Pumpkin Spice Puppy

Book 30: Melanie Travis Canine Mystery

by Laurien Berenson

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Animal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

It’s autumn in Connecticut and there’s a chill in the air, the fall leaves are a riot of color, and pumpkin spice is the flavor of the season. Melanie Travis is perennially busy, of course—but when the owner of a local pet supply shop is found murdered, sleuthing tops her To Do list . . .

Between taking care of her family and assorted Standard Poodles, Melanie is also working as a special needs tutor for Howard Academy, a private school in Greenwich, where her younger son attends kindergarten. This year, the headmaster has come up with an idea for a school fundraiser. All students will participate in a town-wide treasure hunt, with grades competing against each other.

Tokens shaped like pumpkin spice muffins have been hidden in downtown stores. Students will scramble to collect as many as they can in exchange for prizes. At first all goes smoothly, and the uptick in foot traffic to the stores is a win-win. . . . . Until the pet supply shop owner lodges a complaint. When Melanie stops by to smooth things over, she instead finds the man dead, a knife in his back, and his loyal, ever-vigilant Chow Chow locked in the storeroom.

Over the headmaster's objections, Melanie is once again drawn into an investigation. It doesn't take her long to gather a list of suspects, from neighbors balking about the number of rescue Chows the man was fostering in his home, to the landlord who’d filed an eviction notice against him, to the bitter ex-wife who is happy he's gone. With the fundraiser soon drawing to a close and celebrations imminent, Melanie will have to follow every clue—before the biggest prize is staying alive . . .

Release date: August 20, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 192

Sample

Nothing gets my family out of bed faster on a Sunday morning than the prospect of spending the day at a dog show. I’d like to think that our lives don’t entirely revolve around dogs, but since we have five of them and there are four of us, it’s a close call.

Four of the five are black Standard Poodles, all retired show dogs, now living their best lives as much-loved companions. The last is Bud, a small spotted dog of unknown origin, found on the side of the road by my older son, Davey. As opposed to the Poodles, who are perfectly behaved, Bud is a wild man who makes his own rules. It’s a good thing that little troublemaker is cute.

Davey is fifteen and a sophomore in high school, so he likes to think he makes his own rules too. In the past year, he’s shot past me in height. Now his body is all lanky limbs and sharp angles. Once he gets moving, however, Davey is surprisingly graceful. That will help today. The reason my family was on our way to a dog show was because Davey was entered to handle a Standard Poodle who belonged to my Aunt Peg.

“We’ve been driving forever,” a voice piped up from the back seat of the SUV. “Why aren’t we there yet?”

Five years old, Kevin was a blond-haired, blue-eyed replica of my husband, Sam. Kev possessed many wonderful qualities, but patience wasn’t one of them. We’d been on the road for an hour, so it wasn’t a surprise that he was tired of sitting still.

“Your timing is excellent,” Sam said as a large building loomed into view. “We’re about to turn into the parking lot.”

It’s hard for me to believe Sam and I have been married for seven years. Sometimes it feels as though we’ve known each other forever. Other times, it seems like the years have passed in the blink of an eye. Sam says the luckiest day of his life was the day he and I met. I think he has that backward. I’m definitely the one who’s been lucky.

The four of us had spent the past six months participating in dog shows that were held outdoors in lovely parks or open, grassy fields. Now it was the first week of November. In Connecticut, that meant there was frost on the ground and a winter chill in the air. Also that the dog show circuit had moved inside until spring.

The good thing about the change in venues was that exhibitors wouldn’t have to worry about poor footing, inclement weather, or fading light. The bad: a dozen show rings and a thousand dogs, plus their crates, grooming tables, blow-dryers, and other assorted supplies would all be crammed together in very close quarters.

Fortunately for us, Aunt Peg would have arrived early and have already dealt with some of those problems. A relative by marriage, Peg was a woman in her seventies with a formidable intellect. Having spent decades producing some of the best Standard Poodles in the country, Aunt Peg was now a distinguished dog show judge. She had a direct gaze, forceful opinions, and a work ethic that would put a longshoreman to shame.

There was nothing Aunt Peg admired more than useful people, and she’d done her best to force me into that mold. Her standards were high, and her expectations higher still. I wasn’t the only person who sometimes struggled to measure up.

During the previous year, Davey had handled Aunt Peg’s homebred bitch, Cedar Crest Coral, to her championship. Now Peg was considering the possibility of a specials career—entering her to compete against other champions for Group and Best in Show wins—for Coral. Aunt Peg hoped Davey would want to continue handling the Poodle.

We were all there to give the idea a trial run.

Sam parked the SUV, then we entered the building and went straight to the crowded grooming room, where the pre-ring preparations would take place. I scanned the cavernous space and saw that Aunt Peg had secured a spot for her crate and grooming table beside the setup belonging to professional handler, Crawford Langley, and his assistant and husband, Terry Denunzio. Coral was standing on the tabletop beside her

“Over here!” Aunt Peg called out, waving a hand above her head. As one of the taller people in the room, she was already hard to miss.

“I see Aunt Peg,” Kevin cried eagerly. He dropped my hand and ran on ahead.

“We all see her,” I muttered. “And I think half the room heard her.”

Sam reached over and gave me a warning poke. He knows that my relationship with Aunt Peg has always been complicated. His, meanwhile, is utterly straightforward. Sam’s a huge fan. His stride lengthened as he went to greet Peg with a smile.

If only it were that easy for me.

“We’re not late,” I said as we approached. Davey had hurried to the other side of the setup. He was already unpacking Peg’s tack box and lining up a row of grooming tools along the edge of Coral’s table.

Aunt Peg’s brow rose. “Did I say you were?”

“No, but you were thinking it.”

A snicker came from next door. Terry, no doubt. I hadn’t even had a chance to say hello and he was already having fun at my expense.

Terry was a few years younger than me and drop dead gorgeous, a fact that was wasted on, well, pretty much everyone, since he only had eyes for Crawford. A longtime couple, they’d tied the knot on Valentine’s Day, and we’d all been there to celebrate with them. Terry’s hairstyle changed as often as his mood. Today his locks were blond and curled softly around his ears. Though he looked as innocent as a Renaissance cherub, I wasn’t fooled for a minute.

I turned and blew an air-kiss in his direction. “Cut that out, mister. Or you won’t be my favorite person in the room anymore.”

“Hey!” said Sam. He was down near the floor, helping Kevin unpack the bag of toys he’d brought with him.

“Hey!” Davey echoed in mock outrage.

“Hey!” Kevin chimed in, not because he understood what was going on, but because he hated to be left out.

My family had a point.

“Okay, fourth favorite,” I said to Terry. “But that’s still pretty good, right?”

He cast a glance Aunt Peg’s way in case she wanted to object. She’d sidled over to stand beside Davey and was pretending to be oblivious. Probably a lucky thing under the circumstances.

“Close enough.” Terry flashed me a cheeky grin. “I’ll take it. Crawford’s over at the MinPin ring, but he’ll be back shortly. He wants to talk to you about offering a prize.”

“Sure,” I replied without thinking. “Wait . . . what?”

“A prize. For your thingie.”

That explanation didn’t help.

“Yes, of course. My thingie,” I repeated. “I’ve been worried about that all day.” Davey was trying not to laugh. I hated to think what my teenage son might be imagining. “Terry, what are we talking about?”

“You know.” He fluttered a hand in the air. “Your school thing.”

I stared at him blankly.

“Oh for Pete’s sake,” said Aunt Peg. “The Howard Academy fundraiser. Surely it hasn’t slipped your mind. You’ve been talking about it for a month.”

Oh, that.

During the week, I worked half days as a special needs tutor at a private school in Greenwich, Connecticut. Howard Academy was a select institution, catering to both children of privilege and scholarship students, and providing a stellar education to all. The school’s primary goal was to provide a solid foundation upon which our graduating eighth-graders would base the rest of their academic careers.

That level of excellence couldn’t be maintained on a budget, however. HA had been founded a century earlier in a mansion donated by benefactors Joshua and Honoria Howard. Now the building was showing its age, and growing enrollment over the years had necessitated the addition of two new wings. Not only that, but attracting the best teachers also meant paying a premium for them.

Howard Academy had managed for decades on the proceeds from a generous endowment. Now those halcyon days were waning. The school’s finances were far from dire, but its board believed in planning ahead.

Other school principals might have proposed a bake sale or car wash. Not our esteemed headmaster, Russell Hanover II. As usual, he was thinking bigger.

The result was that his assistant, Harriet Bloom, and I had spent the previous month ironing out the details of his Thanks for Giving fundraiser.

“It’s my day off,” I said. Even to my own ears, my words sounded plaintive and maybe a little whiney. “I shouldn’t have to think about work.”

“Pish.” Aunt Peg snorted. Beside her, Davey had Coral lying on her side on the rubber-matted tabletop. She was overseeing his line-brushing of the Poodle’s dense mane coat. “The fundraiser isn’t supposed to be work. You described it as a treasure hunt.”

“It is.” I brightened at the thought. Harriet and I had come up with the theme together. I thought it was genius. “We’re getting the students involved in raising money for the school by sending them on a quest.”

Terry also had a Standard Poodle out on his grooming table. He was busy layering hairspray through the dog’s copious topknot. Now he paused to waggle his eyebrows. “What kind of quest? Please tell me it involves swords and dragons.”

“Nope,” said Kevin. He was running a matchbox car around the floor of Coral’s crate. Since he was in kindergarten at Howard Academy, his class was taking part in the treasure hunt. “This one is about pumpkin spice muffins.”

“You’re kidding.” Terry laughed.

“I wish.” Kev sighed.

“I like pumpkin spice muffins,” Sam mentioned.

“As do I,” Aunt Peg agreed. That wasn’t a surprise. She had a ferocious sweet tooth.

“It’s only the tokens that are shaped like muffins,” Davey told his little brother. “Once you collect enough of them, you can turn them in for prizes.”

Kevin looked up at him. “What kinds of prizes?”

I was sure his teacher had already briefed his class on the possibilities, but I was happy to elaborate anyway. “There are lots of great things to choose from. Toys, games, sporting equipment, gift certificates, even a motorized scooter. One parent offered a ski weekend at their chalet in Vermont. And more donations are arriving every day.”

“That’s where Crawford comes in,” Terry said. “He wants to donate a prize too.”

“That’s very generous. I’ll talk to him about it after the judging.” I paused, struck by a sudden thought. “How did Crawford know about the fundraiser?”

“How do you think?” Aunt Peg asked as Davey set his brushes aside and nudged Coral to stand up and shake out her coat. “I told him. I was quite certain his skills would be much in demand.” Peg, a Howard Academy alumna, had already offered several prizes of her own.

“Who’s in demand?” Crawford asked, striding back into the setup with a Miniature Pinscher tucked beneath his arm and a purple-and-gold Best of Breed rosette clutched in h. . .