Read Online Let Sleeping Dogs Lie by Suzann Ledbetter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Suzann Ledbetter
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blight.
TLC, Ltd. occupied the former carriage house and stable spared from a suspicious fire that destroyed the main house ten or twelve years ago. Inside the home's granite footprint was a lush, multiflora rose garden with a tiered bronze fountain at its center.
"Looks more like a funeral home than a boarding kennel," Jack said, pulling into the graveled parking area.
It was nearly as quiet as one, too. A Sherwood Forest of evergreens meted the property's lot lines. Disembodied barks and yaps filtered through dense privets enclosing the chain-link runs, but evidently, a customer the dogs couldn't see or smell was nothing to get excited about.
Until the Maltese sounded off. Wriggling against Jack's chest, she yipped and snarled like a streetfighter with a serious anger-management problem.
"Jesus Kee-rist," he yelled, struggling to control the yipping, snapping ball of fur with teeth.
Slamming the car door with his knee, he held the pint-sized Cujo at arm's length. "Listen up, sister."
She licked her bared chops. Her earsplitting barks subsided to motorboat growls.
"I'm operating on four hours' sleep. A three-hundred-pound loony tune's stalking me. If this hunch of mine doesn't pan out or the cops nab the burglar before I do, I'm screwed and so's McPhee Investigations."
If a Maltese could look thoughtful, the one dangling in midair seemed to be taking the situation under advisement.
"So are you with me on this? Or do I take you home and tell Ms. Pearl her spy washed out in the damn parking lot?"
Sweetie Pie blinked, then her head drooped and she heaved a shuddering sigh.
"Good doggy," he said, cradling her under his arm. "And you'd better stay good while you're here, too."
Few vestiges remained of the building's original purpose, apart from the redbrick exterior and the interior ceiling's hewed beams and support posts. The plastered walls were painted a soothing willow-green and hung with framed hunt scenes, greyhounds in repose and a huge watercolor chart illustrating more dog breeds than Jack knew existed.
A high counter and a wrought-iron gate divided the reception room from a larger concrete-floored area. Jack supposed the second gate barred a hallway leading to the kennel proper. His apartment should be as clean as this canine hoteland might be, if it had brass floor drains to hose it out with.
At a rubber-matted, stainless-steel table, a ponytailed twelve-year-old wielded a spiky comb and a blow-dryer. Standing at attention in front of her was a burly Rastafarian with paws. The dreadlocked dog seemed to be in a vertical coma, while she nimbly sidestepped across the row of metal milk crates to offset the height advantage.
A sharp rap drew hers and Jack's attention to a glass partition set in the back wall. A fortyish brunette jabbed a finger at the phone held to her ear, then at Jack.
Nodding, the groomer switched off the blow-dryer, called "Be right with you" over her shoulder, then snapped her fingers. The Rastafarian she was grooming didn't lie down on the table as much as it melted into a prone position.
The girl's soccer-style kick sent a milk crate skirring across the floor. "Sorry I didn't hear you come in," she said, climbing on top of it. "I keep forgetting the door buzzer is broken and that dryer's so loud I can't hear myself think."
"It's okay." Jack made a mental note to get his eyes and perhaps his head examined at the earliest opportunity.
The groomer with the megawatt smile, soft brown eyes bracketed by laugh lines and womanly curves hadn't seen puberty for a couple of decades. Which was terrific, since otherwise, his visual appraisal would be morally reprehensible.
A vague smell of wet dog and flea shampoo was strangely pleasant, exotic even. Most of all, the definitely adult groomer was short. Very short. Short enough for a guy who
TLC, Ltd. occupied the former carriage house and stable spared from a suspicious fire that destroyed the main house ten or twelve years ago. Inside the home's granite footprint was a lush, multiflora rose garden with a tiered bronze fountain at its center.
"Looks more like a funeral home than a boarding kennel," Jack said, pulling into the graveled parking area.
It was nearly as quiet as one, too. A Sherwood Forest of evergreens meted the property's lot lines. Disembodied barks and yaps filtered through dense privets enclosing the chain-link runs, but evidently, a customer the dogs couldn't see or smell was nothing to get excited about.
Until the Maltese sounded off. Wriggling against Jack's chest, she yipped and snarled like a streetfighter with a serious anger-management problem.
"Jesus Kee-rist," he yelled, struggling to control the yipping, snapping ball of fur with teeth.
Slamming the car door with his knee, he held the pint-sized Cujo at arm's length. "Listen up, sister."
She licked her bared chops. Her earsplitting barks subsided to motorboat growls.
"I'm operating on four hours' sleep. A three-hundred-pound loony tune's stalking me. If this hunch of mine doesn't pan out or the cops nab the burglar before I do, I'm screwed and so's McPhee Investigations."
If a Maltese could look thoughtful, the one dangling in midair seemed to be taking the situation under advisement.
"So are you with me on this? Or do I take you home and tell Ms. Pearl her spy washed out in the damn parking lot?"
Sweetie Pie blinked, then her head drooped and she heaved a shuddering sigh.
"Good doggy," he said, cradling her under his arm. "And you'd better stay good while you're here, too."
Few vestiges remained of the building's original purpose, apart from the redbrick exterior and the interior ceiling's hewed beams and support posts. The plastered walls were painted a soothing willow-green and hung with framed hunt scenes, greyhounds in repose and a huge watercolor chart illustrating more dog breeds than Jack knew existed.
A high counter and a wrought-iron gate divided the reception room from a larger concrete-floored area. Jack supposed the second gate barred a hallway leading to the kennel proper. His apartment should be as clean as this canine hoteland might be, if it had brass floor drains to hose it out with.
At a rubber-matted, stainless-steel table, a ponytailed twelve-year-old wielded a spiky comb and a blow-dryer. Standing at attention in front of her was a burly Rastafarian with paws. The dreadlocked dog seemed to be in a vertical coma, while she nimbly sidestepped across the row of metal milk crates to offset the height advantage.
A sharp rap drew hers and Jack's attention to a glass partition set in the back wall. A fortyish brunette jabbed a finger at the phone held to her ear, then at Jack.
Nodding, the groomer switched off the blow-dryer, called "Be right with you" over her shoulder, then snapped her fingers. The Rastafarian she was grooming didn't lie down on the table as much as it melted into a prone position.
The girl's soccer-style kick sent a milk crate skirring across the floor. "Sorry I didn't hear you come in," she said, climbing on top of it. "I keep forgetting the door buzzer is broken and that dryer's so loud I can't hear myself think."
"It's okay." Jack made a mental note to get his eyes and perhaps his head examined at the earliest opportunity.
The groomer with the megawatt smile, soft brown eyes bracketed by laugh lines and womanly curves hadn't seen puberty for a couple of decades. Which was terrific, since otherwise, his visual appraisal would be morally reprehensible.
A vague smell of wet dog and flea shampoo was strangely pleasant, exotic even. Most of all, the definitely adult groomer was short. Very short. Short enough for a guy who
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