled a veterinary technician as I was.

Holding the pup steady on the metal-topped table in the middle of the room while Yolanda did the brushing, I helped to steady him and adjust his jowls for easier access.

“Ouch,” I said in sympathy when he squealed and tried to jump out of my arms. I had a good grip, so his attempt to flee was futile.

I sensed the malaise of the other dogs around, and even saw a couple of them stand up in their crates. I was sure they felt some kind of sympathy—as well as relief that, at least this time, it wasn’t them.

“You want to take him back out to his folks?” Yolanda asked. “Room 6. I need to get some flea repellent ready for them to take home.”

“Sure.” I snuggled the little guy—his name, according to the tag on his collar, was Shammy—and headed down the hall with him.

I entered Room 6 and found Arvie there with Shammy’s
people. He held out his arms for the dog. “All set?” he asked.

“Yes, teeth nice and clean. Yolanda asked me to bring him back while she got the flea meds ready.” I smiled at the young, Hispanic-looking couple who apparently belonged to Shammy.

“Great,” Arvie said to me. To them, he added, “You can wait out front while Yolanda gets your supplies.”

And pay your bill
, I thought, but I didn’t say that.

As they left, Arvie turned to me. “You okay, Carrie?” he asked softly.

I looked into his light brown eyes and felt my own tearing up. Like the Nashes, Arvie was dear to me, almost family, and I knew he gave a damn.

I also knew from his question, and from his caring expression, that he’d heard not only about Myra, but he was probably also aware that I was a suspect in her murder. I’d managed to stay calm when I was with Joe and Irma, but I wasn’t so successful right now.

“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.”