A Scaly Tail of Murder by Jacqueline Vick

Author:Jacqueline Vick
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Classical Reads
Published: 2021-11-30T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty

Jeff and Buffy had been right about one thing. Back in Loon Lake, I made my living as a fake pet psychic. Using the same tricks that mediums and mind-readers have been using for centuries, I simply watched the pet owner’s body language as I talked and mixed in common sense and animal behavior knowledge. And I really did help my clients. Just not the way they expected.

Then a golden retriever named Sandy knocked me on my keister when he showed me a murder he’d witnessed. When Sandy opened that door, he let in every other furry, feathered, or scaled creature who wanted to chat.

I’d eventually learned how to control the messages. Sort of. I’d created a monstrous, mental wooden door intended to keep out the whining, nagging complaints from animals. Without it, I’d go insane. By closing that door, I could keep their voices out. Usually. Unless they really, really wanted to talk. The truth? Whether they got in was a fifty-fifty proposition, but the door still helped.

As I parked in front of a house on N. Lamont Drive in Fountain Hills, the one with the rooster weathervane on the front lawn next to the lemon tree, I prepared to converse with a Chihuahua.

Small dogs tended to be the chatterboxes of the animal kingdom. Trying to follow the rush of information gave me a headache. The aspirin were waiting in my glove compartment.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

Jeff poked me. “What are you doing?”

“Be quiet.”

Bringing up my mental barrier, I unhooked the lock I’d installed to guard against the more persistent creatures. Once open, I only widened the door a crack. My client didn’t require much room, and I didn’t want to let anything larger, and scarier, inside my head.

When I finished, Jeff smirked at me.

“Are you preparing for your performance?”

“It’s not a performance.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve bought into your own shtick.”

“It’s none of your business. Stay here. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes.”

I grabbed my purse and exited the car. After ringing the front bell, a car door opened and banged shut behind me. Before I could tell Jeff to turn back, he was standing at my side, and we were looking into the face of a small man with whiskers. If it was supposed to be a beard, Maynard Sewell should surrender hope.

“Ms. Chandler?” He glanced at Jeff and his nose wrinkled.

“I’m her assistant. Mr. Ross.”

Since I couldn’t punch my assistant with the client watching, I ignored him and stepped inside. My stomach muscles tightened as soon as I entered the living room. Something terrifying lurked behind the paisley print couch. Or past the swinging door on the other side of the room. It floated behind the collection of adorable, tiny teaspoons, and in between the worn leather books on the single shelf. Something big. Something that wanted to play with me before tearing me to pieces. I started to tremble.

Stepping back, I bumped into Jeff. Still feeling the fear, I leaned into him.

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