Barking Mad at Murder (PAPERBACK) Frankie Chandler #1

“Isn’t that what you do, anyway?” He waved his hand toward Sandy. “It’s not as if you can actually read the dog’s mind.”

I crossed my arms over my chest to match his pose. “Then why did you call me?”

He jerked his chin toward Jennifer. “She insisted.”

“David, honey.” Jennifer slid next to him and rubbed his back. “You’ve been so concerned about—about Sandy. Every day when you come home, you run in to check on him.” I caught a rising tension in her voice. “You keep
asking and asking me what’s wrong with the dog. You just won’t leave it alone.” Jennifer caught herself and switched back to her sweet, Stepford Wife tone.

“I thought a pet psychic might put your mind to rest. That’s all.” She beamed. “And now we know he’s lonely. I’m glad that’s all it is, aren’t you?”

To me she said, “We’re so grateful to you. We can take him to daycare and he’ll be fine.” She brushed the hair from David’s forehead. “And you can forget about—things.”

While she retrieved my windbreaker from the closet, David Peters handed over a crisp fifty-dollar bill, though he accompanied it with a side of grumbling.

As he complained, his mouth continued to move, but the grumbling suddenly morphed into the roar of a train—the same sound I’d heard described by people who’d survived earthquakes. I looked up to see if the light fixtures were moving, which might be why I didn’t see it coming.

A blow to my sternum sent me flying. As I landed hard on my back, my first thought was David had decided to hang on to his Grant and punch me instead, but he stood over me with the bill still clutched in his hand and his eyes open wide in shock.

My head hurt where it connected with the floor, and the headache from the last few days pounded against my temples until I thought my head would burst.

Jennifer Peters chose this moment to return with my jacket draped over her arm. “David! What have you done?”

I clutched at the soft Berber carpeting and pulled myself to my hands and knees, rubbing the sore spot in the center of my chest. When the Peterses’ living room faded from sight, I froze.

I was in a jungle, surrounded by diamond-shaped leaves. The foliage parted and revealed a youngish woman with long, curly black hair. She wasn’t a happy woman. I could tell because her eyes were open wide, and there was a gloved hand placed firmly over her mouth. She fought against her attacker, jerking her head side to side as she fought for her life.

Yes, I knew she was fighting for her life. And as strange as it sounds, the letter “U” floated above her head.

My nostrils burned from an assault of strong odors—chemical scents and roses, gardenias, and, oddly, vanilla. I could feel her panic, and as my chest tightened, I growled—a low, rumbling warning. My throat tightened, my
muscles cramped, and I fought back the urge to scream.

At least I thought I did. As the details faded, my mouth was open wide, and the room echoed with the remains of a dying shriek.

“What is it?” Jennifer cried as I gasped in a deep breath to recover my
wind. Her voice sounded far away. I had to blink a few times before the room came back into focus. Had I hit my head so hard I’d passed out and dreamed?

“Water,” I croaked, still on my knees and stroking my neck to try to sooth the burn in my throat.

While David pulled me to my feet and led me to the couch, Jennifer got a glass of water from the kitchen. My hands shook when I accepted it.

As I emptied the glass, water dribbled down my chin and onto my lap. Jennifer’s gaze flickered toward the off-white carpet.

“Do you, er, feel sick?”

David offered to escort me to the bathroom.

“Not necessary,” I assured him. I rubbed my forehead so hard I thought I might leave a mark.

It probably wasn’t my finest professional moment, but when I looked up into their concerned faces, I couldn’t help but ask, “What in the hell was that?”