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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2022 by Eileen Brady

  Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks

  Cover art by Brandon Doorman/Lott Reps

  Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Excerpt from Saddled With Murder

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To my daughters, Amanda and Britt, who have brought love, joy, tears, and a welcome complexity into my life.

  “A well-trained dog will make no attempt to share your lunch. He will just make you feel guilty so that you can’t enjoy it.”

  —Helen Thompson

  “Even the tiniest poodle or Chihuahua is still a wolf at heart.”

  —Dorothy Hinshaw

  “One cat just leads to another.”

  —Ernest Hemingway

  Chapter One

  “Keanu. Stop kissing me.”

  Despite my pleas, Keanu drew closer, his soulful, dark eyes begging for more.

  “You’re being a bad, bad boy.”

  The friendly Labrador retriever mix, named after the famous actor, made a valiant effort to obey. I’d almost finished his final bandage change. The outside layer was lime-green vet wrap, and in about a minute I’d be done if my handsome patient would stop wiggling around. Keanu had cut his paw from catapulting himself in the air after a Frisbee; on descent, the athletic dog landed on a sharp wire fence but kept the disc firmly in his mouth.

  Thanks to quick action by my staff at the Oak Falls Animal Hospital, the cut pad had healed nicely, but keeping a foot bandage dry in two feet of snow in New York’s Hudson Valley presented a challenge.

  “Okay, good-looking. We’re done.” With that, the dog stood up on the stainless steel table and looked around the treatment room. A bank of cages lined the far wall, punctuated by IV stands and infusion pumps. Most of our Christmas decorations were gone, but someone had left a card depicting Santa Claus as a water buffalo taped to the wall. Above the oxygen cage, perched on the highest point, sat our hospital cat, Mr. Katt, looking down in supreme feline disdain. A stealthy ninja, he sometimes jumped on our shoulders from on high with no warning.

  My veterinary tech, Mari, waterproofed our work with some plastic wrap while I kept our star distracted.

  “Ready?” I asked her.

  “Ready, Doc,” she replied.

  The two of us lifted Keanu in our arms and gently placed him on the treatment room floor. We both received more doggie kisses for our work.

  His thick tail kept whacking me in the knees as I walked him back to reception. As soon as he saw his family, the wags reached a crescendo. That tail felt like someone playing a drum solo on my legs.

  The happy family reunion in our reception area quickly turned into chaos. Keanu jumped up on everyone, acting as though he hadn’t seen them in years, instead of a mere twenty minutes. Trying to be heard above the ten-year-old twin boys’ enthusiastic chatter, I reminded the adults to take the plastic covering off as soon as they got home, and to keep this new bandage clean and dry. Since dogs love to lick, Keanu had several types of anti-licking collars at home to wear, from stiff plastic to sturdy fabric.

  “And no Frisbee playing until he’s completely healed,” I yelled as they walked out the door. “Promise?” At every bandage change I said the same thing, at the same time.

  “Promise. Thanks, Dr. Kate. Happy almost New Year.” We watched as the family of four piled into their SUV parked in front of our entrance, the mischievous twins sliding over to make room in the back for Keanu. Before the door slammed shut, I saw one of the boys hand the shiny black dog a bright red Frisbee.

  My receptionist, Cindy, started laughing. “We should make up some ‘No Frisbee’ signs for those guys.”

  I sank into one of the reception chairs and asked, “Are we done for the morning?”

  Mari slumped into the chair opposite me, her brown eyes glazed. “Please tell me we can eat lunch now. It’s twelve thirty-two.”

  “Surprise.” Cindy got up from her desk, purse and coat in hand. We watched as she flipped our office sign to CLOSED. Dangling her car keys in the air, she said, “Our next appointment isn’t until two. The answering service is picking up our calls, so you both can relax. I’ve got to get to the bank and shop for some office supplies, but I’ll be back to open up by one thirty.”

  The last time we’d had such a long lunch was when one of our house-call clients got murdered.

  “Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone.” Cindy gave me a look like she’d read my mind. Then with a blazing white cheerleader smile she let herself out the front door, locked us in, and hurried over to her truck. Despite the wind, her hair r
emained undaunted, as unmoving as a steel helmet, stiff with spray.

  We didn’t wait around to watch her leave.

  “This feels like I’m on vacation.” Mari laughed as she hurried toward the employee break room to get her food.

  “Don’t jinx it,” I said.

  ***

  With so much extra time, I suggested we eat lunch at my place. It wasn’t a long commute. One of the perks of the job, if you could call it that, was living in the attached converted garage apartment. It consisted of a bedroom alcove, a bathroom, small kitchen, living room, and not much more. With a student loan debt of over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars after graduating from Cornell University School of Veterinary Medicine, not having to pay rent made living in a converted garage more palatable.

  My rescue dog, Buddy, barked and twirled with pleasure as we opened the apartment door. He loved company but also knew that Mari sometimes dropped delicious things on the floor that I allowed him to gobble up. Vacuuming up stray food was Buddy’s contribution to housekeeping.

  Usually when Mari comes into the apartment she says, “Looking good.” This time she simply shook her head.

  “I know. I know.” The last week had been particularly frenzied. Piles of stuff were scattered all over the place. My boyfriend, Luke Gianetti, was finishing up his first semester in law school, living and working near the school, so I had no motivation to tidy up. At least that was my rationale. On the kitchen table, Mari found my list of things to do before he joined me for New Year’s.

  While munching on her sandwich, she eyeballed it.

  The microwave pinged, signaling my canned soup was ready.

  “You’ve got way too much on this list,” she commented between bites.

  “Welcome to my life.” When I opened the microwave, I heard my soup bubbling. I’d punched in the wrong number of minutes and turned my tomato bisque into lava.

  “No, that’s not what I mean.” She ripped open a bag of chips and started munching. “If your list is too long, it can be discouraging. Professional organizers say you should break your chores up into manageable units.”

  “Units?” I also misjudged the temperature of the blue ceramic soup bowl and yelled, “Ouch!” while racing for the kitchen table.

  Mari noticed my dilemma but stayed focused on her advice. “Yes, units. That’s what they call them, Kate. Like a math problem, I suppose.”

  “Okay.” I blew on my soup a few times before trying it once more. “How do you know all this?”

  She held a finger up to indicate a full mouth.

  Seeing her occupied, I stole a couple of chips.

  “Well, my sister-in-law, Barbara, signed up for this lecture series on home organization at the community center. I’m going with her tonight.” Her dark eyebrows arched as she turned and asked, “Want to join us?”

  I did a slow pan around the room. Stacks of stuff were everywhere, multiple single socks lay scattered on the floor in no discernable pattern, and dirty clothes draped over the furniture. After clearing my throat, I managed a sarcastic “You think I need to?”

  “Hey, I’ve got a roomie to help me. You’re all by yourself, plus half the time you work on the weekends, what with treatments and emergencies. I’m surprised it looks this good in here.”

  “Thanks.” Mari always had my back. “I have to admit I’ve been feeling overwhelmed lately.”

  She finished off the last of the chips and crumpled the bag. “So, the lecture starts at six, followed by a short Q and A. It’s over by eight. Why don’t you meet us there? Count it toward your New Year’s resolutions.”

  I was about to protest that I had too much to do but then realized that most nights I simply sacked out on the sofa with my dog, poured a glass of wine, and watched HGTV.

  “Okay,” I promised her. “It’s a date.”

  Chapter Two

  I got to the community center a little late, thanks to a last-minute email from a client confused about his kitty’s insulin dosage. I’d been to the center a few times, once to cheer on a client with a performing parrot. The large, paved lot next to the center, one of the newer buildings in town, was filled with cars tonight, forcing me to park at the far end.

  Despite our recent December snowstorm, the main entrance was newly shoveled, with fresh sand spread about for added traction. Once inside the double glass doors, I followed the signs for the home-organizing lecture. The designated room proved easy to find and held a much larger audience than I expected. At the podium, a speaker discussed wood versus laminate cabinets. Mari had promised to save me a place, so once I caught a glimpse of her curly Afro in the front row, I attempted to join her. No such luck. The speaker paused, frowned at me, then pointed to the few empty seats near the back. I chose the closest aisle, slipped off my backpack and winter coat, and piled them on the seat next to me.

  Behind me a man with a pink muffler around his neck scribbled in a pocket notebook.

  The topic seemed to be drawers. I didn’t know the speaker’s name, but she’d dressed very professionally in a black pantsuit and white shirt. A striking green necklace made of large beads in differing shades drew attention to her attractive face. Her abundant brown hair with salon-bleached blond streaks was sleekly contained in a French braid. She radiated confidence.

  As I tried to concentrate on her presentation, my body temperature went from comfortably warm to boiling hot. The room air smelled stuffy, full of people. Someone must have turned the heat up because my forehead quickly beaded up with sweat. In a hurry to leave my apartment, I’d neglected to layer, so I had nothing on under my heavy wool sweater except underwear. With sweat rolling down my back and sliding down my front, it became hard to concentrate on organizing your drawers.

  While the lecturer continued discussing different drawer liner options, I scanned the room. Along the right wall was a beverage area. My salvation, in the form of a large iced-water dispenser, beckoned. As quietly as possible I stood up, reminding myself to grab a few extra napkins for damage control. Maybe I could casually stuff them down my bra?

  “And we have a volunteer,” the lecturer said loudly. “The blond woman in the back. Let’s give her a hand.”

  I frantically searched for another blond but soon realized the applause was for me.

  Dabbing delicately at my face with my sleeve, I slowly walked down the center aisle and stood next to her.

  “So tell us,” the lecturer said, pausing and raising her palm toward me like I was a game show prize. “What is your name?”

  “Kate,” I answered.

  “Tell us, Kate, what do you use to line your dresser drawers?”

  Instead of making something up, I told the truth. “I’m not sure. Some kind of wrapping paper, I think? It was in the drawers when I moved in.”

  The look of disgust on her face could have earned an Academy Award. “You put your clean clothes on top of someone else’s…used…drawer liner? Did you wipe it off first?”

  This time I lied and said, “Yes.”

  I don’t think she believed me. When I searched for a bit of sympathy from the audience, only Mari managed a smile.

  The presenter paused dramatically, then sighed. “I think Kate here needs our help.” A ripple of laughter rose from the mostly female audience, some of whom I recognized as my clients. I tried to slink away, but the organizer said, “Just a moment, Kate.”

  She took a step toward me, then picked something off my shoulder and held it up like a dead bug. “What is this?”

  Trapped with the evidence dangling in front of me, I straightened my back, stared her in the eye, and replied in a loud voice, “Dog hair.”

  More peals of merriment from the audience. Someone with a braying laugh sounded particularly amused.

  With a cluck of her tongue, she wrapped the fur in a Kleenex fished out of her jacket pocket and announced, “You, m
y dear, don’t just need help; you need an intervention.”

  ***

  “Well, that went well,” Mari announced as the three of us drank decaf coffee and munched cookies in the lounge area after the lecture.

  Her sister-in-law, Barbara, came to my defense. “I know it was just in fun, but Sookie Overmann could have been nicer to you.” With her prominent overbite, Barbara always reminded me of one of my rabbit patients.

  “I’ll exact my revenge by taking an extra cookie,” I announced. Using a napkin, I placed a fat oatmeal raisin cookie in the center, put another on top, then folded the napkin over them both and stowed them in my backpack. “Talk about embarrassing.”

  One of my clients spotted us and came over. “I’m so sorry you got picked on tonight, Dr. Kate. But you aren’t the only one. Sookie said something snotty to Larissa Jarris last week that had her in tears.”

  One by one other members of the audience stopped by, offering their condolences.

  “This is definitely not the way to increase your clientele,” Mari said. She pointed to a stack of business cards at a nearby table, then took an identical one out of her purse.

  I read it out loud. “Overmann Organizing. Let a professional organize your home and your life.”

  For effect I tore it into confetti. “Guess I won’t be needing this.”

  Just then the presenter herself, Sookie Overmann, slid past, gathered up her business cards, and, head held high, made for the exit. In her well-tailored black pantsuit, winter coat under her arm, she cut a much more formal presence than her audience members, most of whom wore jeans and sweatshirts. I wondered if she usually mingled with the crowd.

  One of the audience members broke away from her friends, walked over, and said her goodbyes. After a brief conversation, Sookie continued toward the front exit doors.

  “She may not have much of a bedside manner,” Barbara remarked, “but she knows her stuff. I feel ready to tackle my husband’s drawers.”

  Mari’s explosive laugh turned a few heads.

  Enjoying our night out, we sat and talked. Other participants also gathered in groups, taking advantage of this winter social event. After about twenty minutes the crowd began to thin. Barbara didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. When Mari suggested they get going, she looked at her watch and said, “Just a little longer. Steve is putting the kids to bed and promised to do the dishes. If he gets it all done, I’ll consider it a miracle.”