Anna Wells and the Mystery of the Dusty Duchess: An Animal Justice Club Mystery

By Terry Ruth Eissfeldt

When a nearly starved pony named Dusty is rescued by her mom, 13-year-old Anna vows to find those responsible and bring them to justice. According to her dad, Anna's heart has an overly developed justice muscle.

Anna's friends Ginger, a whiz kid in Pony Club; and Felicity, an elite soccer player, pitch in to help solve the mystery. But when all clues lead back to the Gordon family, Anna is conflicted. Mrs. Gordon teaches the Pony Club lessons and Zane is a friend. How can they be mixed up in Dusty's past?

Join Anna and her friends as they solve their first Animal Justice Club mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: May 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9780228893479

Terry Ruth Eissfeldt

Terry Ruth is a lifelong animal lover, storyteller, and horse girl. She was born with an incurable disease: horse fever. Growing up, she had few opportunities to ride so she enrolled in Canyonview Horsemanship College near Salem, Oregon, after high school.She loves passing on her knowledge and love of horses, especially to children who, like her, have little opportunity to treat their affliction.She taught horseback riding in summer camps, regular lesson programs, and through the Canadian Pony Club. Currently she's enjoying life in Alberta with her husband, three dogs, Francine, Roxy and Oscar, and Southern Akklaim, a Canadian Warmblood Mare.

Book preview

Anna Wells

and the Mystery of the Dusty Duchess

An Animal Justice Club Mystery

Terry Ruth Eissfeldt

Anna Wells and the Mystery of the Dusty Duchess

Copyright © 2023 by Terry Ruth Eissfeldt

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-9346-2 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-9345-5 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-9347-9 (eBook)

For Jessica and Rebekah

Contents

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

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Grounded? Why?

I stop dead in my tracks halfway down the hall to my room and whip my head around for maximum effect. My blond ponytail whacks me in the eye.

You were supposed to babysit Ellen, not go on a trail ride with Lavina.

Mom’s calm voice annoys me when I’m in trouble.

We only rode down the hill and back, and we were gone less than ten minutes. I slap my arms down at my sides in frustration. Rory stayed in the tack room with her.

A dog is not a suitable guardian for a five-year-old. Mom places her hands on her hips.

Collies are famous for their instinctive protective nature, and Rory would never let anything happen to Lady Ellen. I emphasize the word Lady to make the point of what a spoiled brat she is. Why did my parents have to have another kid when I was eight? Weren’t two boys and a girl enough for one family? It’s like they waited for me to start school and then deliberately replaced me.

Anna, we’ve had this conversation before. Ellen loves you and wants to be just like you when she grows up. Please don’t mock her by calling her that name.

Well, she obviously likes it. Always waltzing around in princess dresses and her little tiara. Attempting a pirouette, I trip and bump into the wall.

She hasn’t realized you’re making fun of her. She’d be crushed. Mom crosses her arms and tilts her head.

I’m getting nowhere fast.

My instructions were clear: babysit Ellen until five o’clock. That means you stay with your sister at all times.

I’m about to proceed with my defence when she holds up her hand like a traffic cop. I snap my mouth shut. Turning and stomping my right foot with gusto, I continue to my room and slam the door.

Flopping onto my bed, I grab my pillow and bury my head under the downy thickness. In my hasty departure I didn’t ask what I was grounded from doing. Soccer tryouts are after school tomorrow. I’ll have to apologize for slamming the door if I have any chance of going, but I’m not ready to do that yet.

I roll out of the bed and walk into the bathroom adjoining Ellen’s and my room. Warm water always helps relax me. I undress and step into the shower seconds before I hear humming.

Oh, no . . . Ellen’s in here.

I’m about to warn her that she’ll pay if she opens the curtain, when stubby fingers reach around the fabric and wave at me near the tap.

Hi, Anna, she coos. Is it raining?

No. I’m not in the mood to play her imaginary games.

It’s not? Why is the water falling down then? Her chubby hand glides up and down the shower curtain.

Go away, I growl.

Can I come in with you? The curtain shakes.

NO! I scream. Give me some privacy!

Please, Anna-Banana?

MOM! I call for backup. Ellen’s invading my privacy!

Over the sound of the running water, I hear mom say, Come help me with dinner, sweetie.

Okay, Mommy. The tiny hand disappears as my sister giggles.

Ellen loves helping in the kitchen. Sometimes she takes off her princess dress and wears one of my brother’s old T-shirts with an apron tied over it. On those days, she demands we call her Cinderella. It’s my favorite game, because as long as I call her Cinderella she’ll do anything I ask.

Dinner’s in ten minutes! Mom yells.

Closing my eyes, I allow the warm water to run over my head, down my shoulder-length hair and into the drain.

After getting dressed in sweatpants and an old Pony Club T-shirt, with my hair still twisted up in a towel, I join my family for dinner.

Rough day, Annie? Dad smiles at me.

He’s the only one who gets away with calling me Annie. His grey eyes peer straight into my blue ones. It’s hard keeping secrets from him.

James, sixteen, and Jeremy, fourteen, pay no attention and eat non-stop until the food is gone. Not exactly stimulating conversation around the dinner table.

Soccer tryouts are tomorrow and Wednesday, I say between bites of warm garlic bread. Mom needs this information before deciding what I’m grounded from because it may change her mind.

You want to play this year? Dad’s eyes twinkle. He was the captain of almost every team in high school.

Filling my mouth with noodles, I pause to craft the best apology I can come up with.

I’m gonna play soccer, too. Ellen slurps up a long piece of pasta. It twists and turns, and droplets of red tomato sauce spatter all over her pixie face. Crossing her brown eyes, she watches the whole slippery event.

Ellen, dear. Mom puts on her Miss Manners voice. Don’t slurp your spaghetti. We don’t want to make a mess.

"It’s not pisghetti, it’s worms." Opening her mouth, she reveals half-chewed noodles mixed with sauce. I stifle a laugh.

Hey, Anna. Jeremy comes up for air. Pass the garlic bread, will ya?

I grab the wicker basket and slide it across the pine slab table, then finish swallowing and gear up for the confession.

I kinda lost my temper earlier. I sneak a peek at my mother but she continues eating without glancing back. Sorry for slamming the door. After swirling my fork through the noodles, I jam another load in.

Mom finally turns to me with a sigh. Anna, I accept your apology. If the door had splintered into a million pieces, I wouldn’t care. However, if anything happened to your sister . . .

She’s leaving the rest to my imagination. Not fair.

I don’t think you understand the potential consequences of your reckless behaviour today, she adds.

I realize that if I have any chance of making the soccer tryouts, I better fess up fast.

You’re right. I stare square into her deep brown eyes. If something happened to La . . . Ellen, I’d never forgive myself. I’m sorry.

Thank you, honey. She takes a sip of her water. Now as for your grounding…

Oh, no. Here it comes!

You’re going to do extra chores for the next two weeks. If you make the team, you’ll have to be wise scheduling your time.

Extra chores? No problem.

By the way, Mom says, I asked you to babysit because I was getting the truck and horse trailer inspected. Your dad found a starving pony on Beauty Island and I’m picking it up tomorrow morning.

My fork clanks as I drop it and stare with my mouth open. Ellen laughs and points, thinking I’m joining her game.

Tomorrow morning, before breakfast, I need you to prepare the empty stall.

Dad’s construction company, Wells’ Contracting, is building a new school on the island. It’s across the water from our town, Patrick. He leaves each morning on the first ferry and returns again on the 3:15 afternoon run. Sometimes he stays late but if he misses the 5:45 he doesn’t get home until after I’m in bed.

Not another pony! James doesn’t like horses. He only lives for hockey; in fact, he’s applying to go to a high school in Saskatchewan for elite players.

Come on! Jeremy decides to add his two cents’ worth.

Boys, what difference does it make to you? Dad asks. It’s not like you step foot inside the barn.

He always defends Mom’s horse addiction and he also gets up at four in the morning to drive my brothers back and forth to the hockey rink.

Tell me more, Mom. My appetite has pretty much disappeared as worry fills my gut.

Turning my way, she tries to smile but I see pain fill her eyes. A lump grows in my throat when, with a quivering voice, she asks Dad to tell me.

He puts his knife and fork down and folds his rough hands in front of his plate. After taking a deep breath, he says, On my way to the job site, I pass through an area of small acreages. Most are summer homes, some are permanent. A couple of days ago, I noticed a pony in a field that had been empty before. Its coat was long, which I thought was weird for September, so I stopped to take a look.

He looks up at the ceiling for a second before looking back down and shaking his head. Every bone was visible under the skin.

Anger boils up from the deepest part of my being. Dad calls it my overly developed justice muscle.

How could anyone starve an innocent animal?

Did you go to the house and blast them? Did you phone the police? Shaking, I continue, Did you take pictures? What happened?

Yes, honey, I went to the door. A young lady answered it with three small children clinging to her. When I asked about the pony, she told me it belonged to a friend who lives on a different road. Apparently it had been on pasture all summer so she couldn’t understand why it was doing so poorly. Before the owners left for the winter she offered to bring it to her place, hoping to help. She mentioned the owners thought that it was just naturally skinny, like that’s normal. Dad shakes his head again, his eyes dark with anger.

My blood is racing so hot through every vein in my body, I think I might explode.

He continues, The woman told me she can’t afford grain or anything else to fatten up the poor horse. He stops again and sighs. She said she was desperately trying to find a new home for it or her husband would shoot it. Mom makes a strange sound, and Dad reaches for her hand and gives it a squeeze. We won’t let that happen.

I just sit there with tears streaming down my face. With her free hand, Mom rubs my arm and tells me it will be okay. It takes me a while to recover. I hate crying in front of the boys; it gives them ammunition to tease me with.

Of course I’ll help. I would even if I wasn’t grounded, I say.

Thanks, honey. Mom grabs my clenched fist. My hand relaxes a bit, and then our fingers entwine.

Chapter Two

Tuesday morning dawns bright and clear. The long winter months with their dreary, rainy weather are on their way, so I welcome the sun with gratitude.

The alarm blares thirty minutes earlier than normal. I jump out of bed, excited to prepare the new pony’s stall. I throw on my barn clothes and hurry outside.

I don’t know any details about the pony except that the poor thing is emaciated. My friend Lavina—nicknamed Ginger because of her red hair—taught me that word. It means starved. She’s a science freak and animal lover. The perfect combination for someone planning on becoming a vet.

We belong to the Patrick Pony Club, a chapter in the Canadian Pony Club, and we attend several regional events every year. One of them is Quiz Rally, where we compete in games, puzzles and a written test, among other fun events. Ginger is Whiz of the Quiz because she’s so smart.

Our town, Patrick, is 200 kilometres from the nearest city, and we don’t even have a streetlight, let alone a Tim Horton’s. Patrick is a resource town, not an agricultural centre, so with no local equine vets or farriers to teach Stable Management, Mrs. Orr, our Pony Club education chair, does her best. To be honest, I learn more from Ginger.

After pulling on my short rubber boots I head out the back door, shuddering as I imagine the starved pony. I wonder what she’s thinking. Is she hoping someone’s coming to save her?

The sun begins its climb over the gabled roof of our barn. The weathered cedar shakes are stark against the pink sky. I love mornings. Every time I’m awake to see the sunrise, I think that I should wake up early more often.

Rory accompanies me to the barn. His blue, grey and white mottled coat flows like waves on a stormy sea. His face is always smiling. Halfway to the barn, he turns around and runs back. He’s frustrated I’m jogging, not running full out. Circling around me, he almost knocks me over. Rory! He circles again as if I’m a sheep to be prodded into action. Okay, you win! I sprint the rest of the way and he continues to bark orders.

Our first stop is the chicken coop. Twelve red hens wait to be released from the laying shed into the attached run. Delighted cackles and flapping wings greet us.

In the pen next door is our white pygmy goat, Salty. The garbage man gave her to us a couple of years ago. He bought her at an auction down island thinking she’d be helpful to keep the weeds down around his couple of acres but instead she ate thousands of dollars of exotic plants!

Salty greets me with her usual plaintive wail. It sounds like a banshee scream.

You’re as cute as a button and almost as annoying as Ellen. Scratching her back quiets the wailing. Only when she stops bleating do I give her hay, pelleted goat feed, and top up her water. Closing her door properly is essential. She’s an escape artist and a one-goat wrecking crew. Every time she escapes something else is destroyed: books, plants, trees, fences, saddlery . . . the list is endless. Nothing is safe from being chewed and ripped.

Even though she loves freedom, and an open buffet, I’m convinced Salty’s real motivation for escaping is to be with Rory. She loves