Peril, Plots, and Puppies: The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries, #6

By Maggie Pill

When a midnight murder comes to Allport, Barb is observed conducting one of her "Correction Events" nearby. The police want to question the Grammar Nazi, and Retta insists the only way to save Barb's reputation is to solve the crime before her secret activities are revealed to the whole town.

The victim was a newcomer to Allport who was engaged to marry a local businessman's attractive but spoiled daughter. Retta finds Frannie Habedank particularly irritating, since the younger woman commands the attention of just about any man who comes near her. Perhaps rightly and perhaps not, Retta is convinced Frannie killed her fiancé.

The Sleuth Sisters take up the case and learn that Frannie's father wasn't completely happy with his prospective son-in-law. Many back in his home town considered Steve Deline a "slug," and even the man's own brother hasn't got much good to say about him. It's difficult to eliminate any suspect, but who among those Deline offended would take violent action and end his life with a blunt metal object?

On a different case the sisters uncover a puppy mill, which results in the seizure of two dozen neglected and pitiful dogs. Faye's whole-hearted plunge into helping with their recovery means she's distracted from other events at the agency.

As Faye re-homes dogs and Barb frets about being exposed as the Grammar Nazi, Retta wrestles with a question of her own. She has a life-changing decision to make by the end of the year, and it's already December. She'd like some advice, but when everyone she knows is involved, where can a woman get objective input?

Though personal issues get in the way, the sisters know that when the situation takes a perilous turn, they can count on each other. Combine resources. Stand together. Sister power!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gwendolyn Books
• Release date: Mar 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386137672

Book preview

Chapter One

Barb

IF YOU THINK DRESSING completely in black and creeping out of the house at midnight in order to engage in vandalism is ridiculous for a woman in her mid-fifties, you’re probably right. If you think an Assistant DA from Tacoma, Washington, now retired and living in Allport, Michigan, wouldn’t do something like that, you’re wrong.

I tiptoed down the stairs, avoiding two that squeak like mice trapped in a bucket, and went out through the front door, keeping a thumb on the latch so it slid into place without a sound. Faye and Dale’s bedroom was at the rear of the house, several well-insulated walls away, and Faye’s dog Buddy slept like Beast in the Disney fairy tale. The dishes, cutlery, and candles could be singing Be Our Guest and doing the can-can in the dining room and he wouldn’t hear a thing.

I’d left my car on the street, which technically violated a December-to-May city ordinance. Still, winter hadn’t yet hit in earnest, so it wasn’t obstructing snowplow routes. The door opened with a mild click, and I pulled it closed with a gentle click. Anticipation battled with nerves, since I hadn’t been out like this in a while.

Starting the engine, I turned the heater dials to maximum and waited for the temperature to rise from shivering to tolerable. For the tenth time, I checked the bag on the floor in the back seat to be certain I was ready. Under the usual emergency items, a flashlight, blanket, candle, and a can of flat-fixer, were several small cans of paint, two brushes, some rags, and a ruler. Reassured, I headed for a downtown shop where a sign out front said, Alterations: i can fix u up in an hour.

I am not an unreasonable person, but failing to capitalize the pronoun I is and always will be wrong. If some hip style calls for u instead of you, it stands to reason the U would also be capitalized. After giving due consideration to individuality and making allowance for artistic license, Allport’s Correction Activist (me) would strike a blow for proper English.

I’d chosen a target at ground level, since I was still recovering from a bullet that passed through my shoulder a few months earlier. No one told me how much longer it would take to get back to full strength in my mid-fifties, despite rehab and the mothering efforts of my sisters. Retta had been full of advice on what I should and should not do, not that that was unusual. Faye ascribed to the Conehead Diet: Mass quantities of food would fix me up in no time.

In the last few weeks I’d finally begun feeling like my old self, able to lift objects with my damaged arm without wincing. Every second of dependence on others had embarrassed and irritated me, and I was eager to get back to my secret project, making local signs and public notices conform to Standard English.

It took longer to park my car in a dark spot two blocks away and walk to the shop than it did to actually make the corrections. Carrying a small jar of black paint and a fine-tipped brush, I made the lower case letters into upper case: I can fix U up in an hour. Still not great literature, but so much better.

As I stood back to check my work, I realized my right hand was slightly numb due to the fact that I’d removed my glove to do the work. It was cold enough to freeze overnight, and I made a mental note to wear my heavier black coat for the next Correction Event. Most of my coats are black, which Retta will tell you is due to a lack of imagination. I see it as practicality, since just about any accessories match. It’s one of many things my youngest sister and I disagree on.

As I screwed the lid on my paint container, a noise nearby made me freeze in apprehension. It was sudden and brief, therefore hard to identify. A grunt? A growl? Stepping to the entrance of the alley on my right, I listened for a moment but heard nothing more. Replaying the sound in my mind, I decided it hadn’t indicated distress or alarm. Exertion, maybe. Someone lifting something heavy.

At this time of night?

My thoughts turned to self-preservation. If someone was down there, I needed to be elsewhere as soon as possible. Even if, as was more likely, the noise had been made by a prowling cat or a curious raccoon, any human in the vicinity might look out a window or step outside to investigate. I could be seen. Chased. Arrested.

A final glance told me the sign looked good. No runs, no drips, no more errors. I hurried to my car, stowed my tools in the bag, and headed for home and my warm bed.

Chapter Two

Faye

I WAS UP EVEN EARLIER than my usual five a.m. on Tuesday. The Meadows called at four thirty to say that my mother-in-law, Harriet Burner, had taken another fall. We checked her out, and there’s only a little bruising, the nurse said. She’s gone back to sleep.

Well past ninety and out of her head half the time, Harriet often forgot she couldn’t walk. The facility’s policy was to call the family as soon as possible and let them know of such incidents, even in the wee hours. Nothing I could do would change what happened, but I was wide awake after the call. I used the time to make fresh cinnamon rolls.

Barb, Dale, and I finished breakfast around seven (two rolls each for Dale and me, and a half for Barb, who fussed she should have an apple instead). We sat sipping our drinks of choice (coffee for Barb, juice for Dale, and tea for me) while Barb read the news on her phone and Dale perused a magazine on reloading bullets. Gabe Wills, our sometime helper at the detective agency, had dropped it off, suggesting Dale might take up reloading as a hobby. Seeing his interest, I guessed a powder measuring device and other paraphernalia would soon arrive by UPS and end up in the workshop behind the house.

Looking at my iPad I said, Facebook’s interesting this morning.

What’s the news on Gossip Central? Barb’s tone said it couldn’t be much.

A man was killed on Barberton Street last night. Murdered, apparently.

What? Coffee slopped onto the table as Barb’s arm jerked backward. Dale and I looked up in surprise. My sister prides herself on keeping her emotions, and her coffee cup, under control.

Skimming the comments under the original post, I summarized. On his way to work this morning, an unnamed man found a body in the alley between the old dime store and that remodeling place. My audience was interested now, but there was no more to tell. I suppose bits and pieces will show up here all day.

Some of it true, and some worthy of a Pulitzer for fiction, Dale said. But we know someone who’ll tell us the real story. Right, Barb?

She didn’t seem to hear. You do have an in with the chief of police, I prompted. If there really was a murder, Rory’s dealing with it. He’ll tell you what happened when he gets a minute, and then you can enlighten us.

Right. Barb’s shoulders took on an almost belligerent pose I recognized from fifty-plus years as her sister. She was spooked by the news but unwilling to admit it. No doubt Rory’s in that alley right now, she said, trying to figure out who was in the vicinity when it happened.

Chapter Three

Retta

I DON’T WATCH MUCH daytime television, and living three miles out of town means I’m sometimes a little out of the loop. I spent Tuesday morning putting away fall clothes and hauling out winter stuff, so it was almost noon before I heard about the murder in Allport. A person might think one’s family would call when something big happened in town, but she’d be wrong, at least where my sisters are concerned. Faye’s cautious about spreading gossip, and Barb? She wouldn’t let me know if that big old house of hers was on fire.

When I called Cindy Stafford about the agenda for the Chamber of Commerce meeting, she gushed, as usual, about how helpful I was to the group and how they couldn’t operate without me. Then she asked if I’d heard the news. When I said no, she happily shared the gory details. A guy was bludgeoned to death in an alley downtown, she said, her voice all breathy. I don’t know his name, but they say he was engaged to the youngest Habedank girl—Annie?—something like that.

A face came to mind. Frannie. She works for her dad at the marina.

Isn’t she the one that makes men drool and women grind their teeth?

That’s her. She’s very pretty. Terrible to lose her fiancé like that though. I knew that trauma well, though it had been over a decade since my Don, a Michigan state trooper, answered a domestic violence call and was shot as he exited his car. No reason. No second chances. Half of me was gone. The other half was left stunned and terrified.

A cough told me Cindy was embarrassed. A lot of people are afraid you’ll break down in gasping sobs when the subject of a lost loved one comes up, but for me it isn’t like that. I’m pleased when someone mentions Don, because it lets me know he isn’t forgotten.

Anyway, Cindy went on, the victim’s name was Steve Deline. He came to Allport to remodel the marina. I guess Milo Habedank is making his boat store all fancy for the tourists.

I noticed the place was getting a face-lift.

Sometime in October, he and Frannie got engaged.

Marrying the boss’ daughter, eh?

They’d have made a pretty couple. He was good-looking: nice build, mucho hair, and good teeth. I sensed a shiver as she went on. They say he wasn’t so pretty when they found him this morning.

In an alley, you said?

Yeah. Possibly searching for assurance that it couldn’t happen to her she said, Who’d go wandering around town after midnight? It’s just asking for trouble.

An image of my sister and me adding an apostrophe to the Bells Hardware sign at three o’clock one morning came to mind. Barbara Ann fixes grammatical mistakes under cover of darkness, and after I caught her doing it, I’d started helping. It was fun, but we’d never considered getting attacked by some murdering fiend out looking for victims in the dark. Right, I told Cindy. Dumb.

Later that morning I learned Steven Deline hadn’t actually died in the alley. The body was dumped there, the kid behind the counter told me when I stopped for gas. Chief Neuencamp figured that out right away. I guess all that time with the Chicago P.D. got him used to handling murders.

Rory Neuencamp was indeed an experienced murder investigator. The Michigan State Police Detective Bureau would be called in from Grayling, since they had labs, equipment, and expertise no small-city department could match. I hoped they would give Rory the respect he was due. Besides being smart, he was my sister’s boyfriend, so sooner or later we’d hear all the gory details.

I arrived at the Smart Detective Agency offices, located in the front two rooms of my sisters’ rambling Victorian home, at one-fifteen, only a few minutes later than planned. When I came in the front door, Dale beat a hasty retreat out the back, as he often does. Barbara Ann says I make him nervous with all my flapping around. Faye says certain voice tones affect his damaged nerves, and I shouldn’t feel bad about it. I think Dale is uncomfortable with attractive women. Not that Faye and Barbara are unattractive, but they certainly don’t work very hard to bring out their good points.

We hold our business meetings in Barbara’s office, probably so Faye and I are reminded she’s the real boss in our equal partnership. Before we got to our current cases, we pooled what we knew about the murder. Rory hadn’t called Barbara yet, so we had nothing official. I shared what I’d heard from Cindy and Mike.

As I talked, Faye checked Facebook on her iPad to see what had been posted since morning. Lots of speculation, she announced, most of it short on facts.

Surprise, surprise, Barbara said. We won’t get the truth from gossip, either in town or on social media.

Faye set the device aside, affected, as usual, by The Eldest’s opinion, and we turned our attention to work. We had two cases: one was a search for the former employee of a local car dealership who’d embezzled a bunch of money and disappeared. The guy was the owner’s wife’s nephew, so he’d asked us to look into the case before calling in the police. Faye had a lead but was waiting for a call from Topeka, Kansas, to confirm it.

The day before we’d taken on a client whose dog was stolen from her fenced backyard over the weekend. Mrs. Conyers asked us to find out if a man named Abraham Kurst, who had a dog kennel down the road from her and a reputation for being dishonest, had taken the dog.

Everyone says he doesn’t take care of his dogs, she told us. And he’ll sell an animal to anyone who can pay his price.

You think he stole your dog to sell her? I asked.

Probably downstate somewhere. Duchess is a purebred Malamute. She wrung her hands, adding, My neighbor saw Kurst’s rattletrap van parked at the side of the road near my house while I was at work on Friday. She brushed her fingers across her face, trying to disguise the removal of a tear. I’m so worried about her!

Would the dog have gone with him willingly?

No, but I hear they give them meat with drugs in it. She’d been unable to hold back her tears at that point. If Kurst took Duchess, I think he’ll get rid of her as soon as possible, so you have to hurry.

As a result of Mrs. Conyers’ visit, Barbara and I planned a covert operation. I answered Kurst’s ad on a site called Allport Buy & Bargain, telling him I wanted to come out and look for a puppy. While I distracted him, Barbara intended to sneak through the woods to the pens behind his house and take pictures. If our client’s dog was there, we’d have proof of his crime to take to the police.

At present Kurst was offering purebred labradoodles, which made me shake my head. The guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about, I told my sisters. Labradoodles are a mixed breed, so they can’t be purebred. They can only be registered.

A crooked dog handler wouldn’t care, Barbara said. He only cares if you have a big checkbook.

No checks, I informed her. Cash only is another warning sign.

Let’s go see what we can find out. Barbara Ann turned to Faye. You’re in charge of the office.

Barbara and I had tacitly conspired to leave Faye out of this one. She’s a big girl with a huge heart, and if Kurst had stolen Mrs. Conyers’ Malamute, a charge of dog theft might be the least of his worries.

As we traveled I said to Barbara, Maybe I should take the photos. You’re still recovering from being shot, so you shouldn’t be traipsing through the woods in the cold.

But you’re the actress in the family. The tone she used wasn’t exactly a compliment, but she was correct. When Barbara lies, she twitches like she’s about to have a seizure. When Faye tries to lie, which isn’t often, she gets this deep blush that turns her neck and cheeks blotchy. I suppose it’s nothing to brag about, but I’m pretty good at stretching the truth. While they often roll their eyes at my tactics, the girls appreciate them when they suit the agency’s purposes.

Well, I predict your shoulder is going to kill you tonight, I said, unwilling to submit gracefully to Barbara’s Spock-logic.

She grunted, equally unwilling to acknowledge I might be correct. That subject exhausted, I returned to the murder. Rory’s probably going to be crazy busy for a while. From what I hear of Frannie Habedank, she has ways of getting exactly what she wants.

Barbara’s posture was extra stiff, a sign she was stressed. She kept adjusting her glasses too, another giveaway. Something was bugging her. Apparently she was having trouble finding the right words, so I asked, What’s the matter, Barbara Ann?

I was there.

Where?

Downtown, last night. I, um, heard something in that alley.

Heard what?

She made an impatient gesture. I don’t know. I thought a cat had jumped down from somewhere, but now that I think about it, there was more weight to it.

Like a body being shoved out of a car.

She turned to look at me. Yeah. Like that.

You didn’t investigate?

Her tone turned sarcastic. In my black outfit, with my paintbrush in hand, I’m supposed to walk down a dark alley and call, ‘Who’s there?’ like some Too-Stupid-To-Live character in a horror movie?

Being curious doesn’t make a person stupid. I thought for a moment. Did you hear the car pull away?

No. She ran a hand through her short, graying hair, leaving it uncharacteristically messy. If it was the body drop, the person or persons must have waited until I left before driving off.

Wow! Imagining what might have happened if she had investigated, I decided right then and there it was time Barbara Ann gave up her silly Correction Events.

I didn’t say that out loud. One does not simply tell my sister she has to change, no matter how logical the reasons might be. Instead I asked, What are you going to do?

With a little shrug to relax her shoulders, she pulled herself together. Right now I’m going to locate a possibly stolen dog. I’ll wrestle with the questions on my conscience later.

When we reached the edge of Abraham Kurst’s mostly wooded property, I stopped the car. From statements such as I guarantee— and Call me at—, we’d concluded he lived alone. If I kept him busy for a while, Barbara would have time to find Duchess and get photos that proved she was there.

Though we’d looked at satellite views of the property, I still had doubts. A satellite can tell you where the trees are and the roads run, I said, but it can’t reveal traps or alarms. What if Kurst is paranoid about people sneaking onto his property? There could be booby traps.

Those things require work, Barbara countered. Mrs. Conyers claimed Kurst is known for being lazy as well as dishonest.

Well, watch where you put your feet anyway, I warned. You don’t want to end up hanging upside down from some tree branch like a middle-aged Christmas ornament.

With a look of mild irritation, Barbara got out and disappeared into the trees. Once I’d given her time to get into place, I drove on to Kurst’s driveway and turned in. I was nervous, but along with that was a thrill of excitement at the chance to play a role in the success of our mission.

Kurst’s modular home sat on a slab, giving it a flat, slightly sunken look. It had been allowed to deteriorate for years, so the siding was chalky. The lawn was strewn with broken branches and metal objects left outside for so long they’d disintegrated into undiscernible lumps. A rudimentary porch slanted sideways a few degrees, and a shutter at the largest window had taken a complementary angle to balance it.

Along the exterior walls were piles of stuff that had to have taken decades to accumulate. Old TV sets, some of them console models with fake-wood cabinets. I saw several washing machines, one a wringer model that might have been worth something if someone hadn’t plugged holes in it with a .22; an old couch that animals had taken over for their use; and dozens of other items that couldn’t be considered porch decoration. I doubted even the pickers from those TV shows would find much to interest them in the mess.

I turned off the engine but stayed put, aware that those with the least to protect are likely to be the fiercest about protecting it. That meant guard dogs. To stay safe and save damage to my new outfit from Chico’s, I waited for Kurst to appear and invite me to leave my car.

Sure enough, in seconds three dogs bounded toward me from somewhere at the back of the house. They stopped a few feet from my car, all upset with my presence, though otherwise they were as unalike as dogs can be. The biggest was a silver Rottweiler, and the mid-sized one was a border collie. Dancing around them and making lots of noise was what my husband used to call an ankle-biter, a Chihuahua that probably weighed less than Barb’s cat. All three were determined to drive me off their turf. The smaller two were convinced barking would do it, and the soprano yips of one blended with the alto barks of the other. Only the Rottweiler was a creature of action. Rushing forward, he leapt at my window, throwing himself at it as if he fully intended to break the glass and rip my throat out. I love ninety-nine percent of dogs, but this one looked about as unlovable as any I’d ever encountered.

As the smaller dogs kept up their racket, my attacker threw himself again and again at the car, his claws raking the side and probably doing serious harm to the paint job. I beeped the horn a couple of times, and finally the peeling front door opened and a man stepped onto the low porch. Hey, you idiots! he called. "Fuss!"

Immediately the Chihuahua backed up a step and went quiet. The collie flopped to her belly in a subservient pose. The Rottweiler backed away, retreating to its master’s side, where it glared at me, quivering with anger.

You can come out now, the man called. They won’t hurt you.

Abe Kurst was about my age, with rust-colored hair and a beard more red than brown. He was taller than I by a few inches, but I’m not known for my height. On the website he’d referred to himself as a life-long dog lover, but from the way he’d spoken to his guard dogs, I already doubted that was true.

Rolling down the window I asked in a purposely shaky voice, Can you lock them up? They scare me.

Looking disgusted, he hollered, "Hier, flea bait! Hier!" A sharp jerk of his hand sent the dogs trooping into the house. The smaller two went without objection. The Rottie growled, resentful that he wasn’t going to be allowed to chew on me. When Kurst closed the door on them I breathed a little easier, not only for myself but also for Barbara, who was sneaking toward the pens behind the house.

Getting out of the car, I approached