A Dead Man and Doggie Delights Read online

  A Dead Man and Doggie Delights

  Aleksa Baxter

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 17

  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

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  I hadn’t been in the Baker Valley a day before the trouble began.

  Fancy—that’s my three-year-old Newfoundland, full name Miss Fancypants—and I were sitting out back in the yard at my grandpa’s reading a book and minding our own business, enjoying the early spring day.

  Well, I was reading. Fancy was curled up nearby, her head on her paws, watching the world go by. Not that there was much of a world to see. My grandpa’s place is on the edge of town and backs up to a mountainside covered in tall evergreens and aspen trees, so all she really had to see was five hundred feet of trees followed by an incredibly blue sky without a cloud in sight.

  Man, I love Colorado.

  Anyway. There we were, minding our own business, not bothering a soul, when Fancy jumped up and raced to the fence, barking like a mad woman. And it wasn’t her “Hey, is that a dog, can we play?” bark either. It was her, “There’s a jerk too close to my home” bark.

  I reluctantly set my book aside—I’d just gotten to the good part, too—and dragged myself over to see what was bothering her. She’ll usually stop if I just check out whatever it is and tell her she’s been a good girl, but as I was walking across the yard I heard someone barking back at her.

  That’s right. Some jerk on the other side of the fence was barking at my dog. Seriously? I mean, what the…? Who does that?

  I’d just spent five years living in Washington, DC and not once had someone barked at my dog. They’d stepped away from her like she had the plague, and there’d been an inordinate number of people who thought leaving chicken bones on the sidewalk was just fine and dandy, but none of them had barked at my dog.

  And, because I was still in big city mode and not “love thy neighbor because you live in a town of a hundred where everyone knows everyone” mode, I stepped up on that little board along the bottom of the fence and told the guy off.

  You know what he did? You know what that jerk did then?

  He barked at me, too!

  He lunged at me like he was going to attack me and barked. Three times. Woof, woof, woof.

  I just stared at him like he was crazy. I mean, I’d moved to Baker Valley because it was supposed to be peaceful and nice and this is what I got on my first full day there? Some weird man barking at me? I didn’t even know what to do at that point.

  Unfortunately, while I was busy trying to figure out if werewolves might actually be real, which would at least explain the man’s ridiculous behavior, my grandpa got involved.

  With a shotgun.

  There I was, hanging onto the fence, Fancy barking her head off at my feet, and my grandpa comes walking around the side of the house to confront the guy, shotgun in hand. At least I was pretty sure it was a shotgun, I’m not a gun person myself, but it had two long barrels that he pointed right at the guy. After cocking it or whatever it is you do with a shotgun to let someone know that when you pull that trigger it’s gonna hurt.

  “Son, you’d best get on your way.” He planted his feet and pointed the gun right at the man, steady as steady could be.

  I held my breath wondering if the man was stupid enough to bark at him, too. I figured it was a fifty-fifty chance and I really didn’t know what my grandpa would do at that point, but I was pretty sure I didn’t want to find out.

  Fortunately, the guy just backed away, hands up. “Sorry, Mr. Carver. Didn’t mean any offense. Just walking by.”

  “Well walk a little faster.” My grandpa followed him with the gun, eyes flinty and jaw clenched tight. “And next time you leave my granddaughter alone or I’ll put you in the ground where you belong, you hear me?”

  “Grandpa,” I hissed. “You can’t say things like that.”

  This was exactly the type of thing I’d moved to Baker Valley to prevent. Well, okay, I’d had no idea before I moved that my grandpa was capable of pointing a gun at someone and threatening to put them in the ground where they belonged, but he had been slipping lately, and I’d been worried about him all alone now that my grandma was gone.

  Barking guy muttered something under his breath as he hiked a slim trail up the mountainside, but at least he was smart enough to keep going and not say it loud enough for my grandpa to hear.

  My grandpa followed him with the gun until he finally disappeared from sight, and then returned to the front of the house without another word, waving a hand at our neighbor, Mr. Jackson, on the way. Mr. Jackson nodded back at him and returned to tending his raspberry bushes as if my grandpa threatening someone with a shotgun was a daily occurrence not even worth mentioning.

  I hopped off the fence with a loud sigh. Fancy came to check on me and I scratched at her velvety black ears, trying to process what had just happened. “Holy cow, Fancy!” I whispered. “He almost shot that man.”

  She leaned into my hand with a grumble of pleasure as if to say it was all good now, no harm, no foul.

  Was I really the only one that thought it problematic that my grandpa had almost shot someone? I knew I should take the gun away. I mean, you can’t have an old man running around pointing a gun at people, no matter how much they might deserve it.

  But I was also pretty sure he wasn’t just going to hand it over. And I didn’t really want the thing. As dangerous as he might be with it, I would be even more so. I’d never handled a gun before and would probably end up shooting myself if I tried. Not to mention, it wasn’t the best way to start off my new life living in his house, trying to take his gun away.

  Maybe I could skate by with a stern talk this first time around. And take the gun if it happened again? Oh, that was a good plan.

  I trudged back towards the house. “Come on, Fancy. Let’s see if we can talk some sense into the most stubborn man I’ve ever met in my life.”

  She followed along at my side, tail wagging. I paused to grab my book, wishing I could just sit back down and lose myself in its pages, but I couldn’t shirk my commitment, not on my first day of self-appointed grandpa duty.

  As I led Fancy inside I comforted myself with the thought that at least he hadn’t shot the guy.

  “Grandpa?” I called as I pushed through the back door and made my way past the laundry room towards the kitchen.

  Fancy shoved ahead of me, her tail wagging a mile a minute as she went to find him. I swear, she loves him ten times more than she loves me. She’d spent the entire night before with her head resting against his feet as we caught up. With me she stays nearby but never actually close enough to touch. Him? She was practically in his lap.

  Curse of my life, to own a dog that likes any man more than she likes me.

  I found them both in the living room. Grandpa was seated on the worn brown couch he’d owned for at least twenty years, small bits of stuffing pushi
ng out of the tears in the seams. Fancy was leaning against his legs moaning happily as he scratched her ears.

  “Where is it?” I demanded, crossing my arms for emphasis as I stared him down.

  “Where’s what?” He glanced up at me, not the least bit intimidated.

  If I hadn’t know that he was eighty-two-years-old I would’ve probably put his age around sixty. He was a trim, tough man who looked like he could take on the world without hesitation, a white t-shirt peeking out from behind a short-sleeved plaid shirt that was tucked into his worn Levi’s. Part of the looking younger thing came from the fact that his hair had never grayed, just faded from dark brown to a lighter brown.

  I exhaled through my nose, my lips pressed tight together in disapproval. “The gun. You know, the one you just pointed at some stranger walking behind our house?”

  “That wasn’t a stranger. That was Jack Dunner. Kid’s been worthless since the day he was born.” He reached for his shirt pocket and then let his hand drop when he remembered he’d stopped smoking three years ago. Too late for my grandma’s cancer, but better late than never.

  “Well you can’t just go pointing a gun at someone because you think they’re worthless.”

  “Look, Maggie May…”

  “Maggie, please.” It’s not easy to be named after a Rod Stewart song, especially when your family insists on using the entire name every time they talk to you.

  His lips quirked in a small smile. “Fine, Maggie, you have to understand that some people need a little bit more than a firm word to keep them in line. And with a kid like Jack Dunner about the only thing he’s going to understand is a punch to the jaw or a shotgun pointed between the eyes. Trust me. I’ve dealt with plenty of Jack Dunners in my day.”

  I rolled my eyes. I couldn’t help it. Here I was, thirty-six-years-old, rolling my eyes at my grandpa. But, really? I mean, come on. Some people are only going to understand a punch to the jaw or a shotgun pointed between the eyes? Who says things like that? And believes them? Because he clearly did.

  “Don’t you roll your eyes at me, Maggie. You didn’t grow up around here, you don’t know anything about anybody.”

  I slumped down on the couch opposite him with an exaggerated sigh, trying not to get stuck as it sagged under my weight. It was a hideous goldenrod color that had probably last been popular in the 70’s. Based on the springs poking into my thigh, that was probably how old it was, too.

  I tried again. “I didn’t grow up here, I’ll grant you that. But I can’t think of anywhere where it’s okay to point a shotgun at someone. You’re lucky Mr. Jackson didn’t call the cops on you. Or this Jack guy—who is not a kid by the way. He looked to be about twenty-five or so.”

  “He’s a kid to me. Wasn’t too long ago I was walking him through how to field a grounder.”

  My grandpa had been the volunteer coach of the town baseball team for forty years or more. He’d coached every boy and girl in town at one point or another.

  “Well maybe you should’ve worked on his attitude while you were helping him with his fielding instead of having to pull a shotgun on him now.”

  My grandpa shrugged, reaching for his non-existent cigarettes once more. “Some folks are just born bad, Maggie. Nothing to be done for ‘em.”

  “Oh that’s ridiculous. No one is born bad, Grandpa.”

  I stood. I needed some fresh air. It had been my decision to move to Baker Valley, but so far things weren’t exactly going to plan.

  I grabbed my keys. “Look. I need to swing by the store. See how things are going and check in with Jamie. You going to be okay here?”

  He snorted. “I think I can manage for a few hours.”

  “Well just be sure to put that shotgun away, would ya? And try not to shoot anyone while I’m gone?”

  “I’ll try, but no promises.”

  I glared at him, but he just winked back at me.

  “Come on, Fancy. Let’s go.”

  She glanced up at him before making her slow way to me, making it abundantly clear she’d prefer to stay with him. “You will actually like this, you know, you purebred mutt,” I muttered as I put on her leash and collar.

  We walked down the front steps to the beat-up van I’d bought just to make Fancy’s life easier. I’d loved my old SUV but even at three Fancy already had bad days where it hurt to jump up. And using a ramp? Yeah, no. She jumped over the ramp every single time, making it even worse. So a van it was. I felt like a PTA mom, except my kid was a large black dog who never listened to me.

  As Fancy made herself comfortable on the bed that took up half of the back of the van—I’d removed the seats we didn’t need—I glanced towards the house, wondering if I’d made a mistake moving to Baker Valley.

  It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. I’d live with my grandpa—who wasn’t exactly a spring chicken anymore and who’d been all alone since my grandma died two years before. I’d get away from my miserable corporate job and be able to live in one of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen. And, best of all, I’d finally be able to open a business with my best friend from college, Jamie, who was one of the best bakers I knew.

  It also gave me a chance to indulge my love of dogs. We were calling the place The Baker Valley Barkery and Café. Get it? Barkery instead of bakery? Because it’s a bakery for dogs? At least, half of it is.

  (It’s alright. Most people don’t get it. They keep telling me there’s a typo in our logo. I figure someday we’ll be famous enough that everyone will know exactly what a barkery is. Until then I’m doomed to multiple conversations about how, no, that really is not a typo, thank you.)

  The other half, the café side, was for people. Assuming we ever actually opened. Jamie had been doing all the heavy lifting on getting the place open while I moved. We were two weeks away from opening day, theoretically, but when I’d talked to her the night before she’d told me there had been some “complications” that might delay our opening but not to worry about it, she had it handled.

  I’d trust Jamie with my life, but I also knew her well enough to know that when she said there had been complications that might delay the opening that that was Jamie-speak for all hell had broken loose. I needed to see just how bad things were.

  As I pulled out of the driveway I figured at least it wasn’t going to be worse than my grandpa pointing a shotgun at someone, right?

  Wrong.

  Chapter Two

  By the time I reached the store I’d calmed down enough to see the humor in the whole shotgun situation. It helped that I had a good twenty minute drive to get there. And not through urban sprawl like I was used to, but along a two-lane highway that wound its way through cattle land that was green with spring and dotted with the occasional red barn or one-story ranch home tucked away half a mile off the highway, usually down some rutted dirt road separated from the rest of the world by a rusted metal gate.

  The whole area is called Baker Valley because it’s a long narrow valley tucked into the Colorado mountains. For tourist trap purposes the towns in the area all agreed to pool their advertising funds and advertise the whole valley, but there are actually a half dozen small towns spread throughout the area. My grandpa’s place is at the west end of the valley in a town creatively named Creek that has two gas stations, one church, the county seat, a funeral home, a pioneer museum, and about forty houses, half of which probably started off as mobile homes until someone built a foundation around them.

  About ten minutes from there is the town of Masonville. It’s where everyone in the valley goes to school and boasts its own McDonald’s and a supermarket. (New additions in the last decade. Prior to that folks would drive the hour and half into Denver to stock up on groceries once a month, assuming they didn’t live on the deer they hunted and the vegetables they grew in their backyard.)

  Another ten minutes past Masonville is the shining jewel of the valley, Bakerstown. (Someone was being awfully creative when they settled the valley, let me tell you. B
ut that was the Colorado settlers for ya. Take your last name and slap it on everything you could find. If that failed, call a spade a spade. So we got Bakerstown for the Baker family, Masonville for the Mason family, and Creek for, you guessed it, the creek that runs through town.)

  Bakerstown is the hub of all activity in the valley because it has the ski slopes. Not that most of the locals ski—they’re far more interested in snowmobiling—but everyone knows that the skiers are the ones with the money, so the ski slopes are a necessary evil if you want to live somewhere as beautiful as Baker Valley year-round and not live off the land.

  And it is beautiful. Picture a sprawling green expanse surrounded on all sides by towering mountains that are covered in evergreens up to the tree line and have snow on the peaks even at the height of summer. Add to that one of the clearest streams you’ve ever seen running through the whole area like a silver ribbon. (That stream is Fancy’s favorite. She loves to go wading and bark at the fishermen there in search of trout.)

  I don’t know what it is about Baker Valley, but it’s always been magic to me. The sky always seems bluer, the clouds—when there are any—are whiter and softer, the air is cleaner, the people are nicer. (For the most part. Not as nice as when I was a little girl who’d come to visit my grandparents for the summer, but still nicer than most of the world.)

  I’d never lived full-time in the valley, but it was always where my heart was. And now it was my home, too. All my worries melted away as I drove towards the store, because I was finally where I wanted to be, doing what I wanted to do.