Dog Bless You A Golden Retriever Mystery by Neil S. Plakcy

Author:Neil S. Plakcy
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: humorous mysteries, pennsylvania, dog mysteries, cozy mystery, academic mysteries, golden retriever
Publisher: Neil Plakcy
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Blunt Force

I was tired of playing detective. I had plenty of information to bring back to Tony Rinaldi, and I couldn’t bear any more sadness. Rochester and I walked back to where I had parked.

Back when I lived in New York, Tor and I used to joke that “BMW” meant “Break My Windows.” But I was lucky, and my old sedan was still intact. I even had a few minutes remaining on the meter to leave as a gift for the next driver.

The access roads to the Holland Tunnel were jammed with tractor-trailers, decrepit sedans even older than mine, and a mix of luxury cars and SUVs. A pizza delivery guy on a beat-up bicycle threaded his way through the traffic.

I plugged my cell phone into the adapter that fits into the cassette tape deck (yes, the car is that old) and scanned for music. I needed something to raise my spirits and settled for the soundtrack to the movie Welcome to Woop-Woop. I barely remembered the movie any more, but the bouncy score never failed to cheer me up.

By the time we cleared the tunnel, I was feeling better. I paused the music to call Tony Rinaldi and pass on the names and addresses I’d collected.

“I’ll type up some notes on what I heard when I get home,” I said, “and email them to you.”

“That would be great,” he said. “I knew you’d be able to get some information out of those people. Any idea what DeAndre was doing down here?”

“Looking for a thumb,” I said. “It’s complicated. I’ll talk to you tomorrow after you read my notes.”

“Thanks, Steve. I’ll catch you later.”

I had spent so much time in the city that I was mired in rush hour traffic most of the way home, and it was nearly seven o’clock by the time I pulled off I-95 at the Yardley exit to head upriver to Stewart’s Crossing.

I picked up the phone once more, this time to call Rick Stemper. “You have dinner yet?” I asked.

“Just got home and I’m walking the Rascal.”

“How about if I pick up a pizza and bring it to your place?” I asked. “You have any beer on hand?”

“If the beer’s on me, the pizza’s on you.”

“Deal.” I hung up and placed an order from Giovanni’s, in the shopping center in downtown Stewart’s Crossing. Luckily Rick and I both liked the same kind—a thick crust with spicy Italian sausage crumbled and scattered over a base of homemade tomato sauce, freshly sautéed mushrooms and shredded mozzarella from an artisan cheese maker in New Hope.

The pizza was ready by the time I got there. I slid the box into the trunk to keep Rochester from attacking it, and drove to Rick’s. The goofy dog jumped into the back seat and kept pawing toward the trunk.

Rick still lived in the ranch house where he’d grown up, which he’d bought from his parents when they retired to Florida. I pulled up in the driveway and let Rochester out. He peed as I was opening the trunk, then rushed to the gate into Rick’s back yard.

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