We Woof You a Deadly Christmas Read online

  We Woof You a

  Deadly Christmas

  By

  Laura Quinn

  We Woof You a Deadly Christmas by Laura Quinn

  Print ISBN: 978-1706795995

  Copyright 2019 Laura Quinn

  Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights

  Worldwide English Language Print Rights

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication:

  To my human family, thank you for your continued support and encouragement. To my fur-children, thank you for being paw-fect muses. Cheers to everyone in my household for listening to nonstop Christmas music, even during the dog days of summer, while I plotted a very merry murder mystery.

  Acknowledgments:

  To everyone who helps adoptable animals find fur-ever homes, thank you. During the holiday season_and beyond_there are many ways to support your local rescue shelters. Whether you donate funds, supplies or the gift of your time, it’s a heartwarming feeling to enjoy year-round.

  Character List

  Main Cast

  Claire (Clarissa) Noble: Owner of Posh Pup Pawtisserie

  Marti Von Brandt: Claire’s Best Friend, Attorney

  Bob Ernst: Claire’s Friend, North Haven News Editor

  Posh Pup Pawtisserie Staff

  Barbara O’Reilly: Manager

  Peggy Dumas: Full-time employee

  Emma Martin: Part-time employee, younger sister of Zac

  Zac Martin: Part-time employee, older brother of Emma

  Jesiike Sarr: Seasonal employee

  Supporting Cast

  Carrie Teaford: Owner of Java and Tea, Naturally

  Claude Morris: Lana Vanderloft's chauffer

  Deloris Dill: Retired school nurse

  Donald and Delila Prescott: Owners of Prescott Antiques

  Dottie Devin: Real estate agent

  Dylan Paige: Son of Henry Paige, Bookseller

  Ed Bishop: High school football coach

  Helen Rollins: Owner of Rollins Rentals

  Hunter Taylor: North Haven Acting Assistant Fire Chief

  Jean and John Jenkins: Residents of Golden Oaks Manor

  JP (John Pearson): North Haven High School Alumus, Actor

  Keckers Andersen: Best friend of Zac Martin

  Lana Vanderloft: Philanthropist

  Pete Maloney: North Haven Police Chief

  Randy Vert: North Haven Police Officer

  Ruth Fischer – North Haven High School Lunch Lady

  Sheila Conners: North Haven Police Officer

  Simone DuBois: Owner of Le Bon Boutique

  Tallulah Banks – Delila Prescott’s Sister

  Viktor and Anne Evanko: Owners of Olde World Bakery

  We Woof You a

  Deadly Christmas

  Chapter 1

  Friday, December 1st

  Sirens shattered the silent night as red and white lights slashed the black December sky. The firetruck’s searchlight illuminated two women and a large, fluffy dog with curly tail, the sole occupants of the North Haven Mall. They stood outside the Posh Pup Pawtisserie, huddled against the brutal windchill of the notoriously cold Chicago winter.

  Despite the lingering smoke emanating from the popular dog bakery, it shimmered in strings of holiday lights and festive decorations. The satellite radio seemed to mock the situation, as Nat King Cole sang about chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

  Hunter Taylor, acting vice-captain of the North Haven Fire Department, leapt from the truck and dashed in front of the women. “Are you ok?” he asked, delivering the line more in the manner of a soap star than a civil servant.

  Baron puffed up his double-coated fur and wedged himself between his mistress and the man in rubber boots. At fifty-five pounds, the young Eurasier could appear intimidating, though he usually resembled a cuddly teddy bear. Claire Noble was relieved that her smart dog had yet again read her mind. The shop owner pulled down her turtleneck collar to reply, “Yes, we’re fine, Hunter. Just a little mishap with the oven that requires the fire alarm to be reset.”

  “It was my fault,” her best friend, Marti Von Brandt admitted. Like Claire, she wore a white apron embroidered with pawprints, though hers was covered in brown splotches. “I’m a walking disaster in the kitchen.”

  “It was an accident. I’ve left trays of cookies in the oven and forgotten them plenty of times myself,” Claire said.

  “Yes, but you probably noticed before the room filled with black smoke. I’m so embarrassed!” The attorney turned her attention to Hunter, “Do you need to keep those blasted lights flashing? I don’t want to be on the front page of the paper.”

  “We have to make sure the interior is safe.” He averted his eyes from the tall redhead to survey the petite blonde from the tip of her sparkly scrunchy to her faux-fur-lined clogs. “I have a duty to protect North Haven’s prettiest damsels.”

  “You’re going to be the one in distress if you don’t hurry; we’re freezing out here,” Marti shouted, causing Hunter to scamper into the shop.

  Ernie Soto, the fireman who had already checked the shop and silenced the alarms, came out to talk with his friends.

  “Does that mustached moron think you’re some kind of badge bunny?” Marti asked. “Just because he’s acting assistant doesn’t make him your acting boyfriend.”

  “I don’t know what that was about,” Claire said. “He hardly said two words to me when Nick was here.”

  “He’s getting too big for his boots,” Ernie said. “Thank God it’s just temporary. We’ll all be glad when Nick gets back, whenever that is.”

  Marti put her hands on her hips and turned towards her best friend. Claire pre-empted the inevitable query about her absent boyfriend by asking Ernie, “How’s that darling baby of yours?”

  “He’s great. We’re bringing him to your shop for photos with Santa and our newest addition.” The fireman reached into his pocket for a photo of his wife, baby, and tan-and-black terrier puppy. “I wanted to call him Soot, but Maria chose Burberry.”

  “Adorable,” the girls cooed. Baron stood on his back legs to see the photo and wagged his tail.

  Marti zoomed in on the distinctive black patch on Burberry’s ear. “Is he from Curly’s litter?”

  “Yes. We fell in love as soon as we met her at your adoption event, but someone else saw her first. So, we were put on her puppy list and got lucky.”

  “I think he got lucky,” Claire said. “I’m pretty sure that pup’s going to be spoiled rotten.”

  Ernie chuckled, confessing he and their extended family would lavish as many gifts on the puppy as they had on his child. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that everything seems to be all clear. You should be able to get back in pretty soon, as soon as Mr. Important gives the okay.”

  “Thanks,” Claire said to the departing fireman, especially grateful for his diverting the conversation from Nick Cooper. It hurt to admit she hadn’t heard from him for a few weeks now, not that there had been many calls since he left for Texas at the end of summer. Soon, Marti would tell her she should forget him altogether, and she should. Yet, she wasn’t quite ready to forget the man she bonded with so quickly, the one who helped her capture a murderer. />
  “Earth to Claire,” Marti said, waving a red mitten in front of her friend’s face. “I said, why didn’t they promote Ernie instead of that jerk? Of course, it’s all Nick’s fault for leaving anyway. I know he’s taking care of his mom, but that’s starting to wear thin. He needs to get it together.” She tried the breathing technique learned from her twice-weekly yoga class to exhale negativity. While trying to attain the tree pose, she slipped in slush. “I’m so sick of this weather already, and winter hasn’t even officially started.”

  “You have to admit that everything looks so pretty with a fresh coat of snow,” Claire said. “Look how the icicles glitter in the light.”

  “Especially in the glow of the fire engine’s forty-thousand-watt lights. I just hope grumpy pants doesn’t find out about this, or he’ll complain to the landlord for sure.” Marti looked down at her pleather boots. “I really am sorry about this. I feel like such a ditz!”

  Claire chuckled at the reference to Donald Prescott, the grumpy owner of the neighboring antique store. “It’s really not a big deal. Besides, it’s nice to have a little break. We were working nonstop for hours, and quitting time is long overdue. I’ll talk to Mrs. Prescott in the morning, just to head off any possible problems with her husband. I’ll bring some chocolates from Yvette’s shop, just in case.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any leftovers from Lydia’s poisoned box?” Marti asked, referencing the eventful Fourth of July that saw four people killed.

  “If Peggy heard that, she would be freaked out for the season. I already have to hire one seasonal employee; I’d rather not make it two.”

  Claire had to admit she had occasionally entertained similar thoughts about her feisty neighbor. After Kendall Cole closed her photo studio, Dottie Devin, NoHa’s top real estate agent, attracted several retail businesses interested in the available space. She confided to Claire that Donald was her least favorite, but the North Haven Mall landlord was swayed by the offer to pay the first three months in advance. The goateed sixty-year-old proved to be worse than expected, his personality plunging faster than his profits. He blamed his lack of sales solely on his popular neighbor, and would most likely pounce on this smoky mishap.

  Once the all-clear was given from the fire squad, Claire and Marti returned to the shop. Fortunately, the sprinklers had not been triggered and the kitchen was left as it was, with the exception of large boot prints in the flour that spilled to the floor in the commotion. With the front and back doors propped open, the smoke was cleared but the temperature dropped enough to require coats on for the first hour. The strings of bright holiday lights strung across the winter wooferland helped warm the space, augmented by the twin convection ovens that were back in service to replace the cookies that sold-out during the busy day.

  “Did you see these cookie cutters Zac made at school?” Claire asked, using the grid of multiple holiday shapes to quickly cut trays of cookies. “He made them on his school’s 3D printer.”

  “Why do I always feel like we grew up in the Stone Age?” Marti asked. “These kids are born with technology in their DNA.”

  They reminisced about their early forays into the high-tech world of the World Wide Web while Claire finished making the last batch of cranberry oatmeal softies. Marti loaded the dishwasher with all the dirty bowls, beaters and spatulas, then placed open boxes of baking soda around the kitchen to capture any lingering smoky odors. As Claire filled the luxury treat case and the self-serve baskets with freshly-baked selections, Marti put out the latest shipment of squeaky plush squirrels on the decorated center toy display. By the time the final buzzer sounded, everything was ready to open the next morning.

  Though they were tempted to crash in the mini-apartment upstairs, they headed outside to Claire’s distinctive paw-printed Land Rover. The baker attacked the ice that caked the window from the outside while the defroster blew a current of lukewarm air at the windshield inside.

  Marti sneezed twice and cursed Hunter and his peacocking. “I’ll sue that idiot if he made me sick. I’ve got to wrap up the Samuelson case tomorrow.”

  Baron reached over the seat to give his favorite aunt a kiss and Claire sagely turned on the radio for a singalong. Friends since childhood, they knew each other as well as they knew themselves. Marti grimaced at the proliferation of Christmas songs that started far too early for her taste. That Claire had been playing Christmas songs for weeks was a different case altogether. Scanning the channels, she settled on Elton John’s “Rocket Man” and soon two voices belted out words that may or may not have been the actual lyrics. They sang their way from the North Shore suburb to Chicago, arriving at Marti’s driveway just as they started on a Clash classic. A cacophony of barking greeted their arrival.

  “You really should bring Clarence and Darrow to the shop more often. Baron loves to run around with them,” Claire said. Baron woofed his approval and reached over the headrest to give Marti a goodbye kiss.

  “If only they weren’t such demons, unlike you, my charming nephew,” Marti said. “Thanks for driving me home. If my car isn’t ready tomorrow morning, I’m going to shove a piece of coal up that service manager’s…”

  “Tis the season to be jolly, remember. Maybe you should try another session of the yuletide yoga class?” Claire dismissed the tirade of obscenities thrown at her, as only a lifelong friend could. “See you tomorrow.”

  With Friday night traffic, the drive back from the city took almost forty-five minutes. She and her dog were relieved when they finally drove up the long, dark driveway to her garage. It was a good thing that there was virtually no crime in North Haven, she decided, otherwise it might be a bit unsettling to enter such a large house in the dark. The two-story home on one acre in its prestigious subdivision had been in her family for generations. When her parents migrated to Naples, Claire returned from New York to make it her home.

  Hercule, the large orange tabby, and Moneypenny, the lithe white Siamese, greeted her with accusatory yowls, to which she offered sincere apologies, and salmon treats. They were especially disgruntled at being disturbed at this late hour. Baron escaped to the fenced backyard for one last bit of business, then took himself upstairs to bed.

  If the smell of burned cookies hadn’t been so pervasive, Claire would have followed suit. Instead, she dragged herself into the shower, then slipped into her coziest flannel nightshirt. Careful not to disturb her snoring dog, she climbed up into her four-poster bed. Two cranky cats set aside their annoyance in order to snuggle in the polar-bear flannel sheets with their human.

  Chapter 2

  Saturday, December 2nd

  Snoozing the jingle-bell alarm for the fourth time, Claire was awakened by the snooze-proof alarm known as hungry cats. Taking turns walking across her head and screaming, the two felines easily defeated their human. Obediently, Claire headed down to the kitchen to open a can of creamed crab cat food. Baron bounded ahead of her and waited at the back door. Claire watched him as he jumped and rolled in the snow in such exuberance that she again wondered if he might be part polar bear.

  She changed into a Posh Pup gingerbread-themed sweatshirt and jeans, hoping they were clean, and wrapped a red-sequined scrunchie around her pony-tail. Reaching past the bottle of the all-natural green juice Carrie Teaford, NoHa’s modern hippy, insisted she try, Claire snatched a can of double-shot espresso and a blueberry yogurt.

  Baron met Claire at the door to the garage, waiting for her to put on his holiday scarf and leash before jumping into the car. As the garage door rose, Claire downed the highly caffeinated drink. At the first red light, she reached into the glove compartment for a spoon and napkin. At the next red light, she ate most of the yogurt, giving the rest to Baron to finish. Scanning for police cars, Claire pushed down the accelerator. She had to get there before Mr. Crankypants made his entrance; Mrs. Prescott was so much easier to talk with about things like this.

  Yvette waved from the back door of Le Chocolat and Claire debated if she had time to
stop there first. A peace offering for the Prescotts might help, but it was nearly opening time. She settled Baron in the office and popped next door, choosing to go to their front door so she could scan through the glass to see who was there.

  Prescott Antiques kept its “closed” sign illuminated until precisely noon on Saturdays, per Mr. Prescott’s directive. Claire knocked on the door and waved to attract Mrs. Prescott’s attention from dusting figurines in the window. The antique shop owner wore a grey wool pantsuit with a light pink turtleneck underneath. A lone silver turtledove broach served as her flash of whimsy. Even in her flats, she was at least four inches taller than Claire, but despite perfect posture, Delilah Prescott always seemed to shrink, as if she were a table that could remove its leaves. For weeks after Claire met her, she repeatedly called her Violet by mistake.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Prescott,”

  “It’s Delilah, dear,” the older woman reminded her. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to let you know that we had a little excitement here last night, but everything is fine.”

  “Oh my, are you all right?”

  “Yes, it was just an overly sensitive smoke alarm. One of the trays of cookies had a bit too much time in the oven.”