Barking Mad at Murder (PAPERBACK)

There it was again. A high-pitched buzz tickled at my ears. The noises started last week, sometimes coming as a low rumble and at other times as more of a whine.

The tickling was new. There was definitely something going on with my hearing that would require a professional opinion, but I was in the middle of an appointment and I needed to concentrate. I shook my head to clear my thoughts and returned my attention to the problem at hand.

Tasha, a pudgy bichon frisé decked out in a pink sweater with Kiss Me embroidered on the back, belched out a wave of chicken livers, hacked, and stared up at me with desperate, black eyes. She cocked her head and the matching bows tied around her ears jiggled.

Though I billed myself as a pet psychic, I was actually a devoted pragmatist. Instead of hoping some spirit would flutter by and tell me why Fido was rolling in poop (because he likes it), my business relied on a healthy library of animal behavior books, common sense, and the inability of pet parents to spot the obvious. Like the fact that Tasha needed to lose half her body weight.

I shouldn’t complain since it’s the source of my income, but how could people ignore blatant signs their pets were in distress?

“What is she telling you?” my client asked. Mrs. Shropshire, a rail thin woman in her sixties, perched on the edge of a chintz covered couch, her hands clasped around her knees.

“That she needs an antacid,” I snapped, unable to cover my disgust. I have the patience of a saint with animals, but my social skills are sorely lacking when I’m interacting with the human species.

Mrs. Shropshire, still hoping to get a mystical solution to an obvious problem, valiantly ignored my comment. “But has she said anything about last week? She’s been listless since we missed playtime with her friends.”

I took another look at the tiny diva, irritated that the owner could allow a cute bichon to turn into Jabba the Mutt.

“This dog has been listless for longer than a week. If I tossed a ball across the room, her only hope of catching it would be if the ball rolled back.”

Mrs. Shropshire scowled at me and gathered her pooch to her chest, grunting from the effort of picking up Tasha. She gave me a withering look and whispered in the dog’s ear, “Mommy loves you just as you are. I’ll buy you a new sweater. Would you like that?”

As I watched this woman cuddle her gassy dog and shoot me admonishing glances, I remembered the advice of my Aunt Gertrude, aka Madame Guinevere, the woman who inspired my pseudo-mystical career choice.

“Frances, if people wanted the truth, they’d see a priest. They come to us for hope, even if it’s a lie.”

And come they did, bringing their hope, their questions, and their cash, all to have their tarot cards read by Aunt Gertrude. Repeat business made up the bulk of her income. With my own bank account hovering around empty, I mustered up my happy voice and fought for the bichon’s waistline and my fifty bucks.

“She’d really like a new wardrobe, but in a smaller size. Think how good she’ll look in a doggie jacket once she’s lost a few pounds.”

Botox kept the woman’s forehead from wrinkling, but she radiated disappointment. A diet wasn’t half as exciting as finding out your pet was channeling your dead grandmother. She crossed her legs and rested an arm across her lap in a defensive posture.

Did I mention I excel at reading body language? I decided to pull out the stops and give her what she wanted--a performance.

After a subtle glance around the room, I found my prop
—a mirrored door in the hallway next to the front door. Now to bring in my acting skills. I set my hand on Tasha’s head and closed my eyes. “She’s speaking to me,” I murmured. Since Tasha’s round body was being propped up by her owner, I could feel it when Mrs. Shropshire stiffened in excited anticipation of what the spirits had to say.

“She’s telling me every time she walks out the front door, she sees her reflection. It makes her feel bad about herself."

“Reflection?” Mrs. Shropshire sucked in her breath. “The closet,” she whispered, and she turned to look at the mirror, just as I hoped she would.

Pleased she had picked up on my hint so easily, I rewarded both my clients—Mrs. Shropshire with a smile and Tasha with a pat on the head.

“Losing weight is all the rage,” I pointed out. “Even celebrities have books and shows about it. A vet could work up a special diet, just for Tasha. Something exclusive. And then you can dress her up properly.”

Mrs. Shropshire tugged Tasha’s sweater down to cover her pudgy tummy. “Every woman likes to look her best, I suppose.”

My stomach growled. All this talk about food had made me hungry. Mrs. Shropshire had laid out a bowl of crackers—a miserly serving, in my opinion—and the smell of cheese had been teasing me ever since I arrived. In fact, the minute I had stepped into the room, my gaze had zeroed in on those tiny squares of delight, which surprised me, as I had eaten lunch a little under an hour ago.

Unable to resist any longer, I snatched a few. Tasha whined with envy.

My client waved her hands about as if she had won the lottery. “Precious Pooch just opened a branch at the mall! I could take Tasha there for her outfits!”

“That’s right!” I had no idea about doggie fashions and cared less. I popped two crackers into my mouth. They were excellent, with just the right note of cheddar, so I
grabbed another handful and emptied the bowl. Then I noticed Mrs. Shropshire’s odd expression.

“Those are Tasha’s treats, dear.”

I swallowed hard. “Eating her treats, um, helps me connect with her.” Funny, but knowing I had just chomped on dog biscuits didn’t stop me from wanting more. I dropped the remaining treats back in the bowl and wiped my fingers on my jeans, wondering what other surprises fate had for me today.