Doggone Dead - Dane McCaslin The 2 Sisters Pet Valet Mysteries

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got, well…” She let her words trail off into midair as the elevator came to a juddering halt.

      Forcing myself to smile, I straightened my shoulders, hopefully adding an inch or three to my height and subtracting a few unnecessary pounds from around my middle. “Not a problem. I’ll take them off before we go inside.”

      “And I know just the place you can leave them, too.” Nora giggled, pointing down the carpeted hallway. “That snotty Linda Fletcher needs a surprise package, wouldn’t you say?”

      Dealing with Nora was like handling a roomful of hormone-crazed teens. The best way to do that, I’d always found, was to respond firmly but kindly and to redirect their risk-taking brains in another direction.

      “Why don’t we leave her a business card instead?” I pulled one out of my pocket. “She can give it to someone who has a pet.” Or not. She’d probably tear it up and sprinkle the pieces in front of Nora’s door.

      The ongoing feud between Nora and Linda was something out of a soap opera. Or an elementary playground. I didn’t know the entire story, but I did know there was something to do with a man, of course, and maybe a few mean-spirited tricks or two that Nora might have played on her.

      “You’re no fun. How’d you ever survive teaching high school?”

      “Because I wasn’t any fun.” I said it solemnly, only half in jest, and she began laughing, pulling me inside behind her.

      “Oh, you. You probably had them falling out of their desks. And kick off those sandals,” she called over her shoulder as she headed to the kitchen. “I think there’s an extra pair of house slippers under the couch. Coffee? Or hot tea?”

      “Tea, please.” I bent down to fish out the slippers. I’d taken my socks off for good measure, holding them by the cuff before tucking them inside the sandals. Might as well go whole hog and dump the lot. Maybe I could have a farewell, a send-off, Viking style. It might smell pretty bad, though. Tossing them in the nearest dumpster was probably the best bet. Sighing morosely, I slipped my bare feet inside the pair of fuzzy shoes and shuffled toward the kitchen.

      And froze.

      Nora was standing in the middle of the room, both hands covering her mouth, eyes opened as wide as they’d go. Stretched out on the floor, a large knife protruding from her chest, was Linda Fletcher. And, judging by the pool of blood on the floor surrounding her, this was no joke.

      Chapter 2

      “Oh, Gwen, what’ll we do?”

      Nora’s face was paler than the average northwestern complexion, and I could tell even from where I was standing that she was trembling all over. I made myself ignore Linda’s body and marched over to where Nora stood, grabbing her by the elbow and steering her back toward the living room. It was bad enough having a body in the kitchen, and I surely didn’t need Nora fainting in there as well.

      “You sit right here. I’m going to call the cops.” I pushed her down onto the sofa and fished in my jacket pocket for my cell phone.

      As cool as I was trying to be, I was still all thumbs as I tried punching in the simple numbers for the emergency services. Nine-one-one suddenly seemed like a complicated algebraic formula.

      By the time I’d gotten through to an emergency dispatcher, had explained the situation, and had given the location, I’d calmed down enough to tiptoe back into the kitchen for a closer look. It wasn’t a ghoulish streak that made me do this. Instead, I wanted to see if I could figure out what in the world Linda was doing in Nora’s kitchen in the first place.

      That she was actually inside the apartment wasn’t a surprise to me. No one, especially Nora, locked their doors in this building unless they were going out for more than a few hours. Taking a quick walk to the mailbox or having coffee with a neighbor wasn’t a good enough reason for locking a door. Still, I had questions. Had Linda known Nora had stepped out, or had she simply barreled inside, spoiling for an argument?

      A loud thump on the apartment door roused me from my contemplation of Nora’s unwelcomed guest, and I went back into the living room. Nora had stirred herself enough to answer the door, and now she was standing in front of two very large men, one of whom looked like he could moonlight as an Ironman competitor while the other one looked more like a contestant on Iron Chef. Drawing in a steadying breath, I addressed my comments to him, trusting that a soft belly equaled a soft heart.

      “Thanks for getting here so quickly.” I held out one hand in greeting.

      Both officers merely glanced down as though expecting the proverbial smoking gun. Or bloody knife, in this case. My ears grew warm as I dropped my hand, but whether it was from embarrassment or an errant hot flash, I couldn’t tell.

      Crossing my arms, I gave both officers the stare I’d perfected from years of dealing with the occasional impossible student. Firm and unwavering, unsmiling and mute. Unless one of them chose to speak up, I could do a silent standoff for as long as necessary. Finally, Ironman—Officer Taylor, according to the shiny brass name badge pinned to his uniform—gave a great sigh, moving his gaze from me to Nora and back.

      “We were told you found a body? In your kitchen?” This was directed to the air somewhere between Nora and me, but I jumped in with the answer, not sure of her ability to string together a coherent sentence at the moment.

      “Yes.” I started toward the kitchen and beckoned them to follow. “She’s in here, Officers.”

      “Ma’am, if you could stop right there?” Apparently Officer Taylor could only communicate via questions.

      I wanted to give him a lesson in sentence structure on the spot. Instead, I froze in place and watched as he walked into the kitchen, one hand resting lightly on the black Taser that hung from a wide leather belt.

      Iron Chef—Officer Reinhart—remained behind, presumably to keep an eye on the two suspects. That would be Nora. And me. The mere thought that I could be seen as a dangerous criminal almost made me smile.

      Almost. One glance at Nora told me she was close to collapsing, and I moved quickly toward her, reaching out to steady her with one hand.

      “You need to sit down.” I guided her over to the sofa nearest the kitchen door and gently pushed her onto the cushions. “I need to get my friend some hot tea or something, or I’m afraid she’s going to faint.” This comment was directed to Reinhart, who had been watching the two of us with suspicion as if we were orchestrating some great escape plan right under his rather fleshy nose.

      By the time both officers had decided that yes, indeed, we did have a dead body in the kitchen and had called for the necessary folks to join us, Nora looked as though she needed a month-long rest any place else but Portland, preferably someplace with lots of sun. And mojitos. And a cute waiter to keep them coming. Since I was officially retired, without a set schedule, I could offer to go with her, purely out of the goodness of my heart, of course.

      “You know we’re going to have to reschedule all those jobs, right?”

      I stared blankly at Nora, my mind still occupied with sunshine and sassy pool boys.

      “What jobs?” I paused a moment while my brain played catch-up and then groaned, “Oh, you mean those jobs.” I’d completely forgotten about Two Sisters Pet Valet Services. “Can’t we cancel them?”

      She gave a vigorous shake of her head and the fake ponytail gave up its tentative grasp on her head, falling to the floor like a dead ferret. Ignoring the wide-eyed stare from Officer Reinhart and a smothered laugh from Officer Taylor, Nora shoved the offending article under the couch with one foot.

      “Let’s give that horrible driver a call. My gut tells me he’ll do it.”

      “His name is Brent.” I fished in my jacket pocket for the crumpled card. “And what should I say?”

      “Ask him—no, tell him we need someone to help us out. And remind him not

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