BODY!

THEY BARKED: A
heart-warming and hilarious seaside
sleuthing mystery. (Merry Summerfield
Cozy Mysteries Book 4) Kris Pearson
Writing As Kristie Klewes
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 BODY! THEY BARKED

Merry Summerfield Cozy Mystery, Book 4

Kris Pearson, writing as

Kristie Klewes
I don’t often see expensive red-soled Christian Louboutin shoes in
Drizzle Bay. And certainly not hanging out of a trash can on the end
of long, slim legs. But, “Body!” my latest pet-sitting charges are
barking, drawing my attention to the grisly sight.

Hi – I’m Merry Summerfield, law-abiding book editor, pet-sitter, and

unintentional sleuth. The two huge German Shepherds I’m looking
after might help me sniff out the killer (or they might destroy crucial
evidence with their energetic bouncing around.) Let’s see how it
plays out…

For more information about me and my books, go HERE. Sign up for

my newsletter while you’re visiting and never miss a new book.

As always, love and thanks to Philip for unfailing encouragement and

computer un-snarling, and special thanks to my friend Shirley
Megget who pokes bits of fun at me sometimes in case I can use
them.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

are the product of the author’s imagination, and are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead,
is co-incidental. There are many beaches which could be Drizzle Bay,
but let’s just say it would be ‘a short drive north of Wellington’ if it
existed.

Copyright © 2022 by Kris Pearson

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act

of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed
or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database
or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1 – Shopping for trouble
2 – Brucie’s new companion
3 – Visits to Iona and Lisa
4 – Bedroom eyes
5 – An alternative venue
6 – Dinner for Five
7 – Bernie’s bombshell
8 – Fruitless discussions
9 – Walking with Lurline
10 – A brother in Law
11 – Class at the clinic
12 – Help might be at hand
13 – OMG!
14 – What of Winston?
Epilogue
A note from Kristie
 1 – Shopping for trouble
Wow, they’re big! And hairy! If pet-sitters were paid by the
pound or kilogram I’d be making a fortune this time. I’m in charge of
two huge German Shepherds.
Hi – I’m Merry Summerfield, freelance book editor, wanting to
escape from the enjoyable but predictable company of my brother
and housemate, Graham.
Just now and again, you understand.
So I came up with a scheme to get a little freedom and some
extra pocket money as a house and pet-sitter. The dogs and cats of
Drizzle Bay get company and regular meals. If there are houseplants
or a veggie patch needing water, I'm your girl. And I can carry right
on working on my trusty laptop.
Today I’d deserted the all-too-wordy novel I’m currently editing
– a Spanish Jane Austen vampire saga. Honestly, these mixed-trope
things are all the rage and you wouldn’t believe some of the themes
people come up with.
I was trying to erect antiquated trestle tables in the vacant
shop next to Winston Bamber’s classy art gallery. My large new
charges, Fire and Ice, were watching attentively.
I’d caught my thumb in one of the uncooperative table stands
and was sucking it to dull the pain when the vicar’s sister trotted
through the open door and gave a loud squawk. Either Fire or Ice
sprang up with an answering woof. Heather clutched a hand to her
pink-shirted bosom, and her very pretty eyes did a huge boggle.
“Arrghhh!” was the most she managed to say for a moment or
two.
 “Sit!” I snapped at the offending Shepherd, and to my surprise,
he did. “Good boyyyyyy,” I added in an enthusiastic tone, hoping we
were making progress together.
“What –?” Heather asked. “Um – what are you doing? And why
the dogs?”
That surprised me. “Didn’t Erik say?” Of all people, he should
have told her. They’re finally getting married as soon as they can
arrange it.
He’s Erik Jacobsen of the Burkeville Bar and Café, and he’s
whipped off to wherever he used to live in the USA to attend to
some details following the death of a divorced wife we barely knew
he had. His off-sider, John Bonnington, has disappeared on
mysterious and urgent Black Ops assassin business. I might be
assuming too much there, but John is definitely into secret stuff. I’ve
seen photos of him in scuba gear looking very shifty by unknown
boats. And, in person, in board shorts, dripping wet, long bones
hung about with the hardest muscles you’ve ever seen. Not that I
was looking too intently, you understand.
Anyway…
I walked a few steps toward Heather. “I’m doing a pet-and-
house-sitting job for Erik and John. They’re both away at the same
time, which I can’t remember happening in the years I’ve known
them.” I put my sore thumb back into my mouth, and then, fearing
I’d look like an overgrown baby, pulled it out again.
Either Fire or Ice gave a gusty sigh.
“They reckoned their staff would have plenty to do keeping the
Bar and Café going without feeding and walking these two as well.
I’m in the guest bedroom.”
 “Of their house?” she asked rather sharply.
“Yes, of course.” (Their very nice beachfront house along in
Burkeville on the main highway north of Drizzle Bay.)
“Why didn’t they ask me?” she demanded.
Well, how would I know?
“Probably thought you had enough on your plate with your job
at Iona’s, house-keeping for Paul, and getting ready for the wedding.
And your mother’s up-coming visit, of course,” I said, thinking rapidly
on my sneaker-clad feet.
That calmed her down a little. “I knew he’d be gone until next
week,” she said, obviously referring to her fiancé, Erik – shorter than
John, and maybe older than John, although now I know them a lot
better I suspect it’s his thick, prematurely white hair that makes me
think that. He’s certainly amazingly fit, and equally at home behind
the Burkeville’s bar or ferrying tourists around in his helicopter.
I tried for a gentle, consoling tone. “Given the circumstances –
ex-wife and so on – maybe he didn’t want to talk about it too
much?”
“Angie-Jo,” she muttered. “Barely a word about her until she
died, but I knew something was holding him back.”
“Do you think she was sick, or was it a road accident, or
what?” Very nosy of me, I know, but sometimes it’s best to get the
proper picture so you can comment. Or not, depending on the
situation.
Heather shook her head. “Haven’t a clue. Hardly knew she
existed – until she didn’t.” She shot another watchful glance at the
dogs. The dogs watched her in return. I’d tied them to the iron
uprights on the small counter that used to hold a big roll of brown
paper when this was a haberdashery store. Many years ago.
“I’ve arranged the morning off,” she added. And when I
inspected her properly I saw she was very nicely made up, with her
hair loose, and looking nothing like she does while working at Iona’s
café. “Trying on wedding dresses,” she added with a soft smile.
“Belinda at Brides by Butterfly let me know yesterday she was
planning to unpack new stock last night and said there were some I
simply had to see.”
“More fun than this,” I said, waving a hand around the dirty old
shop.
If all goes according to plan, and Vicar Paul McCreagh ever
escapes from the Afghanistan-induced PTSD bunker he’s stuck in,
Heather and I might become sisters-in-law. And I’d love that, but
there’s a bit of water to flow under the bridge first.
“So what are you actually doing?” She wrinkled her nose.
Yes, it was a rather smelly old place, having been mostly shut
up for ages. Musty and mushroomy. It needed a good airing out
before I could possibly hold any sort of literary workshop in it. And
maybe I’d squirt some French Begonia air fragrancer around, too.
“Well,” I said, giving my jeans a hitch because they have the
hidden wide elastic inside the top and it never quite holds them up
properly. “It all started with Lord Drizzle’s family history. He enjoyed
writing it so much that he talked Lady Zinnia into doing the same
about the art groups in the area. And then young Alex surprised us
by mentioning some science fiction stories he’d written.”
“Probably an escape from his awful mother,” Heather inserted.
“Maybe.”
 But she’s dead now, poor thing, and he’s found a happy home
at Drizzle Farm. Jim Drizzle makes sure he gets to school, not that
he seems to need any encouragement, and Lady Zin sees he’s well
fed. He lives in an old house-bus parked there. And OMG, I’d been
glad he did, but that’s a story for another day. He’ll be leaving for
university soon.
“Anyway,” I continued, “one thing has led to another. The coast
seems to be full of people who want to write something and don’t
know where to start. Or have already written it and want to know if
it’s any good and what to do next. Jim keeps referring them to me.”
“He’s hard to ignore, isn’t he?” Heather said. And then added,
“I tried writing a novel once, with recipes.”
I waited for her to continue but she simply shook her head. “It
was rubbish.”
Maybe it wasn’t, though? Perhaps I could persuade her to join
the soon-to-be critique group?
“Are you in a rush?” I asked. I would be if I was intending to
try on wedding dresses, but she could always turn me down.
“No, not really.” She surprised me by walking slowly across to
the Shepherds and holding out a hand to be sniffed. It got a full-on
lathering from two long pink tongues. “Urk!” she exclaimed. “Look at
that dribble. Now I’m all wet. But I guess I need to make an effort
to get to know them better if I’m going to live with them.”
Was she picturing them flopped down on the hearthrug in front
of Erik and John’s fireplace while she knitted baby booties? Nope –
they’re outdoor dogs, with high-tech kennels in their own yard
behind the café. Anyway, John is quietly renovating an old beach
cottage he plans to move into eventually.
 I tried not to laugh. “Well, if you’re really not in too much of a
hurry, can you give me a hand with these tables? You’ll have to
watch you don’t snag your top, though.”
The old trestles had been donated by Lucy Stephenson, the
very thin and very nice head teacher at the Burkeville Secondary
School. If you're not from New Zealand I should probably explain
that the pupils start there at age twelve or thirteen and the most
academic ones go on to university after maybe another five years’
education.
“No trouble,” Heather said. “Are you setting up a writing class?”
“Kind of,” I agreed, indicating one of the trestle stands. “We
can start with this across the back. They’re some of the old tables
from the school. The new ones have fancy fold-down legs, and these
were going begging. So I begged.”
It took us only a few minutes working together. Stands lined
up, tops lowered on, and then we stood reading the very creative
graffiti. Oh dear. I was going to have to cover them with
something…
“You should join us,” I said. “Either with your old book, or to
try writing a new one.”
She blew a raspberry. “That’ll be the day!”
Darn – she would have been fun. “Okay. Thank you. Go and
enjoy your dresses. Let me know if you find something gorgeous.” I
gave her a quick hug before she bustled off.
So. This shop. It’s been empty for ages. When I gave it a
thorough sweep I saw it had mice, although what they ate was a
mystery. I’d put down half a dozen of those little plastic box-traps
that don’t actually hurt them. If anyone went in after the cheese
then I’d set them free – way down the beach, where they could take
their chances with seagulls or feral cats. Would a seagull eat a
mouse?
And in the meantime, there being nothing to steal except some
old tables that were too heavy to carry off without transport, I
decided to leave the front and back doors wide open and take my
big hairy charges for a beach walk. Hopefully the flow of air in
through one doorway and out through the other would have it
smelling better by the time we returned.
I unbolted the back door and found a short blind alley running
behind Winston Bamber’s gallery with access to both premises. A
waist-high plastic trash bin, a few dead leaves, and a brick were all it
contained. I pushed the brick into place with my sneaker to hold the
door open. The front one was easy enough, too. A big metal hook
slid into a matching loop and held it steady.
Fire and Ice sensed action would be following, and shot to their
feet, shaking their heads so the buckles and tags on their collars
rattled. “Yes, boys,” I said. “Walkies.” No way in the world does John
ever say ‘walkies’. I might be exaggerating if I said they rolled their
eyes, but they certainly gave me big doggie grins with their tongues
hanging out, and I'm sure they looked at each other mirthfully and
sent silent messages about the easy-to-con woman who thought she
was in charge of them.
I pushed my car-keys into a pocket, hitched their leads from
the old counter fittings, patted my sweatshirt to make sure John’s
special whistle was hanging there between my D cups, and off we
went. The whistle is a stupid thing. I can’t hear it, no matter how
hard I blow it. Fire and Ice certainly can though; it gets their
attention instantly.
Drizzle Bay looked most attractive in its early summer guise.
The springtime flowers in the tubs along the main street had faded
away and been replaced by cute little conifers. The shop windows
sparkled. Saint Agatha’s garden borders now boasted pretty clumps
of lavender, so Vicar Paul had been busy yet again.
And speak of the devil – or the vicar – there he was, striding
toward me, dark hair ruffled by the breeze, teeth and dog-collar
both shining white in the sun. I had the leads in my right hand so
Paul chose my left side.
“Bigger animals than I generally see you with?”
He was definitely after information, so I sent him a fairly sweet
smile and said, “John’s away for a few days.”
I wondered what he’d say to that, and sure enough his
eyebrows rose and he gaped a bit. “Are you house-sitting for him?
Where’s Erik?”
“Gone to the States. Sorting out legal stuff.”
He nodded along, and then asked, “To do with the wife?”
Okay, Heather is his sister and he was understandably
interested in the man she was planning to marry, but I didn’t greatly
like his tone. Just to wind him up, I said, “I guess so. Heather didn't
seem to know much about his trip.”
Paul's teeth disappeared. “You've seen her this morning?”
“Yes, she gave me a hand to set up some trestle tables in the
old shop.”
“So she’s not working?”
 Wow – that was pretty fast. “No – she’s trying on wedding
dresses.”
He chewed his bottom lip for a while. “Mmm… I thought she
was being secretive about something. Avoided having breakfast with
me. Dashed out yelling goodbye but giving no details.”
“Probably didn’t think you’d be interested,” I said, knowing he
would indeed be intensely interested.
He coughed. “Yes, maybe. So what’s happening in the shop?”
See what I mean? Likes to know everything, but maybe it
comes with the job and he simply feels the need to keep up with all
of his parishioners whether we attend church or not.
By now we’d reached the pedestrian crossing leading over to
the beach. The dogs lifted their muzzles and sniffed at the ocean air,
their sensitive noses no doubt finding all sorts of interesting scents.
Dead fish, discarded food, other dogs’ musky markers… Euw.
We walked across the road together, Fire and Ice now tugging
at their leads. It was all I could do to hold them back. “Not yet! Not
yet!” I gasped.
“Want me to take one?”
“Thanks Paul, but no. I’ll let them go on the other side.” But it
was more of a case of them escaping than any controlled release.
Away they bounded, leads trailing, me hoping they wouldn’t get
hitched up on chunks of driftwood because I really should have
taken them off. My plan had been to walk them further down, away
from the most-used family area, but it was early yet for families, so
not too much of a problem.
Would I ever see them again though? John has them trained to
within an inch of their lives, so maybe it would be okay. I fingered
the whistle hanging between my boobs. Should I try using it? But
right at that moment they wheeled around, barking furiously,
spraying sand everywhere with their big feet, and bounded back to
us, all joyful pants and bright eyes and wagging tails. Off they went
again – another huge loop on the sand – and as Paul and I walked
on, they repeated the process again and again, sometimes dipping
down to dash through the shallows. It seemed they knew I didn’t
want them to get too far away. Phew!
“The shop?” Paul asked again, once we were a little further
down the beach.
“It belongs to Winston Bamber.” He probably knew that. “I
think he had plans to expand the gallery into it, but maybe he does
enough business online these days that he doesn’t need it. It opens
onto the same alley the gallery does. He might use it for storage
sometimes.”
“Yes,” Paul said, slipping an arm around my waist now we were
pretty much out of sight of beachgoers. “But what are you doing
there? Reviving your plan for a community meeting room because
my replacement church hall fund is growing too slowly?”
Was he offended? I hoped not. The cost of building anything
substantial these days is terrible, even when people like old Matthew
Boatman leave generous bequests. I shook my head. “No – that was
too hard. All those Health and Safety regs and so on. But Jim Drizzle
keeps recommending me to people who want to write things. Family
histories, novels – whatever. So I thought we could get away with
holding an occasional creative session there. Nothing formal. Read
each other’s work and offer opinions…”
“With you as the professional arbiter?”
 I shrugged. “I suppose. Lucy gave me some old school tables.
It’ll be a ‘bring your own folding chair and cup’ kind of deal.”
The dogs wheeled around us again, still full of goofy
enthusiasm, and galloped off, water flying back from their legs.
“Is Winston charging you?”
“He doesn’t need the money! He must be worth a heap, given
the prices he puts on the artwork in his exhibitions. Think of all his
lovely clothes and that vintage Rolls Royce he drives. No – he’s been
very generous.”
Paul stayed silent for a minute or two and then said, “I met his
sister again recently. Coral Bamber. She’s reverted to her single
name.”
“Mmm,” I said. “I think she felt her married name – Clappe –
was less than classy. Sounded too much like an STD?”
“It’s a wonder she didn’t hyphenate it to Clappe-Bamber,” he
said, with a grin to soften any cruelty. “Or Bamber-Clappe.”
“She’s just the type to,” I agreed. “Always wears beautiful
expensive shoes. Has a voice as sharp as the edges on cut crystal,
and she somehow lets you know she’s far better than you are while
not saying anything you can actually object to. I like Winston much
better than her. He’s an old teddy bear by comparison.”
“Merry Summerfield, what descriptions,” Paul said with a
chuckle. “Yes, I didn’t find Coral exactly warm. Unhappy, I think.”
Trust him to look on the kind side. I shrugged. “Sorry. Not nice
of me. So what have you got against hyphenated names?”
“Nothing in the world. She just seemed the type. And you have
to remember I’m hyphenated myself.”
 So he is! I once nosily Googled his family and found his father
was the deceased politician, Antony Valentine-McCreagh. I’ve never
heard Paul refer to himself as anything but plain McCreagh, though.
“Are you?” I said, hoping I sounded pretty vague. Good grief, if we
ever got around to marrying I could be Merilyn Summerfield-
Valentine-McCreagh.
Or not.
He glanced at his watch. “I need to get back. Are you okay on
your own?”
“With two attack dogs at my beck and call? I’ll be fine, but I
have things to do as well so I’ll walk with you.” I was hoping my
dear departed mother, Sally Summerfield, had left a supply of old
single bedsheets lurking in the base of the linen closet. They’d be
ideal to cover those graffiti-decorated table tops.
We turned together and retraced our steps. The change in
direction meant the sea breeze blew my abundant hair forward, and
I silently cursed I hadn’t fixed it up in a ponytail.
Paul removed his arm from my waist at a respectable distance
from the busier part of the beach. Affectionate, but not publicly so.
And no further hints of passion in private, either, after those
wonderful kisses way back in winter. Yes, there’s a way to go
between us yet. No hyphenating for me in the foreseeable!
Fire and Ice were still bounding around in great enthusiastic
sandy loops so I tugged John’s whistle from my cleavage and gave a
long, silent blast.
“It doesn’t work,” Paul said, looking at me doubtfully, but the
dogs immediately stopped their shenanigans and trotted over to us.
 “Grab one,” I said, and he reached for the damp sandy loop on
one of the leads while I nabbed the other.
“Good boyyyys! Good boyyyys!” I enthused, adding some
canine neck-scrubbing to show them it was what I expected. Long
pink tongues swiped at my hands and hot breaths issued from
between sharp white teeth that could have chomped my fingers off
in seconds. Yes, good boys when they want to be, but I’d seen them
in action with John in charge, and I wouldn’t have moved a muscle if
they’d had me in their steely gazes then.
Paul left me at the front of Saint Agatha’s, and the dogs and I
ambled back under the shop verandas. Darker-toned Fire decided
the tub with the conifer on the corner was the ideal place to raise his
leg. I didn’t fancy trying to stop a big dog in mid-widdle so I turned
my back for a few seconds, pretending to look at the display in
Meggie Houseman’s embroidery store window and vowing I’d come
back with some water later to dilute the effect. Better than over the
paving stones, anyway.
The old shop was as I’d left it, apart from a distinct smell of …
smoke? Seemed someone had wandered in for a look while we’d
been gone. Never mind – as long as they’d wandered out again, it
was fine.
I stepped into the alley to remove the brick so I could lock the
door. Fire and Ice barged past me, growls rumbling low in their
throats. What the?
Then, “Body! Body! Body!” they barked, freezing on the spot,
and glaring at the big green plastic wheelie bin from which a distinct
odor of trash now issued.
 A female leg hung out of it. The lid was no longer totally
closed. Surely it was some piece of old sculpture Winston had
discarded from the gallery?
The dogs moved nearer, nostrils opening and closing with every
avid sniff. Their displeasure echoed around the enclosed concrete
space.
Then I registered the shoe. It had the beautiful styling and
distinctive lacquered red sole of a Christian Louboutin for sure.
“Coral! Corrral! Corrrrral!” Fire and Ice rumbled. Or maybe it
was my imagination.
Their hackles were up and their eyes were now maniacally
wide.
I staggered back against the wall. “Leave it,” I begged. Most of
my voice had deserted me. Surely this was some terrible joke?
Two sets of big pointed ears pricked up even further. The dogs
must have sensed my distress because they dashed back and stood
beside me, pushing their noses against my hands.
“This can’t be for real, boys, can it?” I croaked. “Not again?”
I was too good at finding dead people. First Isobel Crombie in
Saint Agatha’s aisle. Then Beefy Haldane’s son looking as though
he’d been crucified on that tree at the beach. And poor old Matthew
Boatman in his kitchen. I’d had nothing to do with any of the deaths,
but fate had it in for me: I’d been unfortunate enough to see the
bodies each time.
Somehow I held my breakfast down while I stared at the grisly
sight of what was probably one of Coral Clappe’s legs.
There’d been no lights showing in the gallery as we passed it,
and no sign of Winston’s luxurious car parked outside, so it was up
to me to do what I could. What if the dogs were wrong and it wasn’t
a body? Or wasn’t a body, yet?
I took a couple of faltering steps toward the trash bin and
looked more closely. No, not a piece of sculpture. There were pores
on the skin. Oh God…
Nothing moved. Not the leg, not the dogs, and not me while I
tried to gather some common sense and courage.
Then I touched the leg with the tip of one finger. Warm.
Shivers chased themselves up and down my spine. She’d been
dumped very recently. Was I in danger, too? I stood there panting
for a few seconds, almost as though I’d joined the dog team.
No – if there was anyone else around, Fire and Ice would keep
me safe. I was the source of the super-premium food in the big bag
John had left in the pantry for me, and therefore I was worth
protecting. It was a small consolation anyway.
I needed to lever the lid further up and see if I could help.
Would I be phoning the ambulance or the Police? How would I
avoid disturbing any evidence? Smudging any possible fingerprints?
Because that leg was terribly still.
The best I could come up with was to use my car key, currently
tucked away in the pocket of my jeans. I wrestled it out with
difficulty (must cut down on desserts) and lifted the lid up a little
further with it. Two seconds later I knew it would be the Police.
I grabbed the dogs by their collars, hauled them away, and
staggered back into the shop, slamming the door to hide the grisly
sight. I shrieked and moaned until I made it as far as the grubby old
bathroom. Then I somehow managed to hold my hair out of the way
before hurling my breakfast into the uncleaned-for-years toilet bowl.
It was a while before I dared to open my eyes and try standing
again.
Once I set a rumbling flush into action and slammed the door
behind me, I found four big brown eyes watching with concern. Two
hairy bodies then leaned against my thighs, maybe to hold me
upright, but I’d like to think it was to comfort me. I reached down
and petted their big soft ears and took a deep breath of resolve.
 2 – Brucie’s new companion
There was nowhere to sit apart from the toilet, and I certainly
wasn’t going back in there. I couldn’t stand up for long, though. My
heart galloped and my knees trembled as I crept toward the tables
Heather and I had set out. I leaned on one, shaking like someone
very elderly and infirm – a total contrast to my usually healthy and
buxom self.
I needed to phone DS Bruce Carver because it would save
going through the emergency services. I needed to sit down. I
needed to rinse out my mouth. I needed to un-see what I’d just
seen. Fat chance any of the last three would be happening.
Could I make it as far as the old seat Jasper Hornbeam had
built around the elderly oak tree in the middle of the street? A
glance out the shop doorway showed it was occupied by a couple of
mothers and their toddlers, so not an option. And my shocked brain
told me I probably needed to stay in the shop to prevent anyone
else wandering in. Fair enough.
With that in mind I unhooked the front door, closed it, and
pulled out my phone. I leaned against the doorframe, wishing I had
a bottle of water with me. The tap above the filthy little kitchen sink
currently had a string of drippy green slime attached to it. We
needed to get that fixed!
I gave one of the trestle tables a good wobble to see how
stable it would be and cautiously climbed aboard, positioning myself
over one of the end supports. Better than standing, anyway, and it
seemed willing to hold my somewhat curvy five-foot-eight. I scrolled
until I found the Detective Sergeant’s number.
 “Carver!” he bellowed.
What – no friendly greeting? We’d advanced from ‘Ms
Summerfield’ to ‘Merry’ somewhere in the last year. Now it seemed
we were back to square one.
“It’s M-Merry Summerfield,” I managed between chattering
teeth. “I’ve just found Coral Clappe. Winston B-Bamber’s sister.”
“Yes-yes,” he snapped, his irritation plain.
“Dead,” I said. “Face all bloody. We don’t need an ambulance.”
There was a short, stunned silence.
He cleared his throat, and mercifully didn’t follow it with,
‘another one?’ “Where are you, Ms Summerfield?” he asked more
gently.
“I’m… I’m… and sh-she’s here too,” I stammered. “The old sh-
sh-shop n-next to the g-g-allery.”
“Be there in a few minutes. Are you on your own? Anyone to
keep you company?”
He shocks me when he turns nice. I shook my head, which
he’d never have seen, and gulped in a big breath. “T-two dogs.”
“What? Two dogs killed her? Did you see the attack?” Now he
sounded appalled.
“No! Two dogs for c-company. John Bonnington’s dogs. Can
you… can you… bring a bottle of water? I’ve been sick.”
“No trouble. I’ll contact Forensics. We’re on our way.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and tapped off, forgetting to thank
him. To my surprise the paler of the two dogs – Ice – scrambled up
and joined me, laying his face on my knee and heaving out a warm
breath that I felt even through the denim of my jeans. Good grief –
would the table hold us both? I hadn’t tied them up again, of course.
They’d dashed away from me into the alley, following their noses to
the scent of blood, and I must have let go of their leads. After that
I’d had other things to think about.
Not to be outdone, darker Fire padded across to us. No way
was he coming up too! I leaned an arm over the side of the table
and petted his ears, rubbing down into the thick fur around his neck,
and back up, again and again. His eyes slowly closed.
I sat, marooned like a becalmed boat, staring around the old
shop as I waited. High up in each of the twin front windows a single
strand of faded red Christmas tinsel hung – maybe too high for
Winston to reach. I could see where old staples had secured other
decorations lower down on the side walls. Tufts of colored foil and
the faded ends of crepe paper streamers were still visible. Across the
window above the central door, in fussy old black lead-lighting, I
made out REHSAD and REBAH in two lines. It took me a while to
translate that into ‘HABERDASHER’ in reverse, but it was good to
have something to distract me.
In each of the windows, old sheets of the Coastal Courier had
once obscured the view inside but they’d escaped from their sun-
crisped tabs of tape and drifted to the floor. I clutched my stomach,
still feeling very queasy, and wondered when they dated from.
Anything, anything, but thinking about what I’d just seen.
I licked my sour lips, wondering if I could go as far as my Ford
Focus and check for peppermints or butterscotch sweeties that
might be lurking in the glove compartment, but true to his word
Bruce Carver didn’t take long. He must have been out on the main
highway, heading to somewhere else, and diverted in a hurry.
 He, and an unknown man – not his usual off-sider, Marion Wick
– halted outside the door and peered through the smeared glass.
Fire shot across the shop and started barking fit to bust. Ice skidded
off the table and joined the ruckus. I got down with less speed and
grace than Ice and stumbled across to the door, still shaky, giving
each Shepherd a good neck-rub as a ploy to grab their leads. After a
bit of tongue clicking and ‘good boying’ I was able to haul them –
straining and complaining – back to the counter, and secure them to
the old iron fittings. Not that it stopped their earth-shattering barks.
Bruce Carver opened the door a short distance. “Safe to come
in?” he yelled over the din.
I nodded. “Quiet!” I roared at the dogs.
Useless.
I dug into my T-shirt and attempted to untangle the dog
whistle from my bra so I could try a blast of that. How had the darn
thing got hooked around the metal strap-adjuster?
It wasn’t coming loose, and the dogs would be dragging the
counter the length of the shop any minute now. Desperate to
retrieve the whistle, I hauled my arm out of my sleeve, angry and
panting, and far beyond worrying I was showing Bruce Carver and
his tall friend acres of white boob and black lace. Honestly, you find
someone dead and niceties like that fly out the window…
I struggled to free the cord while they watched patiently (and
attentively) half in and half out of the shop. Finally I was able to
bring the whistle to my lips and give a long silent blast on it. The
barking cut off like magic and I got dressed again.
“Ms Summerfield,” the DS said, gaze darting rather
disconcertingly from my chest to my face a couple of times. “Sorry
we meet again under distressing circumstances.” He handed over a
bottle of water dewed with condensation and I took it with a grateful
nod. His fingernails were still bitten, I noted. At least his over-strong
cologne helped to banish the smell of sick from my nostrils.
The other man cleared his throat. He wore a cream suit. How
hadn’t I noticed that, even in my whistle-boob-bra panic? A cream
suit? Not the most practical choice for the mucky circumstances in
which he’d soon find himself. DS Carver’s constant dark gray was a
lot more sensible.
Between the cream jacket lapels, a blindingly white shirt sat
open at the neck and framed a slice of tanned chest. It covered
what looked like a very taut six-pack. A python belt held up his
thigh-hugging pants.
Not from around these parts, then, although I wouldn’t mind
him around my parts.
A sudden flashback of what I’d seen outside in the alley put
that little fantasy to rest in a hurry. He looked like something out of
Miami Vice. Had he miscalculated the weather here?
As I unscrewed the cap from my bottle of water, the DS said,
“This is Homicide Detective Sean Manahan. On secondment from the
Boston Police Department in Massachusetts to see how we operate
here.”
Good grief – I didn’t know they did things like that, but I guess
baddies are baddies in any part of the world and there’s always
something new to learn. I swished some water around my teeth,
grimaced, and swallowed before saying, “Very pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise, Ma’am,” he said in a slightly surprising accent. He
had big brown eyes, the better to check out my boobs with. I hadn’t
yet progressed below his python belt, but if he was going to be so
obvious, I just might – once I’d recovered from the shock of finding
poor Coral.
Both men gazed around the shop. “So where’s the victim?” DS
Carver asked.
Ah. Yes. I’d slammed the door and there was nothing on view.
“Out the back,” I said, once I’d had another glug of water.
“She’s definitely dead,” I added as an emergency paramedic
appeared at the front of the shop.
Bruce beckoned him in, and pointed to the back door, which
caused more comments from the dogs.
“And…? What goes on here?” Boston’s finest asked, checking
out the collection of graffiti-topped old tables.
I grimaced. “Probably nothing for a while now this has
happened, but I was going to run a writers’ workshop.”
“And you own these premises?”
“No – the man next door does.”
“Winston Bamber,” DS Carver inserted. “The gallery owner.”
“Ah. Yep. Wicked expensive place. Charges like a wounded
buffalo.” Sean Manahan nodded, and wrote something in a small
notebook he’d magically produced. It sounded like he’d already
checked out the Drizzle Bay area if he knew that.
“The body is Winston Bamber’s sister,” I said. “I could tell from
her shoes.”
The big cop from Boston suddenly froze – as still as a dog
scenting something worth chasing. He stared at me, then swallowed.
I set the bottle down on the nearest table after another couple
of swigs and swishes. “Thanks so much for the water,” I added in
Bruce Carver’s direction.
“You’re very welcome, Ms Summerfield. Now, might we just…”
He pointed to the back door as the paramedic returned, shaking his
head.
“Yes, absolutely,” I quavered, hoping they didn’t expect me to
go back out there with them.
“How long have you been here?” Sean Manahan asked.
“About as long as it took you to arrive.” I didn’t mean it rudely,
but it seemed to get his back up.
“So I’ll ask you another way; what time did you get here?”
Oh come on! He was making me feel like the murderer. “First?
Soon after nine, because I had to meet the man bringing the tables
in his van.”
“So quite a lot longer than it took us to arrive.”
What? I’d given him a perfectly correct answer. He should have
asked his question more precisely.
“And who drove the van?” His eyes didn’t look so friendly now,
and weirdly his tan seemed to have faded.
“The caretaker at Burkeville Secondary School.”
“Albie Sedgewick,” Bruce Carver supplied.
Sean Manahan noted it down, although why would he bother if
Bruce Carver already knew?
“And he helped you set the tables up?”
I glared at him. Assumptions! “No – the vicar’s sister did.”
Bruce Carver’s mouth quirked a bit.
Cream-suit’s brow crinkled. “What was she doing here?”
“Choosing her wedding dress.”
 His brow crinkled further. Of course there were no wedding
dresses to be seen.
He turned to Bruce Carver. “Do you want to try interrogating
her? She’s maybe in shock. I don’t think we’re being given straight
answers here.”
“I don’t think you’re asking straight questions,” I muttered.
Unfortunately, he heard.
“Ms Summerfield,” DS Carver said in a placating tone, “I know
you must be very upset, so why don’t you start at the beginning and
take us through what happened in your own words. Briefly, if
possible.”
Cream-suit narrowed his amazing brown eyes and looked
daggers at me.
Yes, that was definitely a good idea. “Well,” I said. “The tables
arrived here in the van just after nine. I was starting to set them up
and Heather, the vicar’s sister,” I said with helpful emphasis for the
Boston cop, “popped in and said hello on her way to Brides by
Butterfly to choose her wedding dress. She gave me a hand setting
them up. It only took a few minutes. I had the dogs secured right
where they are now.”
Both men nodded.
I grabbed a deep breath. “But the place had been closed up for
yonks and was a bit stinky so I decided to open both doors and let it
air out while I took the dogs for a walk. There was nothing to steal,”
I added, indicating the old tables and shrugging.
“Yes-yes,” Bruce Carver said, encouraging me to hurry up.
“So I opened the back door first. It goes into an alleyway.
There’s a wheelie bin for garbage there, and a brick, but that’s all. I
presumed the brick was for holding the door open, so I used it for
that.”
“A wheelie bin?” Cream-suit asked, looking puzzled and using
his pen to press down on the door handle. He peered out into the
alley for a few seconds. “Uh-huh – a trash can.” Then he turned his
gimlet gaze back to me. “And you didn’t notice the body there?”
I shot him a look which I hope indicated it was stupid question.
“It wasn’t there then,” I said. “The lid was down and nothing was
smelly.”
“And what time was this?”
“Half-nine?” I hazarded.
“Okay,” Bruce Carver said. “How do you think the deceased
ended up there? Did someone bring her out through the gallery?”
“Heavens, no!” That really shocked me as a theory. “As I said,
I’m sure it’s Winston’s sister. He wouldn’t put her in his own wheelie
bin … er, trash can. And he hasn’t been around this morning. At
least, I haven’t seen his swanky car.”
“Sooooo?” he said encouragingly, moving his arm as though he
was directing traffic past an accident and wanted it to go faster.
“I think someone carried her through the open front door of
this shop and into the alley while I was out.”
“Unlikely in the extreme,” DS Carver said. “One of the shoppers
or storekeepers would have noticed.”
Hmm – he had a point, and maybe I was in a worse state than
I’d thought.
“Escorted her, perhaps?” he suggested. “Walked her in alive?”
Euwwwwww...
 “And why did you go out?” Sean Manahan asked. “When was
this? For how long?”
I glared at him for interrupting. “To walk the dogs on the
beach. Around nine-thirty, as I already said. The vicar came across
from the church to speak to me.”
“What about?”
I possibly rolled my eyes at this point. “Nothing. Everything.
How his sister was a bit secretive this morning. The church hall
replacement fund. Just stuff. There’s one thing though – when I
came back, the shop smelled of weed – so I knew someone had
been in and looked around.”
DS Carver’s attention sharpened. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, absolutely not a normal cigarette. And not a pipe. My dad
used to smoke a pipe. I know the difference in the tobacco smells.
He always smoked Erinmore mixture.”
I thought fondly of lovely Arnold Summerfield – lawyer before
Graham, husband of Sally, and the best father in the world. “You
don’t see as many people smoking in public now,” I added, apropos
of nothing.
Both men sniffed. I couldn’t smell the smoke any longer, but
maybe they could.
“Lot of it smoked hereabouts?” Sean Manahan asked, sending
me a dazzling smile to go with his super-white shirt. The man could
have been a Hollywood star.
I nodded. “National pastime.”
Bruce Carver cleared his throat. “Plenty of other policing
priorities in the district.”
 “Things grow so well in New Zealand,” I said with my patriotic
hat on. “Including…”
Bruce Carver scowled.
“… cannabis,” I finished lamely. Yes, it wasn’t exactly apples or
kiwis or avocados, or any of the other export crops we crank out in
such abundance.
One corner of the Boston cop’s mouth stayed quirked up.
Mischievous and absurdly attractive. I totally forgot he’d made me
feel like a murderer just moments ago. “And you came back…
when?” he asked.
“Right before I phoned you. I went to shut the back door and
saw her leg.” I gave an uncontrollable shudder. “Poking out of the
top. The dogs went mad at the smell of the trash.” I swallowed. “Or
maybe the scent of fresh blood.” I swallowed again. It didn’t help. “I
touched her, to make sure she wasn’t an old piece of sculpture
Winston had thrown out. She was still warm and squishy. God…”
“And then you phoned?” Bruce Carver asked in a gentler voice.
I nodded, and picked up the water. “I used my car key to lift
the lid higher to see if she was alive and needed an ambulance.”
“Good thinking.”
“Uh-huh. Sensible,” Sean Manahan agreed in a rather flat
voice, producing a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and somehow
getting them onto his hands with no struggle at all.
I groaned, and wrapped my arms around my torso, careful not
to compress the bottle so it squirted them with cold water. “She
definitely wasn’t alive.”
“And when the deceased is lifted out, and we dig around a
little, will we find blood-stained clothing under her with your DNA on
it?” the handsome cop from Boston suggested. “Because that’s an
option we need to consider. You could have killed her, got rid of what
you were wearing, and then gone for your walk.”
“Hang on! Hang on!” Bruce Carver demanded.
I should think so!
“No way in the world,” I yelled, shaken from my strange
dreamy state and thumping my bottle down again on the nearest
table where it spurted out a small fountain. “Apart from anything
else, how stupid do you think I am? Would I call you about a body
and leave evidence like that here? There’s a great big beach outside
to bury my clothes in. Or I could have tied them to that brick and
heaved them off the jetty.”
“Indeed,” Sean Manahan said in a silky voice.
“Not helpful,” Bruce Carver muttered.
Him or me, I wondered?
“She’s physically strong enough,” he said to Bruce. “I’m six-two
– how tall are you, Ms Summerfield? Five-eight, five-nine, and you
don’t look like a fragile flower.”
So now I was too fat?
I upended the bottle to take another swig of water, but was so
mad that the squirt missed my mouth and sloshed onto my white
polka-dotted top which immediately turned transparent under the
big splash. Two pairs of eyes followed. I hissed in a big breath
through my teeth – half of annoyance at being accused like that,
and half at the chill of cold water on my warm boobs.
“Better get it over with,” Sean Manahan said after a close
examination, and stepped out into the alley. Ten seconds later he
bolted back inside, stared around like a madman, flung open the
only other door in sight, and threw up in the disgusting toilet. Not
what I was expecting. Or Bruce either, from his astonished
expression. Silently I handed the water bottle over when he
emerged, and a much paler-faced Sean accepted it with a nod and
glugged some down. I wondered if Bruce Carver would need it next.
Right at that moment a vehicle braked to a flashy halt outside.
“Ah – Forensics?” Sean croaked.
Bruce Carver nodded. “Send them through,” he said as he
braced his shoulders and pushed a finger on the top corner of the
back door so it swung further open. The dogs burst into full bark
again, although whether at the smell from the alley or the prospect
of new visitors, I had no idea. Time for the whistle again.
“Hold on a minute,” I yelled, just before Bruce disappeared.
“He can’t be serious, can he?”
“It’s not quite the way we do things here,” the DS admitted,
pulling on latex gloves with rather less panache than Sean Manahan
had. “But different country, different methods.”
“Well he can keep them,” I snapped, moving toward the dogs.
“Can I get these two out of the way for a while? I need to see Lisa
the vet about proper car restraints for them.”
The cop from Boston scowled as he overheard, but Bruce
Carver simply said, “Good idea. I know where to find you.”
And then – what was I thinking? – I said, “Let Winston know to
leave the place unlocked. I need to do some more cleaning before
we can hold any meetings here.”
“Ma’am,” Sean Manahan grated, handing me his card, “This is
now a crime scene. There’ll be no cleaning. There’ll be no meetings.
In fact there’ll be no access until further notice.”
 “And I’m afraid we have more important things to talk to
Winston Bamber about,” Bruce Carver added.
 3 – Visits to Iona and Lisa
I wasn’t joking about the car restraints to DS Carver. John had
said to use his swanky black pick-up truck and to clip the dogs to the
loops on the tray if I wanted to take them anywhere. But the vehicle
was very big, totally unfamiliar, and would be awfully expensive to
fix if I damaged it. I’d climbed into it on the first day, started the
low-throbbing engine, and decided against it. (And what secret
business was he on if he didn’t need his transport?) I’d beeped it
locked again and made do with a walk on the much less attractive
strip of beach at Burkeville.
Earlier today I’d laid an old blanket on the back seat of my car,
invited the dogs in, and been charmed when they sat side by side
like a pair of big hairy passengers. I’d hoped they’d stay there once
we were under way. They were heavy units, and I didn’t want them
flung around if I had to brake suddenly. I certainly didn’t need them
leaning forward and licking my neck or sniffing my hair the way they
had when I’d tried to thread the car’s seat-belts through their
collars. That had proved impossible. And what if they’d decided to
put their big paws on the backs of the front seats and stand up for a
better view while I drove?
In the event they’d been surprisingly good. A couple of times
I’d had to say a firm ‘NO’ as a foot ventured through the gap
between the driver and passenger seats, but I’d wanted them safe.
Surely Lisa would have an answer? Graham has some excellent
harnesses for his little spaniels, but of course they’re not giants like
Fire and Ice.
 Finding something like those would be an excellent distraction
from what I’d just seen, so we left the old shop and went to the car
again, me clinging onto the leads for dear life.
Gosh, I was hungry. Breakfast had disappeared down the
disgusting dunny right after finding poor Coral Clappe. A muffin from
Iona’s café would go down well. One with a secret center of lemon
curd, maybe. Or passionfruit frosting on top. Well, anything at all,
really.
I opened the rear door. “In,” I instructed. Fire and Ice obeyed
with cheerful expressions. “Stay,” I said. I closed the door and
turned for Iona’s. The dogs immediately sensed they’d been
deserted and the car rocked with thunderous barks and bounces. I
hoped their big hard claws wouldn’t wreck the upholstery. A couple
of little poodles nearby joined in with frantic yaps so I dug around in
my clammy T-shirt and found the whistle. One toot and silence
reigned. What a magic tool it was. I wondered what they heard
when I blew it?
I managed to arrive at Iona’s after the end of the morning tea
rush and before the start of lunchtime, so her attention was pretty
instantly mine.
“What on earth have you been doing?” she demanded,
surveying my T-shirt clinging wetly to my bra, my hair no doubt
tousled by the beach wind, and my probably pale and stunned
expression.
I gazed into her glass-fronted display case. There were slices of
luscious looking raspberry tart, and she doesn’t always have that.
The raspberry season must have just started. I pointed mutely and
held up one finger. There were no glazed doughnuts, only the long,
narrow Kiwi version filled with whipped cream and strawberry jam
and coated with powdered sugar. Didn’t American cops live on
glazed doughnuts? Sean Manahan would starve in Drizzle Bay, or be
forced to change his diet. Ha! It served him right.
“Everything okay?” Iona asked, tilting her head on one side so
she looked like an inquisitive budgie.
“Not really,” I muttered. There was no-one too close by, so I
leaned over and asked, “Do you know Winston’s sister, Coral
Clappe?”
Iona slid my slice of tart and a paper serviette into a white
paper bag with a line drawing of the café on it and the name ‘Iona’s’
in a pretty curvy script. Only the addition of a few seashells at either
end of the words ‘of Drizzle Bay’ stopped it from looking completely
French. “I don’t know that I want to,” she said with her trademark
honesty. “She’s a bit too ‘social butterfly’ for me. More money than
manners.”
“Mmm,” I agreed, glancing around to make sure everyone was
still out of earshot. “But she doesn’t have either now. The Police are
trying to find out how she died.”
“Dead?” Iona squawked, and then tried to hide it with a
strange-sounding cough. “Don’t tell me you found her?”
I nodded and sighed. “Another one. I’m jinxed. Or at least I’m
in the wrong place at the wrong time a lot more often that I should
be.”
“You poor dear,” Iona said, moving away from the display case
and toward the till. She handed over the raspberry tart. “My treat.
Don’t think of paying. So… where?”
 The next customers in the queue were still a few feet away
admiring the array of goodies, so I jerked my head sideways in the
direction of the old shop, and said, “Remember I talked about
running a writing workshop at Winston’s spare place?”
“There?”
“Mmm. Out the back. They’re investigating right now.”
“I didn’t hear their siren come past.”
“No,” I said as I cradled my replacement breakfast.
“Plainclothes so far. Very recent. Fifteen minutes ago.”
“Not that gorgeous American who’s trailing Bruce Carver
around?”
Iona knew everything that went on in Drizzle Bay, but that was
fast, even for her.
“Yes, as it happens,” I said, wondering what she’d follow it
with.
She made a disapproving grunting noise. “He and Coral Clappe
had lunch together here a couple of days ago. I have to admit they
made a handsome couple, but looks aren’t everything, are they?”
Good grief – so he’d known her, and not let on to either Bruce
or me in the old shop. No wonder he’d been so violently sick when
he’d had to uncover her body. I shuddered at the thought. Part
shock, and partly, I have to admit, a shard of jealousy.
“Heavens,” I said, giving Iona space to add some more gossip.
“Anyway, he got a text and had to leave. She stayed on and
Betty McGyver shared the table with her for a while. When I took
Betty’s tea across to her I heard Coral saying, “He’s so darn needy.
He wants to be all over me, all the time.”
“Goodness.” It was all I could manage in the circumstances.
 Iona tipped her head to one side. “I wouldn’t mind a man like
that ‘wanting to be all over me all the time’.” She stopped for a
breath. “So what happened?” Now she looked more like a perky little
bird than ever.
I shrugged. “Don’t know, but bloody.” I closed my eyes and
swallowed. “I’m sure it’ll be on the news once the next of kin have
been informed.”
“Poor Winston,” Iona said. “Were they very close? He’ll be
devastated. Are they a big family?”
I repeated my shrug. “Don’t know much, but he wasn’t there.”
“Done a runner?” she suggested.
“Iona!”
She had the grace to look slightly ashamed. “Sorry – it just
slipped out.” She glanced at the advancing queue and then her
watch. “Come on Heather,” she muttered. “I could really do with you
turning up about now.” But then she rubbed her nose and leaned
nearer. “It’s generally the husband, isn’t it? I’ve met him – Frank
Clappe. He’s a lot more down to earth than her.”
“Here? I’ve never seen him.”
Iona nodded, eyes half closed as though that might hold the
volume down. “Big brute. Shoulders that could shift a ship. She
brought him in for lunch a while ago when they were up visiting the
son. I think they have a beach cottage further along the coast.”
I gnawed at the inside of my cheek, pretty keen to enjoy my
raspberry tart, but wondering what else Iona knew. “I’d heard there
was a daughter. At boarding school somewhere.”
“Mmm. Pretty girl. Takes after her mother. The son’s doing
some sort of agricultural course, up past Burkeville.”
 The next people in the queue were now moving closer. I raised
my pretty paper bag as a salute to Iona, wondering if Heather had
found the perfect dress yet. “Thanks for this.”
“Thanks for the news.”
I smiled grimly. “You’re the first to know. I shouldn’t have told
you until they told Winston, but I’m a bit…”
“Discombobulated,” she said. “Don’t worry – it’s safe with me.”
But was it? Iona was a fearful gossip, although also a handy
source of information.
Sean Manahan and Coral Clappe? I was still in
disbelieving/discontented mode about that. I wandered back to the
car, enjoying my slice of raspberry tart as much as I could, and then
wiped my fingers clean of the last vestiges.
I wondered how they were doing in the alley. Brucie and
Cream-suit and the forensics people were probably creeping about
with plastic shoe covers on to go with their gloves. Maybe even
walking on those evidence-preserving blocks they sometimes put
down in TV dramas. Given my panic-stricken trip to and from the
bin, and the dogs’ enthusiastic bouncing around, heaven knows
what we’d disturbed or obscured before they got there. Oh well, no
point in feeling guilty. I scrunched up my paper bag and serviette,
looking for the nearest shop verandah pole with an official Drizzle
Bay garbage container attached to it.
Why had there been blood galore on Coral, but none on the
outside of the bin or the ground? Or had there been, and was I so
distracted by the unlikely sight of her out-of-place leg I’d simply not
noticed anything else? Was that why the dogs were so agitated? I
stopped and checked my jeans. Couldn’t see any brownish-red
blobs, thank heavens.
It was only a few more steps to the car, and when I opened
the door I was greeted with aggrieved whines and big yawns that
showed off their impressive teeth. Were they threatening me? I
wouldn’t put it past them.
“Hello, you lovely boys,” I said, leaning back to give them each
a neck-scratch and ear-rub. Fire licked my fingers. Maybe I hadn’t
removed quite all of the raspberry tart?
Off we trundled down Drizzle Bay Road… past the blueberry
place and the plumbing and tank supply depot. The vet clinic is
looking a lot different these days – Ten Ton Smedley leaves his auto
repair business in the hands of his assistant as often as he can to
help builder Lee Halliday. They’ve been adding a new top-floor living
area – up in the sun, where the view out to the ocean is spectacular.
Ten Ton is back in Lisa’s bed and the kids love having their dad
home again. I’d like to think some of my influence helped them get
past their silly standoff, but you never know the real story with
couples.
Once I’d parked, I opened the windows several inches so the
dogs would have plenty of air. For some reason Fire and Ice weren’t
too keen on visiting the vet clinic and sat quietly, avoiding eye
contact with me, but looking pretty horrified at each other.
“It’s okay boys, I’m not taking you into that scary place,” I told
them under my breath as I closed the door and walked across to the
clinic’s entrance. When I poked my head into the reception area I
found Lisa just saying goodbye to Raina Singh of the Drizzle Bay
Mini-Mart. She was holding the fluffiest bundle of white cuteness I’d
ever seen.
“Raina!” I said. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”
She beamed at me, the red bindi on her forehead shining as
she tilted her head under the lights. “Not until yesterday, because
this poor boy is lonely with my brother,” she said.
“A Japanese Spitz,” Lisa inserted, sensing my next question.
“Very sociable little dogs and he’s going to love all the company at
the Mini-Mart.”
“I think he will bring us customers,” Raina said. “We put his
basket just a little way inside the door so people will come in and
say hello.”
“Or maybe just outside,” Lisa suggested. “Don’t think a dog in
a food shop is quite within the law.”
I reached out and let my fingers get sniffed. “Aren’t you
beautiful!” I enthused. “You look just like a Samoyed with your big
smile.” I glanced up at Raina. “How large will he get?”
“Not much more,” she said, teeth gleaming. She turned to Lisa.
“You can see already that my theory is correct. Our customers will
love him, inside or outside the store. He will be happy with lots of
people, our pretty Poppadum. Merry is loving him already.”
I nodded agreement. “Who wouldn’t?”
“Just don’t let customers feed him rubbish,” Lisa warned. “He’ll
get fat in a hurry, a little boy this size.” She leaned forward and
dropped a kiss on the top of his snowy head. “Enjoy your new life
with Raina and her family, and come back and see me again.”
Raina turned, and I opened the door for her.
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