Mutts & Murder: A Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery Read Online Free Page B
Author: Meg Muldoon
clean off. Several of the yellow roses had dropped to the ground, their petals crushed and their leaves scattered.
This was the third time in the last month that some destructive mutt had a field day in the garden. I’d seen the muddy-colored medium-sized dog once, but had been unable to catch him. As of yet, I had no way to stop the culprit, and more importantly, no way to find the culprit’s owner. The dog itself was going to do what dogs do when it was off leash – run through gardens and destroy lawns. It was the owner I was really after. The one that I was going to make pay once I found out just who he or she was.
It wasn’t that I was a green thumb freak, though I had spent the last six months diligently caring for those plants.
It was because of what the yellow roses represented.
My mother had planted them. Just a small row of yellow flowers 20 years ago. In the two decades since, they’d grown into a full-fledged beautiful rose garden.
It had been my mom’s pride and joy.
And that self-centered dog owner had just their pooch run all over it this past month, along with several other gardens on the street too. I’d dubbed the dog “The Ripper of Labrador Lane” because of his mysterious and destructive ways.
I shook my head angrily. Then I glanced at my watch.
I was going to find the dog’s owner. And I was going to find him or her soon.
But it wouldn’t be this morning.
I took one long last look at the crumpled flowers in the dirt, then I turned on my heels, walking quickly back toward the car.
Mumbling unpleasant obscenities as I drove away.
Chapter 7
I felt the eyes of the entire newsroom on me as I clumsily rammed my foot into the board room door.
I had been trying to slip into the staff meeting without being noticed, but had failed with flying colors.
I smiled sheepishly, then gave the room a little awkward wave.
Roger Kobritz gave me a deadpan look that was nothing short of displeased.
Our editor was a stickler for punctuality in an industry that bred tardiness like a hungry bacteria, which meant that he spent a good deal of his time being unhappy with his fleet of clock-challenged reporters.
I was practically soaked through with sweat. I had driven here fast and had run through the parking lot and up the creaky old steps to the newsroom like a rowdy kid being chased out of the library by old, crotchety Fern Whitelaw herself. But the hell-fire run had been for naught. I was still late to the meeting. And I was only drawing more attention to myself by my red-faced attempts at trying not to swallow the room’s entire air supply.
“Nice of you to carve out twenty minutes of your day for us, Ms. Wolf,” Kobritz said dryly.
Rachael Chandler’s shoulder’s quaked as she let out a high-pitched giggle that reverberated around the meeting room.
I shot a glare at the slender, red-headed crime reporter.
I was fully aware that I might have deserved scolding from Kobritz, especially since he was my boss and I knew how much he despised tardiness. But for a fellow reporter to join in… that was downright treasonous.
Though I didn’t know what else I should expect from Rachael Chandler. The 24-year-old had the most coveted beat on the desk and she always made sure that everybody knew it. In a field that generally attracted average-looking, intellectual, bookish types, Rachael stood out as someone who would have been more at home with the perfect, blemish-free, sorority girl types that populated the desk of our local news station and rivals, KTVX.
And she made sure that everybody knew that too.
I disliked her from the start. She had the job that I should have had, given my experience. But I think even if I had liked Rachael Chandler, I would have come to the same conclusion: her one-source, conjectured stories wouldn’t have cut it at The Oregon Daily , or at most papers in the state for that matter. She wasn’t half as good as she thought she was. But nobody in the
This was the third time in the last month that some destructive mutt had a field day in the garden. I’d seen the muddy-colored medium-sized dog once, but had been unable to catch him. As of yet, I had no way to stop the culprit, and more importantly, no way to find the culprit’s owner. The dog itself was going to do what dogs do when it was off leash – run through gardens and destroy lawns. It was the owner I was really after. The one that I was going to make pay once I found out just who he or she was.
It wasn’t that I was a green thumb freak, though I had spent the last six months diligently caring for those plants.
It was because of what the yellow roses represented.
My mother had planted them. Just a small row of yellow flowers 20 years ago. In the two decades since, they’d grown into a full-fledged beautiful rose garden.
It had been my mom’s pride and joy.
And that self-centered dog owner had just their pooch run all over it this past month, along with several other gardens on the street too. I’d dubbed the dog “The Ripper of Labrador Lane” because of his mysterious and destructive ways.
I shook my head angrily. Then I glanced at my watch.
I was going to find the dog’s owner. And I was going to find him or her soon.
But it wouldn’t be this morning.
I took one long last look at the crumpled flowers in the dirt, then I turned on my heels, walking quickly back toward the car.
Mumbling unpleasant obscenities as I drove away.
Chapter 7
I felt the eyes of the entire newsroom on me as I clumsily rammed my foot into the board room door.
I had been trying to slip into the staff meeting without being noticed, but had failed with flying colors.
I smiled sheepishly, then gave the room a little awkward wave.
Roger Kobritz gave me a deadpan look that was nothing short of displeased.
Our editor was a stickler for punctuality in an industry that bred tardiness like a hungry bacteria, which meant that he spent a good deal of his time being unhappy with his fleet of clock-challenged reporters.
I was practically soaked through with sweat. I had driven here fast and had run through the parking lot and up the creaky old steps to the newsroom like a rowdy kid being chased out of the library by old, crotchety Fern Whitelaw herself. But the hell-fire run had been for naught. I was still late to the meeting. And I was only drawing more attention to myself by my red-faced attempts at trying not to swallow the room’s entire air supply.
“Nice of you to carve out twenty minutes of your day for us, Ms. Wolf,” Kobritz said dryly.
Rachael Chandler’s shoulder’s quaked as she let out a high-pitched giggle that reverberated around the meeting room.
I shot a glare at the slender, red-headed crime reporter.
I was fully aware that I might have deserved scolding from Kobritz, especially since he was my boss and I knew how much he despised tardiness. But for a fellow reporter to join in… that was downright treasonous.
Though I didn’t know what else I should expect from Rachael Chandler. The 24-year-old had the most coveted beat on the desk and she always made sure that everybody knew it. In a field that generally attracted average-looking, intellectual, bookish types, Rachael stood out as someone who would have been more at home with the perfect, blemish-free, sorority girl types that populated the desk of our local news station and rivals, KTVX.
And she made sure that everybody knew that too.
I disliked her from the start. She had the job that I should have had, given my experience. But I think even if I had liked Rachael Chandler, I would have come to the same conclusion: her one-source, conjectured stories wouldn’t have cut it at The Oregon Daily , or at most papers in the state for that matter. She wasn’t half as good as she thought she was. But nobody in the
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