War of the Squirrels: A Doyle Cozy Mystery

Book 4: A Wits' End Cozy Mystery

by Kirsten Weiss

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Crime & Mystery; UFO; humor; Cozy Mystery; B B

Synopsis

Helicopter parents, a squirrel invasion... and murder.

All Susan wants is to get through this visit from her controlling parents without tumbling down a black hole of despair. But galactic forces are colliding at her whimsical B&B, Wits' End, and her parents have plans of their own.

When two men die on the same day, both mysterious deaths are tied to her mom and dad. Meanwhile, a squirrel scofflaw is riling up the tiny mountain town of Doyle, and Susan realizes she's the only person who can stop the madness. And if this B&B owner can't put these crimes to rest fast, her carefully organized life may come crashing to earth.

This fast-paced and funny cozy mystery is book four in the Wits' End series. Packed with quirky characters, small town charm, and murder, it's perfect for fans of Jana Deleon, Tricia O'Malley, and Charlaine Harris.

Buy War of the Squirrels and start this hilarious caper today.

Release date: February 18, 2021

Publisher: misterio press

Print pages: 224

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

 

If there’s anything worse than walking in on your parents in the throes of disposing of a body, I don’t want to know what it is.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Earlier that day, unaware of the disaster unfolding, I bent my head toward my reception desk and pretended this was a normal day.

“Susan,” Arsen said gently.

I drew careful diagonal lines through the completed tasks in my planner.

“Susan,” my boyfriend said again. “Now you’re starting to freak me out.”

At my feet, Bailey woofed in agreement. The aging beagle sat on my sneaker to punctuate his argument.

I set down ruler and pencil and straightened in the creaky swivel chair. “What am I supposed to do? My two ex-jailers are arriving any minute. They’re going to be watching me like hawks. Any signs of weakness, and…”

He sat on the desk and grasped my shoulder. “First, you’re not weak. Second, you’re not a teenager anymore. You’re an adult. There’s nothing they can do if you don’t let them.” He smiled, his hazel eyes crinkling.

Normally, crinkling hazel eyes would make me melt. This is especially true when they’re accompanied by an easygoing personality, square jaw, and killer smile.

But not today.

Arsen thought my parents were simply controlling. And they were definitely that. But there was a lot more to my parents than met the eye. If he knew the truth…

I swallowed. One or both of us might wind up in jail. The US government is particular about breaches of national security.

Car tires crunched in the gravel driveway. My head snapped toward the door, and oh, God, was there something wrong with the Wits’ End A/C? Because the room suddenly felt really warm, and I couldn’t afford another repair bill.

Arsen stood and smiled down at me from his six-feet-plus height. His muscular form showed off his golf shirt with the logo for his newish security company. “Now let’s say hello to your parents.”

“And give up my tactical advantage?” I gripped the edges of the battered wooden desk. The reception area was my space. And the desk provided a solid barrier to hide behind. True, the rows of alien bobbleheads on the nearby shelves didn’t exactly scream authority figure lives here. But from the right angle, this desk could stop a bullet.

“These aren’t war maneuvers,” he said.

“Yes, Arsen. Yes. They are.”

He rubbed his chin. “I could divert them with my airplane barf bag collection.”

“Don’t you dare.” If my parents had bothered to collect any, they’d probably be able to beat him. They’d put on some serious miles over the course of their careers. I hesitated. “But… if you told them you used to be a Navy—”

“No,” he said flatly. “I’m not going to use that to impress them or anyone else.”

I sighed. “I guess that’s fair.” He’d only told me about his time in the military recently. The rest of Doyle thought he’d spent his time away as a dive instructor at various exotic resorts. I was still a little irked I’d fallen for his fib. But he had the right to his secrets.

I certainly had my own skeletons in the closet.

Arsen sketched a lazy salute. “Then I’ll man my station and execute the plan.”

Outside, two car doors slammed.

I grabbed my pencil and clutched it like a weapon. “That might not even be my parents. It could be another guest. I wouldn’t go running outside to greet a random guest. It would look desperate.”

His tanned forehead creased. “Do you have any other guests checking in today?”

The porch’s first screen door screeched on its hinges.

“I don’t know,” I said, biting my lip. “Let me just check my planner.” I flipped it open to the calendar section.

The interior screen door opened, and my father walked in. Sparse and unassuming, his gray eyes blinked like an owl’s behind his thick glasses.

He looked around the foyer, at the faux Persian carpet, at the colored light through the stained-glass transom falling across its fading shag, at the green-carpeted steps leading upstairs.

“This old place hasn’t changed a bit,” he said. “Hello, Susan.”

I rose, gripping my pencil. “Hi, Dad.”

My mother strode into the foyer. Her dowdy green skirt and oversized blouse made her appear well-padded rather than well-muscled. But I knew better.

Her nose wrinkled. “I thought you would have made some improvements. That ridiculous UFO is still in the roof. How do your neighbors stand it?”

Bailey shrank behind the desk and pressed against my ankle.

“Hi, Mom,” I said. “And we are a UFO-themed B&B.”

Arsen stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Hi, Mr.—”

“Do you have any neighbors who drive a blue Honda Civic?” my mother asked. She rattled off a license plate number.

“No,” I said. “Why?”

Arsen and my father shook hands.

“There was one abandoned by the roadside not far from here,” she said. “I thought they might have had car trouble.”

“They probably stopped to hike,” Arsen said. “Hello again,  Mrs. Witsend.”

My mother’s eyes narrowed. “So. You and Susan are still seeing each other, I take it?”

“Yep.” He grinned. “Susan can’t get enough of me.”

My face warmed with embarrassed pleasure.

“Can I help with your things?” Arsen continued.

“They’re in the Audi,” my father said. “And yes, you can give me a hand. I think my wife packed lead bars in her suitcase. You know women.” He chortled and walked outside.

Arsen followed, and the screen door banged shut behind him.

Pointing at my mother, I walked around the desk. “You don’t really care if someone abandoned their car.”

“Of course not,” she said. “But I’m certain we were being followed by one.”

I stiffened. “Followed to Doyle? By a blue Civic? Why would anyone follow you… here?”

She rolled her eyes. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking about the car, would I?”

“But—”

“Smile and keep up appearances, Susan. Everything is fine.” She sauntered out the front door.

My jaw tightened. Fine? How could she…? I breathed deep and forced a smile. And kept up appearances.

I walked onto the porch and stopped beside my mother at the top of the steps.

Morning sun shot streamers across the eastern mountaintops, still gilded by snow though it was June. Roses danced along the picket fence. A Sierra breeze scented with pine fluttered their blossoms.

“Careful with that blue one.” She pointed at Arsen, hefting a blue suitcase onto his shoulder.

“Why?” I tried to joke. “Is it going to explode?”

She shot me an annoyed look. “You know we don’t work with explosives,” she whispered. “Not unless we have to. And certainly not while on vacation. Thank you, Arnold,” she said more loudly.

“Arsen,” I gritted out. “You know his name is Arsen.”

“Sorry,” she trilled. “Arsen.”

“No worries,” Arsen said, striding toward us.

A pine branch at the end of the drive drooped, and a squirrel hopped from it onto the picket fence. The branch snapped upward, swaying.

A mighty howl sounded from inside the B&B.

“What on earth?” My mother began to turn.

A blur of brown and fawn barreled between her legs.

My breath caught. “Bailey, no!” I shouted.

My mother stumbled, teetering on the edge of the porch step.

Arsen dropped the suitcase and bolted forward, his arms extended to catch her.

My mother pivoted like a ballerina, then straightened. Unruffled, she smoothed her skirt. “I asked you to be careful with that suitcase.”

Arsen stopped beside the bottom step. “Sorry, I thought… Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay.” She scowled at Bailey, barking frantically at the squirrel. It raced back and forth on the fence, taunting, out of the beagle’s reach. “Maybe you should show us to our room, Susan?”

“Oh. Right.” Returning inside, I grabbed the key card I’d prepared. I handed her the thin piece of plastic. “You’re in room five, upstairs.”

“All the guest rooms are upstairs,” she said. “Telling me ours is upstairs is redundant, don’t you think?”

“Right. Sorry. I’m so used to my spiel to new guests—”

“And where is my niece?”

“Dixie?”

“I only have the one,” she said.

“Right. She’s uh, not here.” Lucky Dixie. My cousin had gone into hiding when she’d realized today really was the day my parents arrived. Dixie had a strong sense of self-preservation.

“How typical.” My mother sniffed and marched up the narrow stairs.

Looking contrite, Arsen walked in with her suitcase on his shoulder. “Room five?”

I scurried around the desk and brushed bits of gravel off the suitcase. “Go on up,” I muttered, “if you dare.”

He nodded and carried the suitcase upstairs.

Puffing, my father staggered in a minute later, dragging a yellow suitcase behind him. “I don’t suppose this old Victorian had elevators installed since I was last here?”

I shook my head. He was laying the frail-old-man schtick on a little thick, especially since Arsen was upstairs and out of sight.

“All right then.” He huffed up the steps.

I forced my hands to unclench. I could do this. It was only a week, and my parents were on my territory.

But a cold shadow touched my shoulder blade, and I shivered, shrugging it off. I wasn’t going to fulfill my parents’ expectations and have an anxiety attack. Not now. One step at a time.

I studied my planner. Next on my agenda was writing this week’s B&B blog. I could have put it off, but I’d been careful to book my afternoon with excuses to evade my parents.

Arsen jogged downstairs. “Your dad wasn’t kidding about that suitcase. What did your mother pack?”

“Armaments, most likely,” I said, glum.

He laughed. “Sure.” Arsen checked his massive dive watch. “Hey, I’ve got to meet a new client downtown, and I was hoping to get in a bike ride. Your parents said they were up for a night hike. That work for you?”

I checked my planner. “My evening’s free.” I’d planned that too, because I couldn’t avoid my parents forever. Though maybe a smarter play would have been to pack it full of activity.

“Awesome.” He bent and kissed me, then kissed me again, longer and slower. He smelled of soap and pure Arsen. And despite the horror of my parents’ arrival, my insides warmed.

“You’ve got this,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye.” I watched him leave, then glanced at the ceiling. My stomach rolled. Why was—? I shook my head.

No, I did not want to know why my mother’s suitcase was so heavy. They were on vacation. She could pack what she wanted.

I got to blogging.

My parents trooped downstairs. They grabbed a map of Doyle from the rack by the door and informed me they were going shopping.

“What are you doing?” my mother asked.

“Blogging.” Feigning regret, I pointed at my planner. “Got to get it done today.”

She shook her head and walked outside.

“People still blog?” my father asked and followed her.

I slumped in my chair. It squeaked rudely.

I’d done it. I’d gotten through my first encounter with my parents since Gran’s funeral. They hadn’t bossed me around, and no one was dead.

I could get through the week. Of course I could get through the week. I was a Witsend, and Witsends are made of stern stuff.

Feeling cheerier, I outlined my blog. I drafted my blog. I wrote and rewrote my blog. And when it was done, I found the perfect photo to go with it and posted my blog.

Done.

I checked my planner. Next up, housekeeping. I frowned. Dixie still hadn’t made an appearance, which meant I’d have to do her share as well. Honestly, my cousin would have to face my mother at some point.

I vacuumed and dusted and scrubbed. While I was cleaning the windowsills in the octagonal breakfast room, my parents returned.

I stuck my head into the foyer, but they were already halfway up the steps to the second floor.

And since discretion really is the better part of valor, I edged backward into the breakfast room and finished up.

Silently cursing the absent Dixie, I bumped the heavy vacuum cleaner up the stairs. It was nearly five. The cleaning was taking me twice as long as it should have without Dixie’s help. Though in fairness, I had spent a lot of time on that blog.

I vacuumed the long, green hallway and dusted the UFO photos lining its walls. Retrieving the cleaning bucket and supplies from the upstairs closet, I started toward the end of the hall.

Bailey’s collar jingled behind me, and I turned. The beagle huffed upstairs and sniffed the bucket.

“Thanks for making the trek. I could use some company.” I bent and ruffled the dog’s fur.

I tackled the rooms at the end of the hall, knocking on doors and working my way forward.

At room seven, I paused to shift the bucket to my other hand. The room was empty, so I opened the door without knocking and stepped inside.

My father clung to the lower part of a man’s black-clad leg, shoe pressed to my father’s ear. The rest of the dead man—and he was dead, he had to be dead—dangled out the open window.

The man’s Hawaiian shirt rucked down, exposing a Kydex holster between his pants and his skin.

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

As if my fingers were far, far away, I felt my hands loosen. I dimly heard my cleaning bucket of brushes and other supplies thud to the carpet in room seven.

Bailey howled and raced from the room, his ears flapping. And who could blame him? The room itself seemed to revolt at the scene. Even the faked pie-tin UFO photo hung at an awkward angle above the rumpled bed.

Early evening shadows knifed across my mother’s sensible shoes. She sat in a vintage wing chair in one corner of the room. “Shut the door,” she commanded and removed the clip from a Russian pistol.

Automatically, I obeyed.

Mouth slack, I backed against the door. “You... That’s...” My breath came in quick gasps. Dots swam in front of my eyes. This wasn’t my first body in the B&B. But…

The leg slipped in my father’s grip, the shoe inching closer to his shoulder.

Briefly, I wondered if this was what lost time felt like, this sense of being out of phase, outside ordinary reality. Unthinking, I groped for my day planner. But of course it wasn’t there. I didn’t carry it around when I cleaned.

Should I?

No, that was nonsense. My head cleared. Of course. I was finally having that psychotic break.

Warm relief flooded my veins. I’d been bound to crack up at some point. The sheriff had once warned me I was delusional. I didn’t think I was, but wasn’t denial a sign of insanity?

My mother set down the gun. Her expression pinched. “Hank, it’s happening again. Help her.”

He let go of the leg. The body thudded unpleasantly onto the shingled overhang, outside.

In three steps my father was at my side. He seized me hard by the elbow, and sat me on the bed. My father grasped the back of my neck and bent me forward in an iron grip. “Head between your knees, Susan.”

I didn’t struggle. There wasn’t a whole lot of point. “My planner,” I gasped, staring between my flats at the throw rug.

“No,” my father said, “it wasn’t in the plans.”

I groaned. “This wasn’t how your visit was supposed to go.”

“I know,” my mother said. “You made your expectations crystal clear. How did you put it? We weren’t supposed to treat you as a child anymore, but as an adult? Well, this is our adult world. Congratulations, you’re in it.”

My father released me, and I sat up.

“That wasn’t what I meant.” I wasn’t a spy. This had never been my life. I’d never wanted this.

My mother laid the gun on the desk and propped her head on her fist. “That’s life.”

“It’s not—” I pointed to the window. “He’s dead.” My hands bunched in the fabric of my navy capris. “You killed a man. In my B&B!”

“Not a man, an assassin,” my mother corrected.

“Why is there a dead assassin in my B&B?” I asked.

“Now, now, don’t dwell.” She glanced at my father. “She always was a dweller, wasn’t she, Hank? That’s why you have those anxiety attacks, Susan.”

His brow wrinkled. “You can get a bit obsessive, Sue.”

“There’s a dead body in my B&B,” I whined and hated myself for it. But under the circumstances, who could blame me? My gaze darted toward the closed door.

My father glanced at the window. “Technically, he’s no longer in your B&B.”

The emerald curtains waved a mournful farewell.

“And don’t whine.” My mother examined her nails.

“He’s dead,” I said.

“It was self-defense,” my father said.

“He wasn’t a very nice man,” my mother said.

“And he didn’t give us much of a choice,” my father agreed.

“He was Russian,” my mother said.

I gripped my knees tighter. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I believe his accent was Crimean,” my father corrected.

I gaped. “A Crimean assassin?” That sort of explained the empty holster and the Russian gun. But… here? “In Doyle?”

My father knelt in front of me, adjusted his glasses, and gazed into my eyes. “Are you feeling better, darling?”

“I told you she shouldn’t have moved to such a small town,” my mother said. “Doyle’s done nothing for her mental health.”

“A body in my B&B is doing nothing for my mental health,” I snapped.

“What about Doctor Feinberg?” my mother asked. “She’s done excellent work with anxiety disorders.”

Hunching, I rubbed my upper arms, chilled. “There’s nothing disordered about feeling anxious after someone’s been killed in your home.”

“Doctor Feinberg only works with agency employees,” my father said to her.

“Why?” I asked more loudly. “Why kill him?” My parents’ “business” had always taken them overseas. They weren’t allowed to work stateside. I think it’s unconstitutional.

“I told you,” my father said patiently. “It was self-defense.”

“But why did you have to defend against anything here?” Wits’ End, my UFO-themed B&B, was in a small town in the Sierra foothills. What did we have to do with assassins?

My father grimaced and glanced at my mother. “That’s an excellent question.”

“One someone will answer to,” my mother said, grim.

“But—”

My mother stood. “Now straighten your hair, put on a smile, and go outside and pretend everything’s just fine, because it is.” She handed my father a business card. “Take a look at this.”

“But—”

My father steered me out the door. “Do as we tell you. There’s a good girl.”

“But—”

“No buts,” he said. “This is dangerous knowledge, Susan. It’s up to you to keep this secret and everyone safe. National security, you understand. You’ve done it in the past. You can do it again.” He handed me my cleaning bucket and shut the door in my face.

My legs trembled. A chill touched my left shoulder. Fists clenched, I closed my eyes, willing the shadow away. But the shadow—my anxiety—was always nearby, always waiting to drag me down. And this… this…

And why did my mother have a business card for the Historic Doyle Hotel, my B&B’s archrival? Could she have taken it off the assassin’s body? It made sense. Even assassins had to spend the night somewhere, and the Historic Doyle Hotel had once hosted the outlaw Black Bart.

“I am calm and in control,” I muttered, though I patently wasn’t. My heart was racing. My head felt floaty. My breath came too fast.

Why now? Why me?

Spy parents aren’t as fun and exciting as they might sound. As soon as I’d been born, I’d become part of their cover. And to keep control of their cover, they’d meticulously controlled me.

Now, as an adult, I understood they’d been trying to protect me. But the rational mind and the emotional mind don’t always see eye to eye.

A whimper sounded in the hallway, and for a moment I thought it had come from me. Then I looked down.

The beagle stared up at me from the green carpeting, his doggy eyes wide with worry.

“It’s fine.” My voice came out somewhere between a whisper and a gulp. “I’m sure the action was completely legal.” My parents had always been scrupulous about legalities. After all, they’d sworn an oath. “Everything’s fine.”

“What’s fine?” a masculine voice boomed from behind me.

I yelped, jumped, and turned to face Arsen in an ungainly pirouette. “What are you doing here?”

“Whoa,” Arsen said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just looking for your parents.” He stared pointedly down at my cleaning bucket. “We were supposed to go on a night hike, remember? I thought we could grab dinner first.”

He’d changed into a fresh shirt and pair of khakis. The ends of his whiskey-colored hair were damp, so I guessed he’d gone for his bike ride and showered before returning. How had time passed so quickly?

“Everything’s fine,” I blurted, too loud.

His bronzed brow creased. “I know. I mean, I guess I’m a little early, but—”

“My parents can’t come.”

He grinned. “Just you and me then? Even better. No offense to your parents.”

Something thumped inside room seven, and I stiffened.

“Is someone in there?” Arsen pointed his thumb at the door.

“No. That’s why I just cleaned it. A new guest is coming in tomorrow, and I wanted to give it an extra freshening.”

“I thought I heard—”

“Sorry, tight schedule.” I turned and bustled to the stairs, hoping Arsen would follow. Thankfully, he did.

“Is everything okay?” He picked up Bailey, who has trouble going down steps.

“Everything’s fine.”

“Yeah, but you don’t seem fine. You seem stressed. Is it your parents?” he said in a low voice. “Look, I don’t care if they like me or not, or want to spend time with me or not. Your parents don’t scare me.”

They should. Though Arsen was an ex-Navy Seal, I really didn’t want to see the man I loved pitted against my parents. That would be awkward. “Everything’s fine.”

He set Bailey on the foyer’s faux-Persian rug and touched my arm. “Now I know something’s wrong. That’s the third time you’ve told me everything’s fine. Is this more of your positive self-talk?”

“No, I just...”

Arsen cocked his head.

“You’re right,” I said. “It’s my parents.”

“I knew it.”

“I wish they hadn’t come,” I said fervently.

He rested his strong hands on my shoulders. “You’ve got this. You’re a grown woman with a successful business.”

“Not that successful,” I muttered. I still wasn’t sure how I’d pay for the new roof the B&B needed.

“The point is, you can do what you want. They can’t control you anymore.”

“Right.” I nodded like a bobble head. “Right. I’ve got this. And I need to prep for tomorrow’s breakfast.”

Meal prep actually wasn’t on the schedule. I’d planned on doing the prep work after our hike. But cooking soothed me, and if I didn’t keep busy with something, I’d break and tell Arsen about the body on the roof.

And knowledge was dangerous. A lead weight pressed on my lungs, and I hugged my arms.

I hurried to the kitchen. Bailey and Arsen followed at a more leisurely stroll.

Bailey trotted to his bed beneath the kitchen table. The beagle turned three times and collapsed into the aqua cushion.

I beelined for the fridge and pulled out ingredients for tomorrow’s breakfast enchilada casserole. Normal, normal, normal. Everything’s normal.

Something scraped above us. I looked up, a carton of eggs in my hands. Bailey lifted his head.

“So what are your parents up to?” Arsen sat at the table and stretched out his legs.

“Oh. Ah. You know.” Warmth flushed my cheeks.

Arsen pinked a little too. “Don’t tell me you walked in on them?”

“It was awful,” I whisper-croaked.

He grimaced. “I can imagine.”

Wait. He could? Slowly, comprehension dawned. He thought they’d been... My face flamed hotter. I set down the eggs and pulled two from the carton.

Outside, there was a soft thump.

I sucked in a breath and imagined the body falling onto my grandmother’s rose bushes. My fist clenched, crushing the egg. Yellow goo spattered across the front of my blouse, the butcher block counter, the white subway tile backsplash.

Bailey leapt to his feet and howled.

Arsen stood, panther-fast, and whipped a dish towel from the modern oven. “Whoa there. Careful.” He handed me the towel, and I blotted at the mess.

Bailey raced through the doggy door and onto the porch.

“Your parents really have got you tense.” Gently, he massaged my shoulders.

I leaned against him, my muscles loosening at his touch.

A feeling of safety and wholeness flooded my chest. This was going to be okay. My parents were professionals. The government would send a cleanup team. Everything would be perfect again by morning. Everything really would be fine.

Outside, Bailey bayed, a cry that raised the hair on my arms.

“Something’s wrong.” Arsen made a move toward the kitchen door.

“No, wait.” I grabbed his wrist, missed, and caught his hand instead. He’d see the corpse. My parents couldn’t have possibly moved it by now. “It’s only another squirrel.”

“What’s with Bailey and the squirrels? They never bothered him before.”

“I’ve got no idea. He used to like squirrels. Maybe it’s like an allergy that develops later in life?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I know this dog psychologist—”

Bailey loosed another Hound of the Baskerville’s cry.

“It sounds like he’s hurt.” Arsen stepped toward the kitchen door.

Bailey’s head shot through the doggy door, his shoulder jamming against its edge. The beagle wriggled through and bolted between Arsen’s legs.

“There he is.” I trotted across the kitchen. “Bailey’s fine.”

The beagle raced across the linoleum floor and through the open door to my private parlor.

“See?” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

My hands shook a little as I finished prepping the casserole. Hoping Arsen hadn’t noticed how uneven my enchiladas were, I covered the dish in aluminum foil and stuck it in the refrigerator.

The foyer door opened. I hop-stepped backward, banging the refrigerator door shut with my hip.

Sheriff McCourt, her blond curls quivering beneath her wide-brimmed hat, strode inside. “Good. You’re here.” The sleeves of her uniform shirt were rolled to her elbows, all business.

“Hey, Sheriff.” Arsen waved, nonchalant.

She nodded to him. “Are your parents in, Susan?”

“My parents?” A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead. “Why do you ask?”

She fixed me with a steely gaze. “I’m here about a murder.”

 

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

I collapsed against the counter. “Murder?” I squeaked. “What would my parents know about murder?”

Oh my God. The window. My new neighbor must have seen them dump the body and reported it. The room seven window was right in her cabin’s line of sight.

“They were seen arguing with the victim earlier today,” Sheriff McCourt said. She laid her hat on the kitchen table and ruffled her Shirley-Temple curls.

I studied the kitchen’s linoleum floor. My parents had been arguing with the assassin? In front of witnesses? How could they have made such an amateurish mistake?

“Who was the victim?” Arsen asked.

The sheriff turned to me. “And I want to make this clear. I do not—I repeat, do not—require your assistance in any way. Aside from getting your parents down here so I can question them.”

“Question them?” I plucked a dish towel from the counter and wrung it between my hands. This was awful. Terrible. Really, really bad.

“Talk to them,” she amended.

A metallic creak sounded outside my kitchen window.

The sheriff turned to the porch door and frowned.

“It’s okay,” Arsen said. “I’ll go upstairs and knock on your parents’ door.”

“No,” I said. “I’ll—”

He stood and patted my shoulder. “You’ve been traumatized enough.” He strode out the door into the foyer area.

“Traumatized?” the sheriff asked.

“I, uh, walked in on them.”

The sheriff flinched. “Ouch.”

“You have no idea.” I cleared my throat. “So this, um, murder. I suppose someone called to report a missing person?” And not that they’d seen a body fly out my upstairs window. Because if my neighbor was a witness—

“He’s not missing. He’s dead. Why do you think I got here so fast?”

I blinked. “You mean, you’ve seen the body?”

“Of course I’ve seen the body.”

My thoughts jumbled. The sheriff had come through from the front, not the side yard, where the body had landed. Something wasn’t right. “Who did you say was killed?”

She braced her hands on her utility belt. There was enough equipment weighing her slim hips to form a blackhole. “I didn’t,” she said.

Hope rose in my chest. “No, but seriously. Who was it?” I knew she’d tell me eventually. The sheriff liked to pretend I was a nuisance, but she’d brought me in to assist on lots of cases.

In our last, I’d had one of those dark-night-of-the-soul moments people talk about. I’d been certain I’d imagined our friendship, and she didn’t want my help at all. But then she’d asked me to step in to quell a UFO panic.

She’d needed me. Of course she had, and she still did. This was a small town, but people could be wary of the law. Lips were looser around innocent innkeepers.

Sheriff McCourt sighed. “Mr. Van Der Woodsen.”

“You mean the old guy up on the hill?” I asked. That couldn’t have been the body in room seven. My father would have had a much easier time lifting him through the window.

“Yes,” she said dryly. “The old guy up on the hill.”

My face heated. Van Der Woodsen was much more than an old guy. He was a famous writer of spy thrillers.

My parents hated them.

“And you have the body?” I asked.

“Of course I have the body. Why wouldn’t I have the body?”

“No reason.” Relief oozed through my bones, and I dropped into a chair beside the kitchen table. My parents weren’t wanted for the body in my garden.

At least, I assumed it was somewhere in my garden. My grip tightened on the dishtowel. Where was the body?

My breath caught. Unless they’d killed two people in Doyle. But old Mr. Van Der Woodsen couldn’t have been a foreign spy or assassin. So why had they been arguing with him?

Could he have been a Nazi war criminal in disguise? He might have been old enough, but only if he’d been in the Hitler Youth. Did Nazi hunters go after ex Hitler Youth?

The sheriff snapped her fingers. “Earth to Susan.”

“What?”

“I asked when your parents returned to the B&B this afternoon.”

Uh, oh. Was I their alibi? I licked my lips. “I don’t exactly know.”

Her blue eyes narrowed. She folded her arms and leaned against the butcherblock counter. “You keep the most detailed planner of anyone in Doyle, and probably all of California.”

I reached for my planner on the kitchen table and pulled it closer. “I plan my life, not other people’s.” That would just be rude. “I was cleaning, but the cleaning had run late because Dixie’s not here—”

“Where’s Dixie?”

“No idea.” But knowing my cousin, she was up to no good. I drummed my fingers on the table. “The point is, I’m not sure exactly what time they got back. Before five though.” I opened the leather-bound planner and flipped to a note page. “All right. Let’s construct a timeline. When was the body discovered?”

“Three—” The sheriff shook her head and straightened off the counter. “We’re not collaborating. Unless you can tell me when your parents returned to the B&B, or have any intel on who’s been posting those squirrel flyers around town, I don’t want to hear it.”

A yowl erupted from my parlor, and I winced.

“Squirrel flyers?” I whispered, so Bailey wouldn’t overhear.

“It’s more UFO baloney.”

“Alien squirrels?” I asked, puzzled, and sat back in my chair. What did squirrels have to do with UFOs?

“Never mind. And why are you whispering?”

“Bailey has excellent hearing. What do UFOs have to do with squirrels?”

“Flyers about squirrels, alien squirrels. It’s ridiculous. There’s no such thing as aliens, much less alien squirrels. But I’ve had six complaints about those flyers today.”

Bailey pushed through the parlor door and growled at the sheriff. His dislike of squirrels was recent, his dislike of uniforms longstanding.

I scooped the beagle into my lap before he could make more trouble. “I don’t get it. Why are people complaining about a flyer?”

“They’re illegally posted.” She shook her head in disgust, her curls swaying. “And a few people are worried about possible squirrel influence.”

“Influ—?”

Bailey barked furiously and scrabbled toward her. I tightened my grip.

“What does that even mean?” I asked.

“Hell if I know. But this town is crawling with squirrels.”

Bailey barked some more, and I shushed him.

“I just don’t want another panic,” the sheriff shouted over his barks.

“Maybe I can help. UFOs are my specialty. I mean, how many people have one in their roof? Well, it’s a fake UFO, but you know what I mean. If there’s talk about alien you-know-whats—”

“I’ll call the Forest Service. Squirrels are plague carriers. People should be more worried about disease, but—”

My parents breezed into the kitchen, Arsen trailing behind them, and Bailey fell silent.

“Sheriff,” my father said heartily. “Arsen told us you have some questions?”

Sheriff McCourt stood and shook hands with my parents. “Let’s start with something easy. What brought you to Doyle?”

“Susan’s birthday’s coming up.” My father beamed at me. “We wouldn’t miss that.”

The sheriff grunted. “You were seen arguing with Mr. Salvatore Van Der Woodsen early this afternoon.”

“At the spice store,” my father agreed. “Yes.”

“What time was this?” she asked.

“Around one I’d say, wouldn’t you agree, Pansy?” he asked.

Interesting. If the body had been discovered at three something, Van Der Woodsen must have been killed between one and the time of discovery. Though the sheriff had never finished saying exactly what time the body had been found.

“Yes,” my mother said. “We walked there after lunch. I bought one of those salt cutting boards.”

“It weighs a ton.” My dad laughed. “You could club someone to death with the thing.”

I winced. This was not the time for jokes about murder.

“Can you tell me what the argument was about?” the sheriff asked.

“Mr. Van Der Woodsen was a horrible, rude man,” my mother said hotly. “And his books are atrocious.”

“Oh?” the sheriff asked.

“Everyone thinks spies are flashy martini-swilling sex machines,” she said. “But it’s complete balderdash. Spies have to look like ordinary people to blend in. His books are garbage.”

“And all those explosions and gun fights and car chases,” my father said. “Complete nonsense. Most spy work is simply talking to people and trying to turn them. Anyone who’s been to that spy museum in DC would know that.”

“And that’s why you argued?” the sheriff asked. “Over a book?”

“I thought our literary critiques were fairly civilized until he struck my wife in the ankle with his cane,” my father said. “I may not be the perfect husband, but one doesn’t let that sort of thing go.”

The sheriff blinked. “He hit you?”

My mother stuck out her ankle and tilted it this way and that, showing off a slim red mark. “It stung like nobody’s business.”

“And Mr. Witsend, you then...?” the sheriff raised her brows.

“Told him that if he didn’t leave immediately, I’d take that cane and shove it right up his—”

“An anatomical impossibility,” my mother said quickly. “But it was merely a colorful way to make a point.”

The sheriff arched a brow. “The point being...?”

“Don’t hit my wife,” my father growled.

“And then?” the sheriff asked.

“And then he left,” my father said.

“What was Mr. Van Der Woodsen doing in the spice shop?” I asked.

Everyone turned to stare at me.

I coughed, tingling sweeping up the back of my neck. “Well, doesn’t he have that butler to do his shopping?”

“They have excellent balsamic vinegars and dry rubs,” my father said.

“Yes,” I said, “but—”

“Don’t mind Susan,” my mother said. “She’s always been inquisitive, but sometimes she doesn’t know when to stop.”

I clamped my mouth shut, heat flushing my chest and neck. It was one thing for them to boss me around. It was another thing for them to do it in front of my friends.

“I think Susan goes exactly as far as she needs to,” Arsen said mildly, and I shot him a grateful look.

“And what time did you return to Wits’ End?” the sheriff asked my parents.

“Oh,” my mother said, “I think it was around two, wasn’t it Susan?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. But I thought it had been later than two. Why were they lying?

“But you were right there,” she said.

I folded my arms, my jaw jutting forward. “I was cleaning. I wasn’t paying attention to the time.”

“Really?” My father rubbed his chin. “I suppose you were rather involved in your work when we walked in.”

But what was I doing? I couldn’t let the sheriff think they had no alibi. Then she’d just nose around more. “Oh,” I said, “you know, I think you’re right. Maybe it was around two o’clock.”

The sheriff raised a brow. “Really?”

“Yes,” I said, “definitely.”

Arsen frowned.

“And where were you for the rest of the afternoon?” the sheriff asked them.

“Here, in the B&B,” my mother said.

“I’m afraid we’ve got no alibi, if that’s what you’re angling for,” my father said gaily. “We can only alibi each other, and since we’re married, I suppose that’s not much good.”

The sheriff slipped her notebook into a holder on her belt. “What do you two do for a living? Susan never said.”

“We’re forensic accountants,” my mother said.

Emphasis on forensic. I glanced toward the white ceiling.

“For a private firm,” my father said.

“Fascinating.” The sheriff returned her broad-brimmed hat to her head. “Well, thank you both. If I have more questions, I know where to find you.”

I saw Sheriff McCourt to the front door.

She paused, one hand on the screen door. “Just because I questioned your parents, doesn’t give you the right to interfere with my investigation.”

“Of course not.” I never interfered.

I assisted.

Her cornflower eyes narrowed. “And in case that wasn’t clear enough, stay out of my investigation. You’re not a detective.”

“I don’t think who is or isn’t a detective is really the issue here.” Not when there was a dead assassin at Wits’ End.

But if an assassin had come to Doyle… What did that mean? Had the man only been here because of my parents? Or was there something more going on?

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the sheriff asked, her voice sharp as a chef’s knife.

“Nothing. I’m not a detective.” This was so bogus. Interference in an investigation was just a way to keep intelligent civilians from cracking cases. It’s a union thing.

But solving murders is a simple matter of gathering evidence and recording it diligently. I’d already proven myself on that count several times over.

The sheriff grunted and strode down the porch steps to her SUV at the end of my driveway.

I hurried back to the kitchen.

“Never a dull moment,” Arsen said, “eh?”

“Not in the life of a forensic accountant,” my mother said. “You wouldn’t believe the scandals we’ve uncovered. But we’re sorry we had to miss our night hike.”

Arsen checked his watch. “It’s only six thirty. We can go hiking now or grab a bite to eat first.”

“Thank you,” my father said. “But I think we’ve had enough drama for one day.”

Arsen nodded. “Gotcha. You never know what you might encounter at night in the Sierras. I’ve got some paperwork to do anyway.” He kissed my cheek. “Walk me out?”

“What? Oh. Right.” I followed him to the door.

He pulled me close and kissed me more deeply, his muscular arms firm about my waist. “You could ditch your parents and let me take you to dinner.”

Tempting, but I’d never be able to relax with a corpse on the premises. “I’d better stay in.”

“Gotcha. You three could probably use some alone time. And Susan, you’re going to get through this.”

“Sure. Right. Of course I will.”

His brow furrowed, but he smiled and shook his head. “I wish you’d tell me what you’re thinking.”

“That’s easy. I wish my parents had never come to Doyle.”

“But they have, and we’re still standing.” He brushed his thumb across my cheek. “Though I don’t think the sheriff bought your story.”

“Bought what story?”

“About seeing your parents come in at two,” he said.

I opened my mouth, closed it. Oh. Damn. It had been a clumsy save, but I’d had to back up my parents, even if it did make me look guilty.

“You didn’t need to cover for them,” Arsen continued. “I’m sure the sheriff was only here to get a timeline on Van Der Woodsen. McCourt can’t really think they’re suspects.”

“Maybe she should,” I muttered.

“What?”

“You’re right. The sheriff knows what she’s doing.” Which under the circumstances, was mildly terrifying.

He kissed me again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I walked onto the front porch and watched him back down the driveway in his Jeep Commander. The huge car swiveled onto the court, and he turned on his headlights, then drove down the road.

I raced back to the kitchen. My parents were making themselves at home with my grandmother’s coffeemaker. Their heads were bent together, and they spoke in low, intense tones.

“Why did you tell the sheriff you got back at two?” I asked. “You got back at least at three.”

“We were busy doing something the sheriff doesn’t need to know about,” she said.

“What—?” I shook my head. Never mind. They’d never tell me anyway. “What did you do with the body?” I hissed.

“Don’t worry.” My father turned from the counter, a mug in his hand. “It’s in a safe place until it can be removed.”

“Removed by whom?”

“That’s really none of your affair,” my mother said.

What? It was totally my affair. “It’s my B&B!”

“Tell us about this sheriff,” my father said. “You two seem to have more than a casual relationship.”

“She’s a friend. And don’t worry. Sheriff McCourt is smart and thorough. She’ll figure out what happened to Mr. Van Der Woodsen.”

No matter what else you could say about the sheriff, you couldn’t say she was bad at her job. I was lucky we were friends.

My parents shared a worried look. I’d seen them worried so rarely, it took me a moment to identify the expression on their faces.

“What?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m afraid a smart and thorough sheriff doesn’t work in our favor,” my father said.

“Why not? You didn’t kill Mr. Van Der Woodsen.” I bit my bottom lip. Though they’d really disliked his books. “Did you?”

“Of course not,” my mother said. “How could you even think such a thing?”

I braced my fists on my hips. “I don’t know. Maybe because I’d just seen you disposing of a body?”

“The problem,” my father said, “is that after we returned to Wits’ End, we were rather busy taking care of the man in your garden—”

“You killed him in my garden?”

My mother rolled her eyes. “Why on earth would we kill him in your garden, then drag him upstairs? Use your head, Susan. He attacked us outside our room. We moved him into that vacant room—”

“Why?”

“For privacy.” She smoothed her baggy blouse. “We expected you or Arsen might knock on our door and annoy us. The Russian assassin—”

“Crimean,” my father said.

She glowered at him. “Is in your garden now.”

“You didn’t dig up the roses, did you? Those were Gran’s roses.” Unimportant. Unimportant!

“And we can’t have an efficient sheriff poking around.” My father brandished the mug.

“She’ll need to be taken care of,” my mother said quietly.

I felt the blood drain from my face. Taken care of? “You can’t kill the sheriff!”