A Cold Nose for Murder

Book 3: A Chatty Corgi Mystery

by Jennifer Hawkins

Genres: General Fiction; Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Trouble is brewing for a tea room owner with a penchant for investigation and her talking corgi in this delightful cozy mystery.



When Emma Reed moved to the Cornish village of Trevena, she was looking forward to making new friends, opening up a small tea shop, and taking plenty of brisk walks with her talking dog, Oliver. But when a valuable motorcycle and an old skeleton are found together under the local pub, Emma's antique dealing friends David and Charles become prime suspects in a forty year old mystery. The local gossip is soon flowing faster than tea in Emma's shop, and old secrets are being unearthed right along with the old bones.



Although David and Charles insist they have nothing to do with the skeleton, they quickly come under police suspicion. To save their friends, Emma and Oliver will need to dig deep . . .

Release date: July 5, 2022

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 352

Sample

1

 

"Emma!" Liza Greenlaw called from behind the bar. "There you are!"

 

"Sorry we're late." Emma Reed had to use her shoulder to open the pub door, because she was carrying a cake stand in each hand. Brian Prowse followed close behind with a stack of loaded cupcake carriers.

 

Oliver, Emma's Welsh Pembroke corgi, wasn't about to wait for the humans. As soon as Emma got the door open, he zoomed past them both, ready to give every ankle in the noisy, crowded pub a good snuffle.

 

"I had a last-minute call about an order," Emma explained to Liza as they reached the bar. "I needed to go over some lists."

 

Liza laughed. "I should have known!" Emma's lists were just about as well-known around the village of Trevena as her baked goods and energetic corgi. "Just as long as your lists included my cupcakes."

 

"Well, you know Emma." Brian hefted the two cake carriers he was holding. "Should be plenty and to spare."

 

"Well, I also know this lot, and I wouldn't count on it." Liza's tone was dramatically despairing, but a cheerful glint shone in her blue eyes. Liza was a strong, stout, gray-haired woman who ruled her pub with a firm hand. She and her husband, Sam, had taken over the Roundhead when Sam's father, Walter, retired. Now they ran the pub and its brewery with help from their two grown children. The Greenlaws were planning an unusual expansion of the business, and they'd decided to turn it into a celebration. Villagers-mostly other shop owners and local farmers-filled the old whitewashed common room with cheerful, bantering conversation.

 

"You can just put that lot on the table, if you please," Liza instructed.

 

"Right away, ma'am." Brian bowed his head humbly.

 

Emma grinned and threaded her way through the crowd to the loaded buffet table. Brian followed, but Oliver was busy running from guest to guest, barking and wagging his hindquarters in greeting, not to mention shoving his nose into every available corner.

 

"Grass, sheep, petrol, coffee, seawater, more petrol," Oliver yipped. "Sam, ginger, cats, more cats. Ooo, Biddy and Farley were here, and . . ."

 

Emma struggled to avoid rolling her eyes. To everyone else in the room, Oliver sounded like a normal, noisy, happy dog. Only Emma heard him "talk." Being able to communicate with a beloved dog was a trait that popped up here and there in Emma's family. Not that anyone would ever admit they actually believed in it. Not out loud, anyway.

 

It was admittedly very odd, and sometimes it got awkward, but Emma loved her bubbly, bouncy corgi. So, most days, she just rolled with it. However, while Oliver might talk, he was still a dog, and he saw the world from a dog's perspective. That meant he spent a lot of time talking about what he smelled, like it was the daily news report. Which, to be fair, it kind of was.

 

"Beer, and there's more beer, and that one's just mud and . . ."

 

"So, this old tunnel Sam and Liza are opening in the cellar," said Emma to Brian as she set her cake stands down on the end of the buffet table. The party tonight was to celebrate a somewhat unusual expansion of the pub, into what was supposed to be an old smugglers' tunnel. "It is really there, isn't it? It'd be a shame if it turned out to be some kind of legend. I mean, I heard about the tunnels when my family used to come here on holiday. I must have spent hours looking for hidden entrances. Drove my brother Henry mad."

 

"Not that that ever stopped you," said Brian solemnly.

 

Emma grinned. "Not even a little bit."

 

Brian ran the village garage and taxi service and was a specialist in vintage cars. He was also cheerful, handsome and the tiniest bit cheeky. The combination filled Emma with the sort of warm and fluffy feelings she hadn't known in a very long time. "As far as I know, the tunnel is real," he told her. "My dad remembers it from when he was a boy. He says that Sam's dad said it had been used by smuggling gangs since before the Battle of Trevena. Only Sam's mum made them brick it up, because it wasn't stable, and she was afraid for the kids."

 

"Can't wait to see what it's like," said Emma. She might have gone from being a banker to being a baker, but she had never shed her childhood love for mysteries and the dramatic.

 

"Going to take a chance with the betting pool, then?" Brian nodded toward the slate hanging on the wall beside the bar. Once, it had been used to keep track of the patrons' bar tabs. Today, though, it had been commandeered for taking bets on what would be found once the Greenlaws broke through the tunnel entrance.

 

Emma surveyed the list of current guesses with a critical eye. People were clearly treating the question with all the seriousness it deserved. The most popular choices seemed to be: nothing, black market whiskey (of course), a dead body (ditto), Father Christmas, the crown jewels, and a Cask of Amontillado.

 

"Put me down for the crown jewels." Emma fished a couple of pounds out of her shoulder bag. The money was going into a big jar beside the register. A notice said fifteen percent would be donated to the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

 

"Will do. Get you a cider too?" suggested Brian.

 

"A small one, thanks." The Roundhead's cider was positively lethal.

 

Brian gave Emma a wink and headed over to the bar. Oliver left off investigating the shoes of the other guests and trotted after Brian. As soon as they both reached the bar, the corgi sat up on his haunches expectantly. Brian laughed and obligingly fed him a biscuit from the jar Liza kept for her four-legged patrons.

 

Oliver crunched and woofed and scampered back to Emma where she was setting up her cake stands.

 

"Brian is an excellent and thoughtful human."

 

"As it happens, I agree with you." Emma snapped open the lids on her cupcake carriers. She wasn't worried about being overheard talking with her dog just now. The room was filled with plenty of chatter.

 

"He's very understanding about snacks." Oliver wagged his entire bottom. "Those smell like good snacks. Are they, Emma?" He bounced eagerly, trying to get his forepaws up on the edge of the table.

 

"Down, you," ordered Emma. "We don't want to get barred because you're pinching food off the table."

 

Oliver ducked his head, chagrined. At the same time, he gave her an extra optimistic wag. Emma shook her head. Realizing he wasn't getting anywhere (this time), Oliver ducked under the table in case anyone had carelessly dropped anything important, like crumbs or a splash of coleslaw.

 

Emma laughed again and turned her attention to the important business of arranging her cupcakes on the tiered stand. She'd moved to Trevena to realize the dream of running her own tea shop. So, when Liza had asked for some baked treats for the party, Emma had been happy to oblige. In fact, she'd obliged with three different kinds.

 

The first was based on her apple cake. It used the Roundhead's cider in its mixture, along with a blend of Bromley and Granny Smith apples. The second was a ginger malt sponge with a lemon curd center. Finally, there was a rich chocolate sponge with raspberry icing.

 

"Hullo, Emma!" Genny Knowles, who had been Emma's first friend in Trevena, came up and gave her a one-armed hug.

 

"Hullo, Genny! I wasn't sure we'd see you tonight."

 

"Martin and Josh threatened to go on strike if I didn't get out for the evening." Genny smiled sheepishly and took a swallow of her pale ale. Like Emma, Genny was a short, round woman of a certain age. But where Emma was best described as a "faded ginger," Genny had blond hair and blue eyes and plenty of laugh lines around her broad mouth. Her summer tan had just begun to fade, returning her skin to what Genny referred to as "its usual combination of pink and pale."

 

Genny ran Trevena's chip shop, The Towne Fryer. Like a lot of Trevena's shops, it was a small family operation, and Genny tended to get caught up in the work. There was also the added responsibility of being a mother of three boys, ranging from ten-year-old Adam to sixteen-year-old Josh. With all that going on, it occasionally took firm insistence from her husband to get Genny out the door for some self-time.

 

"These look fabulous!" Genny gestured toward the cupcakes.

 

"Try one of the malt and lemon ones." Emma handed her a cupcake.

 

Never one to be shy, Genny took a big bite. "Oooo . . . that's amazing!"

 

"Thanks. It's a new recipe for fall."

 

"Well, it's a winner." Genny raised the partially eaten cupcake in salute. Then she paused. "I'm not seeing Angelique and Daniel," she added. "Didn't they come with you?"

 

"They should be here soon." Emma's cake shop operated out of the King's Rest Bed & Breakfast, which was owned by Angelique and Daniel Delgado. "There were a few things to clear up back at the B and B. Speaking of missing persons, I thought David and Charles would be here."

 

"Liza said they might stop by later. They were on a buying trip out to Edinburgh and they weren't sure they'd be back in time."

 

"Oh, that's right. I remember David saying something about that." David Kemp and his husband ran the boutique shop Vintage Style and were some of Emma's best friends-and best customers.

 

"Emma?" Oliver crept out from under the table and bonked her calf with his hard nose. "Emma, you did promise we would be having snacks. There are many snacks on the table, Emma."

 

Emma laughed and ruffled the corgi's ears. "Somebody's getting restless," she said to Genny. "And I haven't had dinner yet."

 

"Make sure you try the ham," said Genny. "It's from Matt Trenwith's farm, and it is absolutely scrummy."

 

Emma didn't need any more urging. She promptly fixed up a plate, helping herself (and Oliver) to several thick slices of the ham, along with rolls, mustard and apple and cabbage slaw, as well as some of Liza's fiery piccalilli. She caught Brian's eye across the room and gestured toward one of the empty tables that had been pushed up against the window. Brian nodded back to her.

 

Genny sat down across from Emma. Oliver took up his favorite position, sprawled full length under her chair. Wincing at what the vet was going to say about his dietary habits, Emma slipped him half a ham slice and some apple slaw. Like Emma, Oliver was quite full-bodied as it was. Fortunately, the hills around Trevena provided plenty of opportunity for long walks to help keep their rich country diet from catching up with them-too much, anyway.

 

Around them, the party was in full swing. Liza circulated among the guests. The blueprints for the planned improvements hung on one wall, and Sam was showing them off for his intrigued audience. The cellar where the tunnel opened would become a private dining and event area, with the tunnel itself as a small historical attraction.

 

Brian was delayed at the bar, saying hello to friends and neighbors, but Emma wasn't neglected. Her own bundle of friends and customers stopped by the table to chat with her and Genny. They talked easily about their lives, gossiped about the village, and praised the food, including Emma's cupcakes. Most of them took a minute to pet Oliver and ask how he was doing, how her cottage was doing, how had her new garden turned out? It was astonishing how fast Trevena had come to feel like home.

 

Brian made his way through the crowd and handed Emma her cider.

 

"For the loveliest woman in the room."

 

"Whew!" Genny whistled. "He does lay it on thick."

 

"Five minutes in and he's already tipsy." Emma pulled an exaggerated face at him.

 

Brian laughed. "Not so much I don't know what I'm seeing."

 

The fact that Brian could make her blush like a teenager might have been annoying if he didn't have such an amazing smile.

 

He was smiling at her now, and Emma's insides responded by melting into an entirely undignified puddle.

 

"Better go get myself something before this lot eats it all," he said to them. "Be right back."

 

Oliver crawled out from under Emma's chair and shook himself. "Brian shouldn't be alone," he grumbled. He trotted after him and plunked down at the end of the buffet table.

 

Emma sighed. "Oh, fickle corgi!"

 

"Not jealous, are you?" asked Genny.

 

"Nah." She sipped the sharp, warm cider. "Oliver knows who's got the key to the kibble bin."

 

Genny arched her brows. "You actually lock your kibble bin?"

 

Emma nodded seriously. "You would be amazed at what a determined corgi can get into."

 

Before Genny could add anything else, a young, blond woman with a heavy camera around her neck made her way up to their table.

 

"Hullo, Emma! Hullo, Genny!"

 

"Pippa!" exclaimed Emma. "I didn't know you'd be here."

 

"Wouldn't miss it. My editor wants pictures of the 'grand opening.'" Pippa made the air quotes with one hand.

 

Pippa Marsh was a willowy woman whose personal style leaned toward men's fedoras and brightly embroidered jackets. Today's hat was a pearl-gray, snap-brim number with a black grosgrain band. She insisted that it made her feel like a real reporter. Pippa worked for the Cornwall Coast News, mostly writing up the social events-town council meetings and the like. Her real passion, though, was photography.

 

Pippa had done a very nice piece on Reed's Tea & Cakes when Emma had opened, and was a particular fan of Oliver. Oliver returned the admiration. He shamelessly abandoned Brian and came over to sit up on his hindquarters in front of Pippa. He let his mouth hang open in that way that made him look like he was laughing.

 

There's more than one shameless flirt here tonight.

 

"Oh, so cute!" Pippa crouched down to snap a shot, which Oliver promptly spoiled by charging the photographer so he could lick her face.

 

"Off, you idiot!" Pippa laughed. Oliver backed away, but mostly because Emma happened to drop another bit of ham just then.

 

Pippa straightened up and switched over to full reporter mode. "So, any thoughts on what we'll find downstairs? I mean real ones." She jerked her chin toward the chalkboard.

 

"Could be just about anything." Brian edged past her, carrying his loaded plate. "If what everybody says is true, the smugglers' tunnels have been there hundreds of years."

 

"Ten to one, it's nothing at all," said Pippa.

 

Genny arched her brows. "So you're just here for the food?"