The Ghost Goes to the Dogs, page 14
Jack’s dream had ended so abruptly that my eyes snapped open to a wide-awake state. Though my ghostly companion was gone again, off recharging his supernatural batteries, I now felt better about facing a new day, even if it meant dealing with Ella Pruett and her troublesome ego trip.
I had to admit, the way Jack dealt with Timothy Brennan (head-on, so to speak) certainly was effective. I never liked confrontations. And I wasn’t planning on banging open doors with Ella’s hard head, as much as I wanted to. But the trip to Jack’s past—though it left him drained—filled me with new confidence. And for that, I was grateful.
In any event, with Seymour’s arrival, I left my kettle on the stove and hurried downstairs to open the door.
“What’s this?” I asked as Seymour rolled a loaded dolly into the shop.
“The books you were supposed to sell at the theater. Remember Queen Ella and her bullhorn? Since she scuttled Jane Cunningham’s plans and kicked you out of the theater, Brainert didn’t want anything to happen to your books, so here come those dreaded returns.”
“Let’s hope not.”
“Brainert put out that line of cat boxes, just as Queen Ella demanded,” Seymour said. “But I convinced him to cater to the canine crowd, too. He put a giant sandbox in the lobby. In the middle, there’s a garden decoration in the shape of a fire hydrant—”
“Where in the world did you find one of those?”
“Chick Patelli’s Garden Center,” Seymour replied. “If you thought pink flamingos were tasteless, you wouldn’t believe the junk people decorate their yards with nowadays.”
“Roll the dolly over there and follow me upstairs. I don’t want my kettle to boil over. Would you like some tea?”
Seymour mock-shuddered. “I never touch the terrible green herb. But if you have a cold Mountain Dew, that’s different.”
A few minutes later, we sat down at the kitchen table, and Seymour declared, “It’s going to be a big day. People are already showing up with and without their pets, and the action doesn’t even start for another two hours.”
“Everything’s ready?”
“On Cranberry Street, for sure.” Seymour grinned. “Dr. Winnik and his mobile veterinarian van just pulled up in front of the theater. I saw a sign about the free doggy treats at the Cooper Family Bakery. Koh’s Market replaced part of their outdoor produce section with a pet food super sale.
“For those favoring adult beverages over pet food, Donovan’s Pub is serving a slew of animal-themed cocktails—Moscow mules, salty dogs, black cats, Colorado bulldogs, bee’s knees. Even Leo Rollins got into the act. His electronics store is featuring dog and cat collars with GPS chips in them.”
Seymour frowned. “Things are not going so well at Brainert’s theater, however. Ella Pruett is making a mess of everything. That woman actually tried to change the Pet Week movie schedule.”
“Why? Does she think Lassie is dog propaganda?”
“Good one, Pen.” Seymour snorted. “Though the term would be dog-o-ganda, in the proper reductive Newspeak. But no . . . Queen Ella did not object to Lassie. She’s protesting the Friday night showing of Cat People. Do you remember that Val Lewton classic from the 1940s? Ella thought the film showed cat owners in a bad light.” Seymour shook his head. “I told Brainert he should replace it with the erotic R-rated reboot from the eighties. That would really bake her cookies.”
“Brainert’s not going to change his schedule, is he?”
“Nah. The only real power Ella has is inside of that group called the Paw-some Pals, and she sure knows what buttons to push on those people to keep them quiet.”
“It’s a dominance thing,” I said. “I’ve been reading about animal behavior, and that’s my conclusion.”
Seymour shook his head in disgust. “A bully by any other name. And you’re right about the call of the wild. You can dress people up in tailored duds or evening clothes, but that won’t stop them from playing their parts in the animal kingdom. Giraffes go neck and neck, and may the best neck win. A rabbit will thumb one foot on the ground like a nervous Nellie. Sometimes they even scream, and a rabbit scream is nothing you ever want to hear.”
(I didn’t doubt it.)
“We all know chickens peck at one another,” the Jeopardy! champ went on. “Hence the term pecking order. Wolves show who’s boss by standing tall with their tails high while the rest of the pack slouches with their tails between their legs. But my all-time favorite is the Japanese honeybee. They get together in a gang and surround their foe. Then they vibrate their wings to increase the temperature until their victim is well done.”
I lowered my voice. “I have reason to believe Ella held a long-standing personal grudge against Jane Cunningham, which is why I think her real goal today isn’t so much changing Jane’s plan to make it better but undoing everything she’s accomplished. Like a child on the beach wrecking her friend’s painstakingly built sandcastle out of jealousy and spite.”
Seymour drained his Mountain Dew can and set it down hard. “It’s disgusting. Some people don’t care who they hurt, so long as they can thwart their rival in the process. Too bad Ella can’t just thump her designer heels on the ground like an angry rabbit and be done with it. Or piss on something and sashay away. Then she’d have closure, and the rest of us wouldn’t have to suffer. I mean, you should see poor, harried Brainert. And, of course, I wouldn’t have been fired, and you’d still have your book kiosk.”
“I guess Ella Pruett handed us each a raw deal, but there’s no use moaning about it. Anyway, like you, I feel sorry for poor Brainert. He’s going to have to put up with that woman—and her bullhorn—for the rest of the day.”
“I predict chaos, followed by calamity.” Seymour’s face suddenly brightened. “It might be fun.”
“You’re going to the parade, then, and the theater afterward?”
“I wouldn’t miss either for the world.”
Seymour glanced at his watch. “Speaking of missing something, I’d better go. Ella Pruett is due to show up any minute at the Movie Town Theater, and I want to see what lunatic scheme she comes up with this time.”
As he rose, Seymour bumped the fruit bowl, and Jane’s stuff dumped out of it. He blinked, then picked up the mini flashlight.
“This is cool. Where did you get it?”
“This stuff belongs to Jane Cunningham. It fell out of her coat pocket the day someone shot her. I had Spencer gather it up for safekeeping.”
“Wow,” Seymour marveled, “who knew a mature woman like Jane Cunningham was a fan of the Castle of Wishes series.”
“What? No. Jane is no fan. Bonnie told me that Jane has zero interest in the young-adult-fantasy stuff.”
“But the coat of arms on this flashlight belongs to the Ice Queen. She’s the mistress of the castle.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure. Can you name another coat of arms with a penguin and a polar bear? You can check yourself. And look at this—”
Seymour showed me the knight figure made of mock-pearl plastic—the one attached to the two keys.
“This is the Pearl Knight from the latest book, The Castle of Pearls and Wishes. In that one, a rival princess tries to take the throne away from the Ice Queen, and this knight rides up on a white dragon—”
I interrupted. “I don’t get it. Bonnie specifically mentioned trying to sell Jane Cunningham that book—and Jane made it clear that she had absolutely no interest. No sale.” I pressed Seymour. “How do you know about it? Have you been reading the series?”
“Not the books, but I’ve checked out the manga adaptations at the comic book store in North Kingstown. Those Japanese comics have great art, and I dig those girls with the Betty Boop eyes.”
“I doubt Jane has read a comic book in her life, and she doesn’t like young-adult fantasy, so why would she be carrying this Castle of Wishes swag?”
“Maybe you’re asking the wrong question, Pen.”
Seymour shook the two keys in my face, then pointed to the larger bundle still on the kitchen table.
“There are two sets of keys here. Maybe one of these sets is Jane’s, but not the other—”
“So, you’re saying—”
“Instead of asking why Jane Cunningham had swag from a series she would never read, you should be asking if this stuff even belonged to Jane Cunningham.”
I slowly nodded. “You may be right . . . but if not Jane, then who?”
Chapter 31
Pets on Parade
Don’t be alarmed. Don’t be frightened. These are just some of my pets.
—Hugh Lofting, The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle
Jane’s mystery keys and the Castle of Wishes conundrum rattled around in my mind for the rest of that day—and what a day it was.
The kickoff events for our Pet Week celebration drew people from Millstone, North and South Kingstown, Newport, Warwick, Providence, Woonsocket, and even Blackstone Falls. So naturally the crowd that gathered along Cranberry Street for the Pet Parade was larger than anyone, including our exasperated police department, had anticipated.
I spied Chief Ciders along the parade route. Looking haried, he was juggling a closed main street, tourist-jammed sidewalks, and parade security all at the same time.
The procession down Cranberry began with the high school marching band striking up a shockingly loud version of Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog.”
Bonnie Franzetti, Aunt Sadie, and I glanced at one another with bubbling, childlike excitement and raced to join the bystanders packing the sidewalk at the front of our shop—leaving Tommy, our St. Francis University grad student (who we’d hired for extra help this week), to watch the store.
Seymour arrived, squeezed in to join us, and reported that more than two hundred marchers had registered at the theater for the contest, and we’d see every one of them as they walked the half-mile, ten-block route.
“My pal Harlan Gilman is marching with his white Persian, Peepers,” Seymour yelled over the noise.
“I hope that cat isn’t as heavy as he is,” Sadie blurted.
“Now, now, Ms. Thornton,” the mailman replied, mock-scolding my aunt with a wagging finger. “Fat-shaming is verboten. But just between you and me . . .”—he leaned close—“Harlan’s cat is only slightly smaller than the Goodyear Blimp.”
Most of the marchers were happy and proud to simply strut their cherished dogs or beloved cats on a leash before an audience of animal lovers. But there were surprise showstoppers, too.
Our friendly local attorney, Emory Stoddard, and his assistant, Miss Tuttle, brought a magnificent hunting falcon named Razor. (Who knew?!) Perching regally on the young woman’s leather-padded arm, the bird of prey ruffled its chest feathers to the awe and delight of the crowd.
Mona Evans, one of Seymour’s neighbors on Larchmont, paraded her pet pig. Not surprisingly the porker was named Arnold.
“Yeesh!” Seymour cried. “I take back what I said the other day about Larchmont Avenue. Given the hobby farms, yahoos with shotguns, and now a pet pig named Arnold, it looks like Green Acres IS my home.”
When I finally spotted Spencer marching with other students from his school, I’m not ashamed to say my heart swelled to see my son in his best (okay, only) suit, confidently waving to the crowd like a mini mayor. Sadie swiped a tear at the sight, and we weren’t the only proud parents lining the parade route, either.
Spencer’s schoolmates showed off pets ranging from birds to bird dogs—a pair of cute beagles, to be exact. I saw little cages with gerbils, hamsters, and a pure white, pink-nosed rabbit cradled in the arms of Susan Trencher.
The children’s section was followed by a jolly pet store owner from South Kingstown who had a chimpanzee on his back. As they marched, the chimp tossed candy to the crowd.
More hobby farm animals followed: a calf with a big red ribbon around its neck, three sheep, a giant sheepdog, a billy goat wearing a straw hat, and two Shetland ponies (which thrilled every kid on the sidewalk).
Of course, Jeremy of Broad Street with the lion’s mane of blond hair made an appearance. He’d put his hair up in a topknot today and slung his very large, very scary boa constrictor over his shoulders and around his tattooed arms. The youth and his pet certainly made an impression—if you call eliciting shudders and gasps from half the spectators an impression.
I wasn’t surprised to see that Jeremy really did wow one attendee. When he appeared, our young clerk Bonnie Franzetti waved wildly and yelled out, “Yeah, Jeremy!”
Jeremy winked and waved back.
A massive serpent might have been a tough act to follow, but our guest of honor’s charm won over the crowd. Amber Breen rode a platform strapped to the back of Chick Patelli’s Garden Center pickup truck. Behind the author was a large sign displaying the web address of her animal shelter beside a blown-up cover of her newest hardcover mystery, Doggy Day Afternoon.
Amber shared the float with her co-judge, Ella Pruett, who sat on her hands with a dour expression, while the author stood and blew kisses to the spectators.
When the parade ended, the marchers headed for the Movie Town Theater, where the pet talent show would take place. Little prizes would be awarded to all the participants. Bigger prizes to the winners. And all attendees would be included in a raffle with dozens of prizes donated by the Cranberry Street merchants, including a grand prize of a free weekend getaway at the Finch Inn with dinner for two at Chez Finch.
When the sidewalk crowds finally broke up, Seymour had his mind set on a jumbo blueberry muffin. He invited us along to the Cooper Family Bakery. But Sadie and Bonnie headed back to the store.
“We lost a good selling opportunity at the theater,” Sadie said. “But this overflowing crowd is already pouring into our shop. We’d better get to it!”
Though a fresh-baked muffin sounded delicious, I had to pass. I was scheduled to introduce our guest author, Amber (and her co-judge, Ella), onstage at the Movie Town. After that, it was back to the bookstore, where I would start tag-teaming breaks for Sadie, Bonnie, and Tommy, so they’d each have a chance to enjoy some of the festivities.
When I got to Brainert’s theater, however, a major bottleneck jammed up the entryway. I was standing at a distance from the crowd, waiting for things to move (and silently practicing my little speech), when an angry voice interrupted my concentration—
“What about me, Stoddard? When do I get something?”
Stoddard, I thought. That had to be Emory Stoddard, Esquire. But who would be picking a fight with the affable lawyer on today of all days?
I looked around, trying to catch sight of the attorney, and quickly spotted him in the crowd. He was about ten feet away, dressed impeccably as usual in a tailored gabardine suit. His assistant, Miss Tuttle, stood beside him with her hunting falcon still perched on her leather-gloved arm.
“You? What are you doing in town?” Mr. Stoddard said to the stranger.
Whatever the angry man said next, I couldn’t make out. His back was to me, so I couldn’t even read his lips, but I did overhear Mr. Stoddard’s reply—
“I don’t wish to argue, but if memory serves, you’ve taken enough from Jane Cunningham and her late husband . . .”
When the name Jane Cunningham was mentioned, I came fully alert. And so, finally, did my partner in crime solving—
What’s this guy’s beef, Penny? He sounds hot as a pistol.
Hello, Jack. I’m glad you’re back. And I have no idea what this man is discussing with Emory Stoddard. Between the barking dogs and chattering crowd, I can’t hear more than pieces of their conversation.
Jostled by the crowd, I nevertheless did my best to move closer to the pair. And when the angry man turned enough for me to see his familiar-looking chiseled chin and thick shock of Kennedy hair the color of dirty snow, I excitedly told the ghost—
I just saw this man yesterday. He’s the guy who pulled up in a cab with a suitcase and waltzed right into Ella Pruett’s house.
You mean, the prune-faced broad who gave you and your auntie all that trouble? The one who has a personal beef with Jane Cunningham, the very dog-loving dame now lying in a hospital bed?
The same, I told the ghost.
Then what are you waiting for?! Get your sweet keister over there, so we can listen in!
Chapter 32
Mystery Guest
The more one reads of it, the more shrouded in mystery the whole thing becomes!
—Agatha Christie, “The Affair at the Victory Ball,” the first short story to feature Hercule Poirot, 1923
Moving my sweet keister—as Jack had so tactfully put it—through the crowd of people and animals was no mean feat.
As I weaved my way through the gauntlet of legs, paws, hooves, and leashes, I got a better look at the mystery man. The day before, he’d been wearing a padded Yankee’s baseball jacket, which had masked just how skinny he really was. Today, however, he wore a flannel shirt that was obviously too large for his thin frame. Hanging off his narrow shoulders, the material flapped like an oversized bathrobe at each furious gesture. He was tall, too, and he towered over the older attorney as they argued.
Not only that, but the mystery man’s stature, which teetered like a high reed waving back and forth in the wind, made me realize something was off with this guy. Between his wide, staring eyes and his overbroad gestures, I wondered if—
He’s up the pole, Jack cracked.
He’s what?
Jingled, oiled, tanked to the wide. The man is blotto. You know, soaking up drink like blotting paper.
You mean, he’s drunk?
No, he’s stone-cold sober and ready to perform brain surgery.
I tried to wrap my mind around a relative of the prudish, judgmental Ella Pruett showing up at a public function in an inebriated state. Maybe we shouldn’t make snap judgments, Jack. He could simply be on prescription drugs—
