Dressed Up 4 Murder, page 1
My mother had begged me to stop by on my way home from work to look at Streetman’s costume for the Precious Pooches Holiday Extravaganza for dogs of all ages and breeds.
I tried to be objective, but it was impossible. “He looks like an overstuffed grape if you ask me. And he’s scratching at your patio door. Does he need to go out?”
“He’s not a grape. He’s an acorn. He’ll look better once I get the hat on him. When he stops biting. And no, he doesn’t need to go out. We were just out a half hour ago.”
“I think he wants to go. He’s frantically pawing at your patio door.”
My mother turned and walked to the patio door. “Maybe you’re right. Hold on. I’ll grab his leash.”
At the instant the sliding glass door opened, Streetman yanked my mother across the patio and straight toward the Galbraiths’ backyard barbeque grill.
“I should never have taken the retractable leash!” she shouted. “I haven’t learned how to use it yet. It’s new.” Her voice bellowed across the adjoining yards as she approached the Galbraiths’ grill. “Streetman, stop that! Stop that this instant!”
The dog zeroed in on the tarp and gripped the edge of it with his teeth. My mother stood directly behind him and fiddled with the retractable leash.
“Now see what you’ve done,” she said to the dog. “You’ve uncovered the bottom of the grill. I’ll just shove those black boxes back a bit and put the tarp back down.”
“Don’t move, Mom!” I screamed. “They’re not boxes. They’re shoes.” I bent down to take a closer look and froze. “Um, it’s not shoes. I mean, yeah, those are shoes, but they’re kind of attached to someone’s legs.”
Praise for the Sophie Kimball Mysteries!
“An entertainingly funny cozy that will tickle the fancy of readers.”
—Library Journal on Booked 4 Murder
“Funny, great cast, great plot—readers will absolutely love this one!”
—Suspense Magazine on Booked 4 Murder
Books by J.C. Eaton
The Sophie Kimball Mysteries
BOOKED 4 MURDER
DITCHED 4 MURDER
STAGED 4 MURDER
BOTCHED 4 MURDER
MOLDED 4 MURDER
DRESSED UP 4 MURDER
(and coming in November 2020:
BROADCAST 4 MURDER)
And available from Lyrical Press
The Wine Trail Mysteries
A RIESLING TO DIE
CHARDONNAYED TO REST
PINOT RED OR DEAD?
SAUVIGONE FOR GOOD
Dressed Up 4 Murder
J.C. Eaton
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by J.C. Eaton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2455-7
Kensington Electronic Edition: March 2020
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2455-7
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2455-0
For our backyard neighbors, the Carlini and Gabert
families, whose covered grills always made us wonder,
“What’s really under those tarps?”
Acknowledgments
From the moment we came up with the idea to plot a murder around a grill and a pet parade, our “behind the scenes supporters” were always there to help out. They proof our drafts, listen to us whine, and come to our rescue when technology fails us. Thank you, Larry Finkelstein, Gale Leach, Susan Morrow, Fran Orenstein, and Susan Schwartz from “Down Under.” And a big thank-you to the “Cozy Mystery Crew” of authors who work together to support one another. You’re incredible: Bethany Blake, V. M. Burns, Sarah Fox, Lena Gregory, Jody Holford, Jenny Kales, Tina Kashian, Libby Klein, Shari Randall, Linda Reilly, and Debra Sennefelder.
We realize that none of this would be possible without our tireless and capable agent, Dawn Dowdle from Blue Ridge Literary Agency, and our thoughtful and skilled editor, Tara Gavin from Kensington Publishing. The fact that they “get” our humor makes all the difference for us. Thank you, Dawn and Tara, for continuing to seek out the best in us and push us forward.
And to production editor Carly Sommerstein, we genuinely appreciate your eagle eye! The staff at Kensington Publishing deserves a huge shout-out, from its brilliant art department to its outstanding marketing team. We are humbled that you’ve taken us under your wing.
And to our readers, thank you so much for bringing Phee, Harriet, Streetman, and the gang into your lives.
Chapter 1
Harriet Plunkett’s House
Sun City West, Arizona
“Doesn’t he look like the most adorable little dog you’ve ever seen?” my mother asked when I walked into her house on a late Wednesday afternoon in October. Signs of autumn were everywhere in Sun City West, including pumpkins on front patios, leaf wreaths on doorways, and someone’s large ceramic pig dressed like a witch. Of course, it was still over ninety degrees, but that wasn’t stopping anyone from welcoming the fall and winter holidays.
My mother had begged me to stop by on my way home from work to look at Streetman’s costume for the Precious Pooches Holiday Extravaganza for dogs of all ages and breeds. And since her dog was a Chiweenie, part Chihuahua, part Dachshund, he certainly qualified. The contest made no mention of neuroses.
I tried to be objective, but it was impossible. “He looks like an overstuffed grape or something, if you ask me. And what’s he doing? He’s scratching at your patio door. Does he need to go out?”
“He’s not a grape. He’s going as an acorn. He’ll look better once I get the hat on him. When he stops biting. And no, he doesn’t need to go out. We were just out a half hour ago.”
“Maybe he’s trying to escape because you’re about to put the hat on him.”
“Very funny. It’s not easy, you know. There are three separate category contests, and I’ve registered him for all of them—Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Hanukkah/ Christmas. And just wait until it comes time for the St. Patrick’s Day Doggie Contest in March. The prize for that one is almost as good as a pot of gold.”
St. Patrick’s Day? That’s months away. And what’s next, dressing him up as “Yankee Doodle Dandy” for the Fourth of July?
“Like I was saying, Phee, Shirley Johnson is making the costumes. You’re looking at the Thanksgiving one. I can’t make up my mind if I want Streetman to go as a pumpkin for Halloween or a ghost. Goodness. I haven’t even given any thought to the winter costume. Maybe a snowflake . . .”
“Right now, I think he wants to go. Period. Look. He’s frantically pawing at your patio door.”
“He only wants to sniff around the Galbraiths’ grill. A coyote or something must’ve marked the tarp, because, ever since yesterday, the dog has been beside himself to check it out. I certainly don’t need him peeing on their grill. They won’t be back until early November. I spoke to Janet a few days ago. She really appreciates Streetman and me checking out her place while they’re up in Alberta. You know how it is with the Canadian snowbirds. They can only stay here for five months or they lose their health insurance. Something like that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anyway, how are you and Marshall managing with your move? That’s coming up sometime soon, isn’t it?”
“Not soon enough. I feel as if I’m living out of cardboard boxes, and Marshall’s place is no different. We won’t be able to get into the new rental until November first. That’s three weeks away and three weeks too long.”
Marshall and I had worked for the same Mankato, Minnesota, police department for years before I moved out west to become the bookkeeper for retired Mankato detective Nate Williams. Nate opened his own investigation firm and ins
“Do you need any help with the move?” my mother asked. “Lucinda and Shirley offered to help you pack.”
Oh dear God. We’d never finish. They’d be arguing over everything.
Shirley Johnson and Lucinda Espinoza were two of my mother’s book club friends and as opposite as any two people could possibly be. Shirley was an elegant black woman and a former milliner while Lucinda, a retired housewife, looked as if she had recently escaped a windstorm.
“No, I’ll be fine. The hard part’s done. I can’t believe I actually sold my house in Mankato. Other than autumn strolls around Sibley Park, I really won’t miss Minnesota.”
“What about my granddaughter? Did she get all nostalgic?”
“Um, not really. In fact, she had me donate most of the stuff she had in storage to charity. She’s sharing a small apartment in St. Cloud with another teacher and they don’t have much room. Besides, Kalese was never the packrat type.”
My mother had turned away for a second and walked to the patio door. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe he does need to go out again. Hold on. I’ll grab his leash. We can both go out back.” With the exception of the people living next door to my mother and busybody Herb Garrett across the street, the other neighbors were all snowbirds. Michigan. South Dakota. Canada.
“Dear God. You’re not going to take him outside in that outfit, are you?” I asked.
“Fine. I’ll unsnap the Velcro. Shirley’s using Velcro for everything.”
At the instant in which the sliding glass door opened, Streetman yanked my mother across the patio and straight toward the Galbraiths’ backyard barbeque grill.
“I should never have taken the retractable leash!” she shouted. “He’s already yards ahead of me.”
“Can’t you push a button or something on that leash?”
“I haven’t learned how to use it yet. It’s new.”
I was a few feet behind her, running as fast as I could in wedge heels.
Her voice bellowed across the adjoining yards as she approached the Galbraiths’ grill. “Streetman, stop that! Stop that this instant!”
The dog zeroed in on the tarp and gripped the edge of it with his teeth. My mother stood directly behind him and fiddled with the retractable leash.
“Now see what you’ve done,” she said to the dog. “You’ve gone ahead and uncovered the bottom of the grill. I’ll just shove those black boxes back a bit and put the tarp back down.”
“Don’t move, Mom!” I screamed. “Take a good look. They’re not boxes. They’re shoes.”
“What?” My mother flashed me a look. “Who puts shoes under a grill where snakes and scorpions can climb in them?”
I bent down to take a closer look and froze. Streetman was still tugging to get under the tarp and my mother seemed oblivious to what was really there.
“Um, it’s not shoes. I mean, yeah, those are shoes, all right, but they’re kind of attached to someone’s legs.”
“What??”
If I thought my mother’s voice was loud when she was yelling at the dog, it was a veritable explosion at that point. “A body? There’s a body under there? You’re telling me there’s a body under that tarp? Oh my God. Poor Streetman. This could really set him back.”
Yes, above all, the dog’s emotional state was the first thing that came to my mind, too. “Mom, step back.”
At that moment, she scooped Streetman into her arms and ran for the house. “I’m calling the sheriff. No! Wait. We have to find out who it is first. Once those deputy sheriffs get here, they’ll never let us near the body.”
“Good. I don’t want to be near a dead body. Do you?”
“Of course not. But I need to know who it is. My God, Phee, it could be one of the neighbors. Can’t you just pull the tarp back and take a look?”
Streetman was putting up a major fuss, squirming in my mother’s arms and trying to get down.
“Okay, Mom. Go back to the house. Put the dog inside and come back here. I won’t move until you do. Oh, and bring your cell phone.”
My mother didn’t say a word. She walked as quickly as she could and returned a few minutes later, cell phone in hand. “Here. Take this plastic doggie bag and use it as you pull the tarp away. Don’t get your fingerprints on the tarp.”
“I’ll pull the tarp back and take a look, but I won’t have the slightest idea if it’s one of your neighbors. I don’t know all of them.”
“Fine. Fine. Oh, and look for cause of death while you’re at it.”
“Cause of death? I’m not a medical examiner.” I bent down, put my hand in the plastic bag, and gingerly lifted the tarp. I tried not to look at what, or in this case who, was underneath it, but it was useless. I got a bird’s-eye view. Male. Fully clothed, thank God, and faceup. Middle aged. Dark hair. Jaundiced coloring. Small trickle of blood from his nose to shirt. No puddles of blood behind the head or around the body.
My mother let out a piercing scream. “Oh my God. Oh my God in heaven!”
“Who? Who is it? Is it someone you know?”
I immediately let go of the tarp and let it drape over the body.
“No, no one I know.”
“Then why were you screaming bloody murder?”
“Because there’s a dead man directly across from my patio. A well-dressed dead man. Here, you call the sheriff’s office. I’m too upset. And when you’re done, give me the phone. I need to call Herb Garrett.”
“Herb Garrett? Why on earth would you need to call Herb?”
“Once those emergency vehicles show up, he’ll be pounding at my door. Might as well save us some time.”
I started to dial 911 when my mother grabbed my arm and stopped me. “Whatever you do, don’t tell them it was Streetman who discovered the body.”
“Why? What difference does that make?”
“Next thing you know, they’ll want to use him for one of those cadaver dogs. He’s got an excellent sense of smell. Don’t say a word.”
“You’re kidding, right? First of all, the law enforcement agencies have their own trained dogs. Trained being the key word. No one’s going to put up with all his shenanigans. And second of all, how else are you and I going to explain how we happened to come across a dead body under the neighbors’ tarp?”
My mother pursed her lips and stood still for a second. “Okay. Fine. Go ahead and call.”
The dispatch operator asked me three times if I was positively certain we had uncovered a dead body. I had reached my apex the third time.
“Unless they’re starting to make store mannequins in various stages of decomposition, then what we’ve discovered is indeed a dead body. Not a doll. Not a lifelike toy. And certainly not someone’s Halloween decoration!”
Finally, I gave her my mother’s address and told her we were behind the house. Then I handed my mother the phone. “Go ahead. Make Herb’s day. Sorry, Mom, I couldn’t resist the Clint Eastwood reference.”
My mother took the phone and pushed a button. “I have him on speed dial in case of an emergency.”
All I could hear was her end of the conversation, but it was enough.
“I’m telling you, I had no idea there’d be a body under that tarp. Sure, it was a huge tarp, but I thought it was covering up one of those gigantic grills.... Uh-huh. . . . Really? A griddle feature? . . . No, all I have is a small Weber.... Uh-huh. Behind the house.... Fine. See you in a minute.”
“I take it Herb is on his way.”
My mother nodded. “Do you think I should call Shirley and Lucinda?”
“This isn’t an afternoon social, for crying out loud; it’s a crime scene. No, don’t call them. It’s bad enough Herb’s going to be here any second. Maybe we should go wait on your patio. We can see everything from there.”
