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  KIBBLES AND DEATH

  a Samantha Davies Mystery

  by

  S.A. KAZLO

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  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2022 by S.A. Kazlo

  Cover design by Daniela Colleo

  of http://www.StunningBookCovers.com

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  I dedicate this book to the love of my life, Michael. You have been my heart for fifty wonderful years.

  Acknowledgements

  It has taken quite a few people to bring this book to see the light of day. I'm especially grateful to the following people for all of their help.

  Jan Pippins, Lori Roberts Herbst, Sue Carrigan, Sharon Jensen, June Kosier for being my Beta readers.

  I am especially grateful for the invaluable help from my two critique groups:

  The GFWG—Zach Richards, Billy Neary, AJ Davidson, Kay Hafner, Robin Inwald, Sandy Buxton, Bill Thomas

  The Storyboarders—Roxyanne Young, Lisa Rondinelli Alberts, Candie Moonshower

  Mega thanks go to my publisher—Gemma Halliday for believing in Sam and Porkchop and Susie Halliday for her terrific editing. Thank you both so much for making my dream come true.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Who would have guessed this would be a good day for a murder? When I left home this morning the sky was a robin's egg blue streaked with wispy clouds. The digital thermometer in my ten-year-old, egg-yolk yellow Volkswagen Bug read sixty-eight. The local weather person on my car's radio predicted a sunny day, with the temperature climbing into the nineties by late afternoon. Not typical weather for Upstate New York. Eighties were usually the highest we experienced during the summer, but I will take it over the frigid cold of winter. Nope, murder didn't hover on the horizon. Hot weather yes, murder, no.

  "Porkchop, come on. Get those chubby legs moving. We have a lot to do this morning." My beloved dachshund stretched his long red body on the passenger seat of my convertible. He cocked his head and shot me a look as if to say "How dare you, impugn my svelte physique? I am the star of your soon-to-be-hit seller—Porkchop, The Wonder Dog."

  Parked in front of my favorite hangout, The Ewe and Me Woolery, I turned off the car's ignition. We hookers fondly called it The Ewe. Now don't go raising your eyebrows so high they flip into your cranium. I'm a hooker—a rug hooker that is. Besides enjoying rug hooking, I am also a children's writer, mostly freelance magazine writing, but right now—fingers, toes, and eyes crossed—my picture book staring Porkchop, sat in the final stages of approval on the editor's desk at Rolling Brook Press.

  I got out of my car and walked around to the passenger door. Porkchop looked up at me through the open window with his liquid brown eyes. "Sugar plum, I know I am disturbing your beauty sleep, but we have a bunch of errands to run this morning." I reached in and snagged him off the car seat. I clipped on his leash then set him on the sidewalk next to me.

  The Ewe and Me Woolery stood proudly in a turn-of-the-century brick storefront on Glen Street in Wings Falls, my hometown in Upstate New York. I knew I had arrived early. The Bug's clock only read eight thirty and the doors weren't open for business for another hour. In my mind's eye, I could imagine Lucy Foster, who along with her husband Ralph, owned The Ewe, bustling around the shop, straightening shelves, and rearranging patterns for us woolaholics. We couldn't get enough of the fabulous wool and goodies her shop offered.

  Morning sunlight streamed in from the windows and shone on the cubbies lining the walls of her shop. They were stuffed with wool ranging in color from bright pinks, greens, blues, and every color of the rainbow, to the more primitive, or as Lucy liked to call them "muddy" tans, creams, and muted hues of the spectrum, the colors I gravitated to myself. If you needed a specific color, Lucy had it or would conjure it up in her marvelous dye kitchen in the back of the store.

  The Ewe held a special place in my heart. My Loopy Ladies, fellow hookers who gathered at the shop, saw me through a rough patch five years ago. My then-husband of twenty-five years, George, announced he wanted a divorce. We own a funeral parlor together, The Do Drop Inn Funeral Parlor. I know, a crazy name for a funeral home, but for years a bar occupied the building before we purchased it and the locals preferred the name to Davies Funeral Parlor.

  Being young and newly married I'd wanted to help the hubby with his career, so I'd used an inheritance left to me from an uncle to purchase it. Silly me. Apparently, George forgot what I'd done all those years ago to help fulfill his dream of having his own funeral parlor. And—also apparently—his late-night corpse pickups had involved more live bodies than dead. At least one unquestionably live body, our secretary, Anna. He'd had the nerve to puff out his chest with pride and tell me while I made him breakfast one morning, "Samantha, Anna and I are expecting."

  With a confused look on my face, I'd turned from the stove and asked, "Expecting, what?"

  He'd had the decency to fidget in his chair. "Twins."

  My eyes widened. "As in babies?"

  He'd blushed and nodded.

  It still does my heart good to think of how I had dumped a plate of pancakes smothered in warm maple syrup on his neatly pressed khaki-clad lap. What smarted the most? We'd tried for years to conceive a child of our own. We'd traveled from one specialist to another seeking help with our problem. Final diagnosis, George's low sperm count. But, one of those little buggers had hit its mark, though, resulting in Harry and Larry.

  My Southern Belle cousin and best friend, Candie Parker's, opinion about summed up mine when she'd said, "Good riddance to an ol' trash sucking possum." Candie worked as a part-time secretary for our town's mayor, Mark Hogan. She also wrote romance novels under the pen name Candie del'Amore. I thought of her as an expert in the romance department, having been engaged eleven times. Her novels had a large following, but she knew the reading public was too fickle for her to give up her day job. I think she secretly had a crush on Mark, though. They kept everything professional at the office, but I know they'd had a few dates. This time I rooted for Mark. He was a keeper.

  A light shone in the back of The Ewe. I knocked on the door and peered through the glass. Sure enough, Lucy scurried f
rom the back of the store, a coffee mug clutched in her hand.

  She swung the door open to let Porkchop and me in. "Why, Samantha Davies, what brings you here so early. My goodness, it's Saturday morning. Don't you sleep in?"

  A retired Home Economics teacher in her late sixties, Lucy bent and scratched between my dachshund's ears. "How's my favorite shop dog?" Porkchop closed his eyes and leaned into her hand. His tail wagged in warp speed as he basked in her attention.

  "Lucy, you've spoiled him to the point he's impossible to live with after spending time here." True, my dog often accompanied me when I came to The Ewe, especially during our Monday morning "hook-ins" when the Loopy Ladies gathered to hook, eat, and dish the local gossip. Our group ranged in age from our youngest thirtysomething, Susan Mayfield, who with her husband Brian, co-owned Momma Mia's, and in my opinion the best Italian restaurant this side of NYC. To Gladys O'Malley, who would never admit to her eighty-two years. Gladys also lived next door to me and thought it her life's mission to find me a "beau" as she called her many attempts to set me up with a date. So far, I'd managed to dodge her well-meaning efforts to end my single lifestyle.

  Lucy's rounded figure shook as she laughed. Shoulder-length white hair bounced about the collar of her blouse as she lifted Porkchop's chin. "But look at those sweet eyes. Who wouldn't fall in love with them?" He closed his eyes and let out a sigh. I swear he knew when people heaped compliments on him, which he deemed were well deserved.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you so early, but I need another piece of the smoky blue wool you dyed so I can finish the sky in my ocean-scape rug."

  "Yes, yes, I have some more back in the dye room. Follow me and I'll fetch it for you."

  My eyes bounced around the familiar sights of the store as Porkchop, and I trailed behind her. Besides the cubbies lining the wood-clad walls, wool flowed out of an antique pie safe and from ornate Victorian dresser drawers. My fingers itched to pick through a vintage dry sink. It bulged with Lucy's hand-drawn rug hooking patterns. Like every other hooker, I already anticipated the next rug I wanted on my frame.

  Nestled in a room off her main studio sat the dye room or what we called the "zone of magic." A stove and sink lined one wall, separated by a multi-colored dye-stained Formica countertop, attesting to the many times Lucy brewed up fabulous colors in giant white enamel pots. Occasionally, she invited me and her followers to join in and create a pot or two of color.

  A raised wooden oak table stood in the middle of the room. Attached to one end sat strippers. I guess we hookers can't get away from the whole sexual connotation thing. These hand-cranked machines contained a disk with blades for cutting our material into narrow pieces of wool for our hooked masterpieces. The wool strips varied in width from narrow, about an eighth of an inch for the fine hookers who want to obtain a more realistic-looking design in their rugs, to my preference, quarter of an inch or wider strips for a more primitive-looking rug. But Lucy also used this table to draw out the rug patterns I and the other Loopy Ladies dearly loved to hook.

  "Now where did I put your wool?" Lucy scratched the top of her head and sent her glasses flying. "Drat." She bent to pick them off the floor. "Oh my, here it is." She laughed and pulled the smoky blue wool from a basket tucked under the worktable. "Sometimes, I wonder if I'd remember my name if I didn't have it printed on my driver license."

  I joined in her laughter. "Thanks, Lucy. You are a lifesaver. What do I owe you?" I reached into my designer handbag, a weakness of mine. I couldn't get enough of them. I would search eBay for the best price on a "gently" used one I could fit into my limited budget. Oh, well at least it's a legal addiction. From today's handbag of choice, a brown and black striped Fendi, I drew out my wallet and plucked a couple of bills from its usually dusty interior.

  She waved a hand at me. "Never mind. Pay me Monday morning when we meet. I don't have my cash drawer open, yet."

  Since I lived only two blocks from The Ewe, in the same brick ranch house where I'd grown up, she knew where to find me. Often, when I needed a break from writing, Porkchop and I stopped in The Ewe for a hooking fix. After my divorce from George, my parents had signed the house over to me and moved to sunny Florida. They claimed they'd had enough of shoveling snow. Frankly, I think they wanted the party lifestyle their friends, Marge and Herb Feinstein, enjoyed in their retirement village.

  Lucy leaned against a scarred pine desk. It served as her check-out counter and asked, "Besides needing wool, what brings you and my friend"—she nodded at Porkchop—"out so early this lovely morning?"

  I looked at my better half, curled at my feet. "He, I fear, has developed into a food snob. The other day I'd bought a bag of a new gourmet dog food, Burger Bites. The one advertised on television every other commercial break. I thought he'd love it. Fido on TV gobbles a bowlful and lets out a happy howl. But my buddy here turned his nose up and strutted out of the room when I filled his bowl. He loves his Mighty Nuggets, period. I guess he doesn't like his food horizons expanded. I thought Calvin Perkins could use the Burger Bites at the shelter." Calvin owned For Pet's Sake, the local pet shelter. People, he didn't like so much. I'd heard some grumble that they never even got a "thank you" out of him when they made a donation to the shelter. Manners was not his middle name. But he loved animals, from snakes to ferrets and everything in between. The shelter always needed donations, so Porkchop's loss would become the shelter's gain.

  Lucy crossed her arms and tapped her foot. "Humph, Calvin Perkins. That old sourpuss. How he manages to keep his shelter open, I don't know. The other day at the Shop and Save, I wanted to purchase a couple steaks for Ralph's dinner. Anyway, I saw a couple of really nice ones that would be perfect for the barbeque when a hand reached in front of me and grabbed them right out from under my nose. I turned to see who was acting so rude and it was—Calvin Perkins. He even bumped his shopping cart into me, so I'd move out of his way. And did he apologize—nope. Ralph sure wasn't happy when I told him about what had happened. He was ready to march over to the shelter and give Calvin a piece of his mind. It took a little talking to sooth Ralph's feathers down. Frankly, I don't think Calvin knows the meaning of the word polite. Being so nasty, he must have won the lottery because I don't know who would give him money for his shelter.

  "You're right, he can be cantankerous." I peeked at my watch, a worn Timex my parents had given me when I graduated from high school. To paraphrase the old ad, "it had taken a licking and kept on ticking." Unlike my handbags, I had no desire for a designer watch. "I better get going. Calvin doesn't trust anyone but himself to check in donations. He told me to arrive before nine if I wanted to drop it off." I shook my head. Did he think any of the volunteers at the shelter wanted to steal the dog food? Maybe kibble thieves ran rampant in Wings Falls. "Besides, I have an article deadline." I needed to hit the send button on my computer today or lose my advance on an article about the life cycle of the hummingbird moth for Kid Science Magazine. Not the most thrilling subject, but a paying gig is a paying gig. I'd already spent the money on a gently used Coach handbag I'd found on eBay.

  The bell over The Ewe's wooden front door jingled when I pulled it open to leave. I gave Lucy a final wave then tugged gently on Porkchop's leash to signal it was time to hit the road.

  "Sammie!"

  I sighed deeply and groaned. I was only a few feet from my car. Gladys O'Malley, her orange hair permed tighter than a Brillo pad, bobbled towards me. My guess, since this was the middle of August and September was only a few weeks away, the orange color signaled the coming of autumn. Gladys dyed her hair to celebrate holidays, the change of seasons or anything tickling her fancy.

  "Yes," I said and peeked at my watch. I didn't want to act rude. She was a widow after all, but she could easily talk my ear off for a good hour. Her dearly departed husband, Captain Stan, had sailed the seas as a fisherman. His flaking wooden, thirty-foot boat now sailed the seas of crabgrass and unmowed lawn in her backyard. An urn containing his ashes sat behind the ship'
s wheel.

  Gladys came to a halt in front of my dog and me. "I've invited my nephew, Junior, for dinner next Saturday night. He's new in town. Can you join us?"

  "Gee, I will have to check my calendar." What was with people? Being single didn't curse me. In fact, the last five years had treated me well. Maybe I'm a little lonely at times, but I had no one to answer to. Well, except Porkchop, of course.

  "Okay, let me know. I will see you Monday." Gladys waved, her scrawny upper arm waggled back and forth as she walked towards The Ewe. Lucy stood in the store's front door and turned over the open sign.

  To attract my dog's attention, I patted my jeans-clad leg. Jeans, yoga pants, and T-shirts were my preferred attire. "Come on boy, time to hit the road and do our good deed for the day." Little did I know I would soon become the poster child for the old saying "No good deed goes unpunished."

  CHAPTER TWO

  I nosed the Bug out of the parking space. If the traffic light gods blessed me with only green lights, I would arrive at For Pet's Sake in plenty of time.

  Ten minutes later, I pulled into the shelter's front parking lot. I peeked at the Bug's clock and heaved a sigh of relief, eight-fifty. I turned to Porkchop, who lay curled next to me on the passenger seat. "We made it. And on time." My dog opened one eye then closed it. "I hate to disturb your beauty sleep again, but I don't want to make Calvin any grouchier than he already is by being late."