The Dog Days of Murder Read online

  The Dog Days of Murder

  M.K. Dean

  Redclaw Publishing

  The Dog Days of Murder

  Copyright © 2022 by M.K. Dean

  Published by REDCLAW PUBLISHING

  Cover art by Melody Simmons, Bookcoverscre8tive.com

  Edited by N.N. Light Editing Services

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the

  original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal

  and constitutes a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal

  prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this

  book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic

  or mechanical, including recording, photocopying, or through any information

  storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author,

  except where permitted by law. To request permission, and for all other

  enquiries, contact M.K. Dean at [email protected]

  To all the dogs I’ve known and loved in my life. You make

  every day better in every possible way.

  Contents

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  21. Chapter Twenty-One

  22. Chapter Twenty-Two

  23. Chapter Twenty-Three

  About the Author

  Also By

  Chapter One

  Lucy was a charming beagle puppy with soft black ears and liquid brown eyes. Unfortunately, she was also incredibly itchy. Even as I examined her, she dug at her collar with a hind foot, spinning it around her neck in a circle. Her skin was inflamed and crusty and bore the distinctive odor of infection.

  “We’re going to have to trim her nails to minimize the damage she’s doing to herself,” I told her owners as I continued to look for a primary cause for her scratching. Surprisingly, there were no signs of fleas. The worst of her dermatitis was centered around her face and ears, not typical locations for flea reactions.

  The Andrews family were gathered in a cluster around me as I checked out their new puppy on their front porch. Even though the heat and humidity had skyrocketed in our little neck of the woods, I tried to perform my examinations outdoors whenever possible. The lighting was better as a rule. Jody Andrews had brought out a pitcher of sweet tea, which I’d declined on the grounds that I liked my pancreas in working order, though as the sweat dripped down the side of my face, I was tempted to cave in and accept a glass. The twins, Billy and Bobby, had stopped chasing each other around the yard on my arrival and now stood beside their father as I did my examination. Even Granny Andrews was in on the action, sitting in a nearby rocker. A serious Sudoku fan, she scribbled away at a puzzle while I worked.

  Lucy’s lesions, combined with the ferocity with which she scratched, made me highly suspicious that she had a contagious form of mange known as scabies. Absently, while I explored her coat with gloved hands, I asked, “Is anyone else in the family itching?”

  As one, the Andrews family began peeling out of their clothing.

  “Stop!” I didn’t quite shriek, but it was pretty close. I threw up an arm to block my vision. “I don’t do people! Just tell me.”

  Thankfully, when I peeked under my arm, my clients had stopped undressing and were arranging their clothing back into place. The weirdest thing is they weren’t in the slightest fazed by the notion that their veterinarian might have wanted them to strip, nor by my appalled reaction when I made it clear I did not.

  Fortunately, no one in the family was itching themselves.

  “Okay,” I said rapidly, afraid they would change their mind and start undressing again, “I think little Lucy here has mange. There are two kinds of mange. One is contagious and the other is not. I’m going to get some more gloves so someone can hold her while I do a skin scraping and we can try to figure out what’s going on.”

  The twins immediately began fighting over who would get to hold the puppy.

  I nipped that notion in the bud. “I’m going to have your dad hold Lucy for me, but I’ll need the two of you to assist as well.” I pulled out a spoon from one back pocket and a can of squeeze cheese from the other. “Billy, you’re going to keep Lucy distracted with the spoon of cheese.”

  Before Bobby could protest being left out, I demonstrated how to load the spoon and handed him the can. “Bobby, your job is to make sure Lucy doesn’t run out of cheese. Think you two can handle this?”

  Nodding hard, the two boys focused on the task with great solemnity.

  “Okay, now wait until I say to give her the cheese, okay?” I left them to go to my car where it was parked in the shade. The back was open, and my German Shepherd, Remington, peered through the metal grill separating the passenger area from the cargo hold at my approach. Normally, I wouldn’t have left him in the car in this heat during my appointment, but one look at the itchy puppy, and I’d put him back in the car with a sun shield covering the car and all the windows rolled down.

  “Sorry, Remy.” I held up my gloved hands. “No petting until I get rid of these.”

  He gave a long-suffering sigh, and I smiled as I pulled out a scalpel blade and several glass slides. I placed the dropper bottle of oil in my front pocket and set up my microscope on the open ledge of the Subaru. It was a cheap unit, something I used for field work, but it would get the job done today. If I needed a more precise instrument, I could go into town to old Doc Amos’s clinic.

  When I returned to the Andrews’ porch, I handed a pair of disposable exam gloves to Hugh Andrews and watched as he forced his meaty fingers into the tight-fitting vinyl gloves. After dribbling a drop of oil on my slide and removing the cover on the blade, I explained what I needed to do.

  “Mange mites live on the skin and inside the hair follicles. I’m going to do several scrapings to try to figure out if we’re dealing with mange, and if so, what kind. I have to be a little mean to Lucy while I get my samples. That’s where the cheese comes in. Give her the cheese, Billy. And Bobby, you stand by in case we need a reload.”

  Lucy happily attacked the spoon when Billy shoved it under her nose, and Bobby hovered nearby ready to squirt more if it was needed. In the meantime, Hugh held the squirming puppy while I pinched her skin and took scrapings from along her ear margins and some of the bald patches on her head. When I thought I’d gotten sufficient material, I carefully swiped the blade on the oil covered slide until I spread the sample in a thin layer. Taking my supplies back to the car, I disposed of the blade in my sharps container and examined the slide under the microscope.

  The boys followed me to the car and peppered me with questions as I scanned the slide. Did Lucy have mange? If she did, could we treat it?

  “Because Grandad said when his dog had the mange, they poured motor oil on it and he died.”

  I closed my eyes and counted to five before looking through the lens. “Well, times have changed since then, Bobby. First of all, motor oil is deadly to animals. Back when your grandad was a kid, there weren’t a lot of good options for treating mange, so people tried all k
inds of things. But now we have much better choices. So, if Lucy has mange, we can definitely treat it.”

  The collective sigh of relief behind me practically ruffled my hair.

  To my delight, I spied the culprit behind Lucy’s scratching crawling through oil and hair on the slide. Of the various mites that cause mange, Sarcotpes was hard to find, so identifying it under the microscope felt a little like winning a scratch-off ticket. I offered the boys a peek through the lens, and they were in turns amazed and horrified. Billy thought it was the coolest thing ever, and I suspected there was a budding scientist in him somewhere.

  Remy whined, begging to be let out of the car, but I wasn’t keen on having him possibly pick up skin mites while we were here, so I told him he’d have to wait and took the kids back to their parents to explain the diagnosis and treatment.

  “Right,” I said briskly. “Lucy has scabies, which can be contagious to people as well as dogs. The good news is some of the new flea and tick medications are effective at treating scabies, too. But the bad news is this is something you can pick up from her, so we’re going to have to limit contact with her until she starts getting better.”

  “Should we dip her?” Hugh spoke for the first time during the whole procedure.

  I shook my head. “No, you’re lucky there. The new meds don’t require smelly dips.” The old lime sulfur dips reeked like rotten eggs and stained everything yellow. “She’ll need antibiotics for the secondary skin infection and something to help with the itching, but she’ll be right as rain in a few weeks. Just make sure everyone washes their hands after handling her, and no sleeping in the bed right now. She needs to stay in a crate.”

  Collective protests from the twins were cut off by Jody. “It’s not forever. You don’t want the mange, do you?”

  “That reminds me. If any of you do start itching, you’re not the natural host, so any infection is self-limiting. But if you need to see Dr. Briggs, be sure to tell him that Lucy has scabies so he’ll know what he’s dealing with. He can prescribe an ointment if you need it.”

  Because human doctors rarely dealt with parasitic diseases in the U.S. these days, it wouldn’t be unusual for a G.P. to miss scabies in one of their patients. Still, I might mention Lucy’s infection the next time I ran into Chris Briggs, on the off-chance Jody forgot to do so.

  After I vaccinated Lucy, I peeled off the sweaty vinyl gloves and dropped them in my waste container. I finished filling out Lucy’s vaccination booklet, got up her medication, and scheduled her for her boosters in three weeks. Then I told the Andrews what to watch for, and not to hesitate to call if they had any issues before her next exam.

  “She’s not going to be fully protected against these diseases until she finishes her series of shots, and some of these viruses you can track home. So, don’t take her to any ball games or parks until she’s further along in her series.”

  The twins set up a wail. Apparently, they had a softball game that weekend and they wanted to show Lucy off.

  “You can’t let your friends play with her until she’s over the mange anyway,” Jody said with practical finality.

  “That’s right.” I handed the boys a couple of brochures. “But there are things you can teach Lucy right now. See this website here? It lists all the things you should teach your puppy as she is growing up. It has videos and training tips and everything.”

  “I’m guessing no puppy class, either,” Jody said with a sigh. “I was going to sign the boys up for a class in Clearwater at the pet store.”

  “Not until we clear her mange.” Which gave me an opening to steer Jody away from a generic one-size-fits-all class from a chain store. “But you could do individual training with Deb Hartford. Then, once the mange is resolved and Lucy has a few more vaccines under her belt, she could join in Deb’s basic puppy class. You should give her a call.”

  My friend Deb trained horses for a living but had decided to start offering obedience classes after rescuing a high-intensity Border Collie who’d needed an outlet for her energy and management of her many phobias. Sky was smart as a whip and would have had several titles after her name by now, if only she wasn’t afraid of her own shadow. The Andrews couldn’t ask for anyone better suited than Deb to train them to train their puppy.

  “Deb’s teaching dog classes now?” Jody looked relieved. “Oh, good. That’s much better than going all the way to Clearwater.”

  Not to mention, the Andrews would receive personalized assistance in training Lucy for less than they would have spent at the store.

  I removed the sun shield and ruffled Remy’s ears as I got in the car, waving at the Andrews as we drove away. A quick glance at my phone revealed I’d received a call from Doc Amos, so I pulled over at the end of the drive to play the message.

  The voice mail was a short, terse, “Call me when you get the chance.”

  Typical Doc.

  Since I’d inherited a significant sum of money three months earlier, I’d been in negotiations to buy Amos Smith’s veterinary practice. It made the most sense: Amos was in his seventies and was looking for an excuse to retire. He’d been unable to find a buyer for his small-town folksy clinic that lacked many of the bells and whistles of larger, more modern vet hospitals. I was tired of being on the road all the time with my house-call practice, and as I often filled in when Amos wanted to take a trip or spend an afternoon on the lake, I was familiar with the strengths and weaknesses of his business.

  Running my own vet hospital had been nothing but a pipe dream until my friend, Amanda Kelly, had left me her estate. Owing to the fact she’d been murdered, and the substantial size of the inheritance, it was taking longer than I’d hoped to probate the will, even without anyone to contest it. However, Amanda’s lawyer, Mr. Lindsay Carter, assured me that things were progressing in a timely fashion, and that I could expect final probate to be resolved by Halloween. Christmas, at the latest.

  The prospect of financial independence had been enough to allow me to make some changes in my life. I’d cut back on my hours, now that I no longer had to work seven days a week to make ends meet. Once Amanda’s cranky old Siamese, which I’d also inherited, had been successfully treated with radiation therapy for his thyroid condition, I’d taken my first vacation in years. I’d rented a lake cabin in the mountains and spent the week hiking with Remy. The time off had been so enjoyable, I found myself making longer, more ambitious travel itineraries. But the biggest change was making Doc an offer on his practice. I had big plans for what I’d do with his clinic.

  I pulled out onto the road. There was no point in calling him back now. If he wasn’t in the office, then he was either at home in his woodworking shop or out fishing. I’d go through town and stop by the clinic first.

  Going through town had the advantage of taking us past the Dairy Delight, and I had a craving for a Polar Vortex, which is what they called their soft-serve ice cream combined with candy bar pieces.

  “If you play your cards right, Remy, I’ll get you a cup of vanilla ice cream.”

  Remy tilted his head to one side at the magic words, making me laugh.

  Calling a Polar Vortex an early dinner wasn’t exactly the healthiest choice, but we were in the middle of an unprecedented heat wave for the beginning of June. We were still weeks away from the dog days of summer, but the thermometer was already hitting 90 degrees with nearly 75% humidity. I’d go back to eating fruit and salads when the temperatures returned to normal. Though to be fair, these heat waves came more and more often these days. Summer seemed to start sooner and last longer each year.

  And I just really wanted a Polar Vortex.

  Remy and I consumed our ice cream sitting under one of the red-and-white striped umbrellas at the tables outside the Dairy Delight. Remy finished his little cup of soft serve in about ten seconds flat, and then looked at me hopefully as I spooned ice cream and candy into my mouth.

  “Sorry, old man,” I told him, wincing at the brain freeze the cold treat had triggered
. “Mine’s got chocolate in it.”

  He laid his head in my lap and blew air out so hard his lips fluttered, making me snort. “You’re such a drama queen.”

  I wasn’t the only one who’d decided ice cream was an excellent way to cool down on a hot summer afternoon. The line for the drive-in window snaked around the parking lot, and I frequently lifted my hand to wave at clients and neighbors as they drove past toward the exit.

  Greenbrier was a small, rural community on the Virginia-Carolina border. It qualified as a town solely because it had been in existence since the mid-eighteenth century, when Scotch-Irish and German immigrants had settled in the area. John Linkous had built a sawmill, and the community had sprung up around it, with the Linkous family running things ever since. With less than a thousand inhabitants, most days it felt like I knew them all. I’d left the area to go to vet school, and then returned to help take care of my dad when he developed cancer. Up until recently, I’d resented having to come back, but a lot had changed these past few months. When my house burned down a few months ago, my neighbors rallied to my support, and I realized just how wonderful a small town could be.

  Sitting in the shade outside the Dairy Delight with my dog, eating ice cream and smiling at my neighbors, my life seemed peaceful, uncomplicated, and fulfilled.

  That should have been a red flag.

  Chapter Two

  After we left the Dairy Delight, I parked in the library lot and dropped off some books in the return bin. In my mind, this justified my leaving the car in the lot while Remy and I walked the few blocks to Doc’s clinic.

  Greenbrier Veterinary Clinic was located in a small, elderly strip mall. The building itself had lived through several incarnations, the latest being a video store before Doc relocated there. One of the challenges facing me when I took over was whether to operate out of the same building or start over from scratch. The mall had the advantage of being a town fixture for decades, as well as being in an ideal location, but there was something to be said for designing and building a clinic exactly the way you wanted from the ground up. Thanks to Amanda’s estate, I would soon have the resources to do just that.