Groomed For Murder: A Pet Boutique Mystery (5 page)

Packer was none too thrilled to share his morning walk with Daisy. Daisy lunged and tugged at her leash, sniffing the ground as she made her instinctive way down the sidewalk toward Dakota Park, where everyone—including Daniel Colona—took their dogs for morning exercise, but the usually irrepressible Packer hung back and sulked.

Rena skipped at my side, devouring a third caramel roll. I topped Rena by more than six inches, so she had to rely on her abundance of energy to keep up with my stride.

“Here,” I said, “you take Daisy and I’ll take Packer. At this rate, we’ll never make it back to open up the store in time.”

Rena took Daisy’s leash and wrapped it twice around her hand. She was five foot nothing, and if Daisy caught sight of a squirrel, she could lead Rena on a merry chase.

“I can’t believe the police are letting us open today.”

“I’m a little surprised, too. I thought Jack would put
up a fuss. But I told him we couldn’t afford to lose the business, and he rolled over just like that.”

“Hmmm,” Rena hummed. I glanced at my friend and watched her lips slide up in a sly smile. With her hair—currently bright pink—ruffled atop her head and the carnival of colors and bangles she wore, she looked like an imp.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Rena said, but that smile said something else entirely.

I shrugged. “I suppose he might be getting some pressure from his mother. She’s pretty gung ho about her Pearl marrying Romeo Tucker next weekend. I don’t think she’ll stand for a delay, murder or no murder.”

“Yeah,” Rena said. “I’m sure that’s it.”

Daisy tugged Rena away and into the park and made her way unerringly to a tree near an out-of-the-way park bench. Rena let her have her head and followed. We exchanged a sad glance as Daisy sniffed her way around the bench, where Daniel must have sat while Daisy played, then lay down on the ground with a tired whimper.

While Daisy had found her spot in the park, Packer had other things in mind. Now that he had me to himself, he danced around my legs and scampered his way toward a clutch of young mothers and their children.

Dakota Park covered a broad swath of green space, land that a timber baron had bequeathed to the town. One corner of the park was covered in vast slides, forts,
swings, and other adventures for little kids, another corner was fenced off as a play area for larger dogs, and the band shell in the middle provided a focal point for picnickers coming in to enjoy fireworks and cookouts and even the annual Halloween Howl. There were also little nooks and crannies, quiet spaces occupied by one or two benches, where residents could sit with a book, hold a quiet conversation, or—occasionally—make out in peace.

Packer was great with kids, so I let his leash out and plopped down on a bench next to Ama Olmstead, who was watching her young son, Jordan, playing cars with another toddler.

Everyone in town loved Ama Olmstead. She was Merryville’s darling. Tiny, pretty, blond, blue-eyed, and sweeter than a Christmas stollen, she looked like an old-fashioned china doll. She managed to greet everyone with a welcoming smile and a personal word. “How are your bunions, Martha?” “Did you get your green beans canned, Greta?” “How’s your son down in the Cities, Roy?” It’s why she was so good at her job.

Other than the editor, all of the
Merryville Gazette
employees were part-time. David Lusztig covered government business, the school board, and city council and such; Joyce Lambert covered the police beat; Amber Nash covered funerals and potlucks; and Ama Olmstead covered everything else. That meant writing stories on everything from town gatherings to tourist events to high school sports, and Ama handled it all with grace and good humor. I knew she was ambitious,
eager to move up the journalistic food chain, but she was making the best of what she had.

“Morning, Izzy,” she said, an unusual note of sorrow in her tone. Of course, she’d been on the scene when Daniel had died, and I imagined we’d all been affected. Heaven knows I wasn’t feeling myself that morning. And Ama had seemed particularly shaken up by the sight of Daniel, making little choking sounds as she snapped pictures of the scene.

“Good morning, Ama. Hope you don’t mind if Packer keeps Jordan company.” My scrappy pooch had wormed his way into the boys’ game and was vigorously licking a plastic yellow dump truck while Jordan giggled in glee.

A ghost of a smile drifted across her lips. “Don’t worry. I’m not one of those sanitizer-crazy moms who won’t let her kid get a little dog spit on him now and then.”

I uttered a surprised laugh. Ama and I weren’t close, and I’d forgotten how funny she could be. Unlike her husband, Steve, Ama wasn’t a native of Merryville. She was a Wisconsinite, practically from Chicago, which in Merryville terms meant she was practically from New York City. She blended right in with the Merryville crowd, but every now and then the big-city edge made an appearance, either by way of a particularly edgy article of clothing—such as the chic Black Watch infinity scarf she wore with her black peacoat—or through her wry wit.

“You must be exhausted,” Ama continued, her eyes never leaving her son.

“Yeah, it was quite a night.”

“Quite a night.”

“Did you know Daniel?” I asked.

She shot me a look of surprise. “Me?”

“Well, you were both reporters. I thought maybe he might have visited with you at some point during his stay here.”

She turned her attention back to Jordan and Packer. “He was a reporter?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I thought you knew.”

“No.”

“Too bad. I’d sorta hoped he’d given you some hint about what he was doing here.”

A lopsided smile graced her face. “I’m just a small-town reporter,” she said. “I’ve been to a few journalism conferences in Minneapolis, but the reporters from the big cities don’t necessarily view me as their colleague. I never even met Daniel Colona.”

I knew a little something about people looking down on you. I’d heard from some of my friends from college, men and women who’d gone on to work with some of the big design houses in New York or opened up their own boutiques, dressing wealthy women in Minneapolis and Chicago. They tried to act interested and enthusiastic about my pet boutique, but I could always tell they were faking it. Their undertones ranged from horror to hilarity. The fact that I was happy as a clam didn’t seem to make much difference.

“Do you have any idea what he was doing here, though? I mean, what’s going on in Merryville that
could have been of interest to a reporter from another city?”

“Jordan, let Elliot have his Thomas back,” she called. She shifted on the park bench. “I guess I’m not much of a journalist. I can’t imagine what he was doing here.”

Her tone was light, almost flip, but with a brittle edge to it.

“Huh. No idea at all?”

She shifted again. “Who knows?” This time, there was no mistaking the annoyance in her voice. “Maybe he just wanted to see how countryfolk live.”

I watched Packer roll over on his back so Jordan and his friend Elliot could take turns rubbing his belly. While Elliot gave Packer his full attention, Jordan grabbed a handful of grass and toddled toward his mother.

“Ma!” He handed her the grass like a trophy.

“Thank you, sweets,” Ama said. She set the grass on her knee and reached into the tote bag at her side for a baby wipe, which she used to wipe her son’s ruddy face, cleaning it of mud and a drippy nose. He pulled back and squinted his chocolate-drop eyes. “Hush,” Ama said softly, giving her son’s face one final swipe before ruffling his hair and letting him go.

She glanced up at me with a smile, her son’s presence completely dispelling her momentary annoyance. “I’m not one of ‘those’ moms, but I do have standards.”

I laughed. “He’s adorable. Growing fast. What is he, two?”

“Thanks,” she said, but she looked uncomfortable.
“Yes, he’ll be three in June. Party planning is already under way.

“You don’t have kids, do you?” she asked.

Ah. It seemed a little personal, but everyone in Merryville knew about my spectacular breakup with my former fiancé, Casey Alter, and many felt it their right—heck, their duty—to pry right on into my business. It was like the story had become public property, an insult to the town as much as to me.

“No, Casey and I thought about starting a family a few years back, but decided to wait until he was done with his residency.” Turned out that was a great decision, allowing us to break ties completely after he cheated on and then dumped me.

“Changes everything,” she said. “It’s definitely put a crimp in my career plans. I used to aspire to getting a job at a bigger paper, maybe in Brainerd or even the Twin Cities. I went to workshops and conferences, trying to network and hone my craft. Now, though, I stay home with Jordan. Almost no more work travel. I haven’t given up on that dream of writing for a bigger paper, where it would be a full-time job, but the likelihood seems to shrink with every day. Still I wouldn’t give motherhood up for anything, you know?”

“Yeah,” I said, unsure what else to add to that. After all, I didn’t have kids so I clearly
did not
know. “So you’re sure you don’t know what Daniel might have been doing here?”

Her lips thinned. “Like I said, I’d bet it was just some local color piece, promoting tourism or something.”

“Seems like a puff piece wouldn’t take so long. He was here for a month. Must have been something more serious than that.”

She shrugged.

“You must have some idea.”

She brushed at her face, as though an insect were bothering her. “I don’t know what you want from me, Izzy. You’re right. He was a reporter, and he wouldn’t have been messing around in this town unless there was something going on. But I’ll be darned if I know what it is.”

If Ama knew something about the story Daniel planned to break, she was clearly going to keep it to herself. I guess I didn’t blame her. Whatever brought Daniel all the way to Merryville, it must have been a juicy story, something the
Madison Standard
would be interested in. If Ama could pick up where Daniel let off . . . well, if she could scoop a story that landed in the big-city papers, she might actually secure full-time work at the
Gazette
, possibly even move to the front of the line to replace editor Ted Lang, who was about ready to hit the snowbird circuit, or even break into a bigger media market. She could have Jordan and the high-powered career she was looking for.

“Listen, Ama, if you know anything, you have to tell me. My aunt is in real trouble here, and if you know something that might help her get off the hook . . . you’d still get all the credit for the story.”

Ama turned to face me, her brow knit in genuine confusion. She opened her mouth, but before she could
say a word, a big hand descended on her shoulder and she about jumped out of her skin. I looked up to see Ama’s husband, Steve Olmstead, smiling down at us.

“What are you two ladies up to?”

“Steve! What are you doing here?”

He leaned down to kiss his wife’s cheek. She reached up to take his hand, and he winced.

“You okay?” I asked.

“What? Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just a splinter. Got it cutting lumber for the wood paneling in Ken’s new restaurant. Hazard of the job, you know. You should see my medical file.”

His glacial eyes squinted as he turned his attention to his son and grinned. “Just got out of a meeting with Ken and Hal Olson. I was on my way back home to change for the site when I saw you here. Lucky me.”

“The site?” I asked.

“Squeezing in a small roofing job while Hal and Ken get the finances for the restaurant straightened out. It seems like maybe Hal overextended himself a little when he decided to back Ken’s restaurant and develop the old Soaring Eagles Campground at the same time.”

I was familiar with the camp. Everyone in Merryville had either attended or worked at the camp back in its heyday. Now it was a crumbling mess, but Hal Olson had bought it for back taxes just a few months before.

“Have you seen what he’s developing out there?”

Steve’s fingers and smile tightened. “Just the plans. He’s opting for semidetached condos instead of houses. They’re going to look tacky as heck. But I haven’t seen
what’s going on since they started building. I didn’t get a piece of that project.”

“Did you bid on it?” I asked, knowing full well I was being a nosey parker.

Steve’s smile faded. “Yep, but this firm from Brainerd underbid me. No way can they build the condos at the cost they quoted Hal. No way.”

“Well,” I muttered. “It’s Hal’s loss.”

Steve shook off his funk and planted a deliberate smile on his face.

“What have you two been chatting about? Planning something devious?”

Ama laughed, but it sounded forced. “No. We were talking about the dog wedding this Saturday. I decided I should cover it for the
Gazette
. It’s the type of cutesy story that gets picked up on the wire, and it will make Hetty and Louise feel so special.”

We had absolutely not been talking about the dog wedding, but it was still music to my ears that Ama wanted to do a front-page story about our event. I could post a copy of the column and the professional photos Ama took on the Web site Xander Stephens was helping me build. Xander and my sister Lucy had been dancing around, going out together for months, and I shamelessly took advantage of Xander’s desire to ingratiate with my family. He’d helped me set up one of those little square dealies that allowed me to accept credit cards, he’d created an inventory spreadsheet that even I could operate, and now he was helping with the Web site. Part of me hoped Xander and Lucy would stay in this romantic limbo for a couple of years so I
could milk Xander’s body of tech and business knowledge for all it was worth.

“Hiya!” I turned away from Steve and Ama to find Rena was making her way across the park, the now-mopey Daisy in tow. “Hey kids,” she shouted. “Izzy, we have to hit the bricks.”

I pulled my phone from my pocket and glanced at the display. Sure enough, we’d just barely have time to make it back to Trendy Tails in time to tidy up and open the doors. With the spring tourist season just getting under way, every day was an important day for the store.