Murder at the Falls Read online

  Murder at the Falls

  The Creature Comforts Mystery series by Arlene Kay

  Death by Dog Show

  Homicide by Horse Show

  Murder at the Falls

  Table of Contents

  The Creature Comforts Mystery series by Arlene Kay

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Teaser Chapter

  About the Author

  Murder at the Falls

  A Creature Comforts Mystery

  Arlene Kay

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  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 events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Arlene Kay

  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.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: July 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0932-6 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0932-5 (ebook)

  First Print Edition: July 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0935-7

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0935-X

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To all those who further the human-canine bond with kindness and compassion.

  Chapter 1

  Call me grateful. Not a do-gooder and certainly no philanthropist, but someone who firmly believes in giving back and doing my part. Sounds crazy, I know, and pompous as well. My small share of Great Marsh, Virginia, was trivial in comparison with the mansions, estates, and megahomes of my affluent neighbors. That was fine with me. To an orphan, foster child, and army veteran, stability and self-sufficiency were the gold standard, priceless proof of beating the odds in a tough world. Every day I counted my blessings—Creature Comforts, a thriving business crafting leather products for dog and horse fanciers, and a host of pets and good friends to sustain me. Add in a jaw-dropping partner, Wing Pruett, and his darling daughter and my life was full. Unlike some of the moneyed malcontents haunting the local boutiques, I thanked heaven every day for those blessings.

  Life was good for Persephone Morgan. Those good feelings left me vulnerable. When my pal, Babette Croy, dragooned me into joining a therapy dog program, I was powerless to resist. She had her ways. Babette, a socialite and local activist, used a cunning mixture of guile and guilt to manipulate gullible chumps like me into doing her bidding. Why else would I abandon my work, skip the morning gallop with my mare Raza, pack up my dogs, and trek twenty miles to an assisted living facility oddly named the Falls? Guilt and guile—you can’t beat them.

  My dogs, Keats and Poe, were perfectly trained and easily passed every test required by the Alliance of Therapy Dogs. Proper temperament was the key ingredient, and my boys were the poster canines for that. Still, Babette insisted that they accompany her and her border collie, Clara, to formal classroom sessions and be officially designated as Canine Good Citizens. Only then, after being observed at three events, were we cleared for full certification. Those three sessions, a school, a library, and a children’s hospital ward, were a piece of cake. My spirits were buoyed by the plaudits my guys earned for their impeccable manners. I felt virtuous and a tiny bit smug at my good deeds. Somehow, I had never factored assisted living facilities into the plan.

  I parked my weathered Suburban and was immediately assailed by doubts. Not about my dogs. Keats and Poe were beautifully behaved Malinois war heroes with the medals to prove it. They were bred to herd sheep in Belgium, although the breed was more often seen now guarding military and police installations. Unlike me, they adjusted seamlessly to any human from cradle to rocker. Providing comfort to people in difficult situations was the official mission of the Therapy Dog program, and I envisioned my boys continuing to do just that at schools or somewhere equally innocuous. Our new assignment threw a spanner in the works. I vowed to try my best, but seniors were foreign territory to me. I’m an orphan who’d been deprived of the grandparent experience. Who knew if I could up my game enough to actually mix and mingle with the aged residents at the Falls and bring comfort instead of conflict?

  There was no sign of Babette on the premises, or anyone else for that matter. I paused, confident that any moment the shiny red Mercedes would swing into the drive with Babette and her faithful border collie in tow. These excursions were tailor-made for Babette, a woman who never met a stranger. How I envied her ease with all kinds of people. Even though I’d faced bombs and brawls in Afghanistan, the prospect of confronting a group of pensioners was oddly unsettling. Lose the pity party, I warned myself. Not everything is about you.

  I focused on the surroundings. The Falls was a gracious, multistoried complex set on a verdant site with glimpses of distant mountain peaks. If any institution could be termed “homey,” this place would claim the prize. The architecture mimicked old Georgian construction, replete with generously proportioned windows and clapboard exterior. Wheelchair ramps were discreetly placed toward the back of the residence, affording any onlooker an unobstructed view of gracious living absent the painful reminder of infirmity.

  On this breezy autumn day, the rocking chairs dotting the porch were vacant, so I signaled to the Mals and settled in. The slow, rhythmic pulse of the rocker soothed my spirits, lulling me into a light, languid sleep. I awakened with a start to find a tiny, birdlike woman of a certain age staring down at me. Hers was a smiling visage, impeccably turned out in a neat shirtwaist and patent-leather flats. Abundant white hair was piled on top of her head in a style reminiscent of another day.

  “Caught you, didn’t I?” she sai
d with a sly grin. “Don’t mind me. I do that all the time. Napping, that is. Soothing, isn’t it?” She extended her hands palms up, speaking in a low, soft voice to my boys. “Beautiful creatures. What breed?”

  “Malinois, a type of Belgian shepherd. There’s a town of that name in Belgium. Don’t worry. They’re very gentle. Meet Keats and Poe.”

  She shook her head. “No worry. I love dogs. All animals, actually. They seem to sense it, don’t they? That’s one thing I really miss being in this place. Having my own pet.” She grinned again. “Pardon my manners. I must introduce myself. My name is Magdalen Melmoth.”

  “Persephone Morgan. Perri, actually.” For some odd reason I felt compelled to state my formal name, as if it were a validation, a type of credential.

  Magdalen gingerly perched in a rocker adjacent to me. Her complexion was remarkably smooth despite her age, although the spots on her hands told a different tale. Bright blue eyes bored into me as she took my measure. “Persephone. Your parents must have been fond of the classics, dear. Your namesake was a great warrior.”

  I flushed, reluctant to admit the truth. What woman warrior flinched at the word “orphan”? After all, it was nothing shameful and certainly not my fault. Before I responded, an unlikely savior sped to my rescue. Babette Croy, swathed in designer denim and trailed by Clara the border collie, appeared on the scene.

  “Well, I see you made yourself comfortable,” she said. It was no accident that Babette had been voted Miss Congeniality on the pageant circuit and head cheerleader in college. Her glacier-melting smile and air of good cheer were infectious. She quickly introduced herself, Clara, and our mission.

  “We’re part of the Therapy Dog program.” She plucked a paper from her capacious handbag. “Let’s see. We’ve each been assigned a resident. Mine is Irene Wilson and Perri’s—well, what do you know? You’re Perri’s partner, Ms. Melmoth. Isn’t that something? Kismet or what?”

  Few people could resist the onslaught of Croy charm. Magdalen’s eyes twinkled as she surveyed my friend. “I understand it’s a lot of work—getting your dog certified for that program. How kind of you to do it.”

  Babette shrugged in a failed attempt at modesty. “It truly is. Most people don’t grasp that, Magdalen. Why, my Clara had to pass basic obedience, canine good citizen, and therapy training before they would even consider her. Perri’s dogs were war heroes, so it was easier for them.”

  I forgave Babette for minimizing the accomplishments of Keats and Poe. She was a good-hearted soul who meant no harm even on the days when she tried every bit of my patience to the max. The general public was so accustomed to watching therapy dogs in action after national tragedies that many assumed any dog or well-intentioned owner could simply step right in without training. Au contraire. I recalled several duos who had started the program with us, flubbed the final test, and hadn’t made the cut. Most pet parents didn’t take that well. Not every dog or owner was suitable for therapy work, but rejection on any level was painful, particularly when it involved a volunteer assignment.

  I checked my watch. Showtime was soon approaching and I had no desire to be late on day one. Punctuality was indelibly stamped into my genetic code. Call it a legacy of foster care or a military mindset, but Persephone Morgan was always on time. I plucked at Babette’s sleeve. “Maybe we should register or something. I think some other people plan to join us.”

  Magdalen bit her lip, almost as if she were frightened. She slowly rose and pointed toward the entryway. “You’d better check in with Dr. Fergueson. They have all kinds of rules around here, and she’s a stickler. Knows chapter and verse.”

  I felt strangely protective toward this elderly sprite even though we had never met before. Somehow, a bond had been forged between us, a connection made through our mutual love of dogs. I signaled Keats and Poe and rose to my feet. “No problem. I understand bureaucracy all too well. We’ll find Dr. Fergueson and see you later.”

  “Nice meetin’ you, Magdalen.” Babette beamed another ray of sunshine. “Let Irene know I’m comin’ her way. We’re gonna have a real good time.”

  We entered the common room, a pleasant open space decorated with wing chairs and sofas arranged in conversation areas. A massive mahogany bookcase and assorted end tables tied the look together. The soft colors of green, yellow, and blue added a soothing touch.

  “Hey, this is nice,” Babette said, casting a weather eye around the room. “I was worried it would be a downer, but not so far.” She lowered her voice. “And it doesn’t smell.”

  “Babette!” Sometimes she went too far even for me.

  “Oh Perri, chill. I mean that institutional odor. You know, like bleach or ammonia.”

  I was glad to see that several other members of our group had arrived. Safety in numbers, as the saying goes. Kate Thayer, a stocky matron with a ruddy complexion and a ready wit, was one of my favorites. Her Labradoodle, Gomer, as goofy as his name suggested, joined my boys for playdates whenever possible. Kate called herself a recovered librarian, although that was a vast understatement. Expertise in antiquarian books made her a sought-after resource for both universities and collectors from around the world. She was a talented musician and singer as well, and was seldom seen without her guitar. As Kate ruefully explained, none of her passions paid much, but they reaped big psychological benefits. The residents apparently enjoyed singing songs from their youth and tapping their feet along with Kate and tail-wagging Gomer. I was partial to music myself and looked forward to the sing along.

  Although we’d never discussed finances, I assumed she had saved enough to live in relative comfort. Real estate prices in the Cleveland Park district, where Kate lived, were among the highest in the nation, and most properties there had listings well into the upper six-figure range. Pruett owned a town house just around the corner in Georgetown, another stratospherically priced residential area that was way too rich for my blood. I presumed through inheritance, divorce, or just plain good luck, Kate had managed to hang on to her homestead. She limped into the room, guitar in hand, leaning heavily on a cane. Today was a special day at the Falls. Once a month, special song requests were welcome, and following the performance by our dogs, residents would gather in the sunroom for a sing-along.

  By Kate’s side was Rolf Hart, one of my least favorite people. I’m fairly easygoing and try hard not to nurse grudges, but as in all things there were exceptions. Rolf’s snarky rants against the military and those who served made an indelible, very negative impression on me. He was definitely an example of a pleasing book cover with inferior contents. There was nothing about Rolf’s appearance to suggest the venal soul within. Tall, fit, blond and blue-eyed, he immediately registered on most women’s radar. Initially, I even considered him attractive—until he opened his mouth. Real estate was Rolf’s game, and despite his views, he apparently was very successful at it. According to him, he’d made his first million by age thirty and hadn’t looked back since. Naturally, Babette had scoped him out, but quickly abandoned the hunt. As she later observed, people of means seldom bragged about it or even mentioned money. To do so was considered déclassé, a sign that Rolf was a social climber.

  “Perri!” Kate beckoned to me from across the room. Gomer joined in greeting us by wagging his curly tail nonstop. Rolf’s Borzoi, Portia, a lovely girl with class, manners, and a soft cream coat held her ground, staying friendly but aloof. She was the perfect counterpoint to her owner’s brash ways and the only thing I gave him credit for. Even a hideous creature like Rolf might be redeemable through canine love. In view of his dog’s name, I’d once asked him if he was a Shakespeare fan. To my surprise, he actually responded. Apparently, he had played Shylock in a college play and loved the experience. Against all odds, Rolf the Philistine was a season ticket holder who attended every presentation at Washington’s Shakespeare Theater.

  We four had been assigned the Falls as our Therapy Dog project. B
abette and I were novices, but both Kate and the unlovely Rolf were the team’s veterans. I had hoped for a school or library slot, but they were the plum posts that went to those with seniority. As with most endeavors, one had to wait patiently for any promotion.

  “Wonder where the brass is,” Kate muttered. “Gomer’s raring to go.”

  Before Rolf could take charge, I offered to check things out. Helpfulness is my middle name, but I also relished the opportunity to thwart his macho need to dominate.

  Babette followed me, pointing to a discreet sign that directed us toward an office complex. We stopped at the spot marked “Director, Dr. Fergueson,” and knocked. Actually, Babette pounded on the door rather than knocked. The trappings of bureaucracy had exhausted her small store of patience. “Not the reception I expected,” she huffed. “After all, we’re doin’ them a favor. What is this place anyway, a ghost town?”

  I patted her arm to calm her down. Secretly, I hoped that some snafu would send us packing. Despite the thick carpeting and upscale décor, the Falls had a regimented feel that gave me the creeps. Perhaps it was the silence, overwhelming and almost oppressive, or the fear that I was confronting my own future. Fortunately, our dogs were not fanciful and showed no trepidation. All of them behaved with a dignity and decorum far superior to their human caretakers.

  Eventually, a mountainous female wrenched open the door and stared us down. She wore a utilitarian white uniform and a frilly nurse’s cap at variance with her no-nonsense manner. Her name tag read, “Carole Ross, RN.”

  “Yes?” Nurse Ross stared down at our dogs as if her eyes deceived her. For their part, all three canines went on alert, watching her through unwavering eyes.

  Babette was either transfixed or ossified. Her bravado of a few seconds before had thoroughly deserted her, and she turned to me in mute appeal. I knew from experience that the way to deal with a bully was to confront her head-on. Nurse Ross might respond to that technique.