Chapter One

A mother lode of leaves gilded the parking lot of the Haute Hydrant pet shop, despite an unseasonably warm autumn in South Lake Tahoe. The lingering heat of Indian Summer was matched by growing dissent over a proposed lakefront dog park for Tahoe’s canines. For weeks, editorials in The Tahoe Tattler had rekindled the age-old debate about public versus private use of Tahoe’s shoreline, but only a pet psychic could have foretold that the daily growls would turn deadly.

On the balmy October morning of the Howloween costume contest and carnival, dog lovers from all over the basin gathered to help raise money for Tahoe’s pup playground. Vendors from Petropolis, a new pet lover’s superstore, turned out to lend support and display their wares for Tahoe’s tail-waggers and their owners. Rub-a-Dub-Dog offered free bathing and grooming services for the event. There was even a pet psychic, Madame Pawline, doing complimentary readings with dogs and their owners. It was a real hound happening!

Mayor Thor Petersen turned out to show support for the event, and so did Councilman Colin Grant. Even kindly Pastor Ramseth of neighboring Lakeview Methodist Church joined our furry fold, and the ladies of the congregation had organized a cakewalk. A local dog bakery, The Pawtisserie, had even made “people crackers” for the animals.

Sally Applebaum trimmed her pet shop windows in orange and black streamers for the occasion. A long-leggedy rubber tarantula surfed a wave of synthetic web as plastic vampire bats hovered over a fuzzy cluster of guinea pigs. The multi-colored cavies rooted and burrowed in their nest of fresh wood shavings, emitting shrill chirps and chutters. The Hydrant’s owner had outdone herself with spooky decorations for the event she was hosting for our fur friends. Sally, along with animal shelter volunteers, and a pack of other dog lovers, including yours truly, had done a great job of promoting the Howloween event, which drew a large crowd of participants and curious onlookers.

Outside the store, a gangly scarecrow lolled against a hay bale, which was being sprinkled by a Toto imposter. Rags, a Scottish terrier, was one of many entrants in the masquerade, which was also part of the fund-raiser for Alpine Paws Park. To everyone but us diehard dog lovers and our canine friends, who had been banned from using public parks and trails, an off-leash park seemed like a long shot in a wiener dog race compared to other far more lucrative proposals for this stretch of sandlot. Choice lakefront property could sell for as much as ten thousand dollars per foot, and various commercial interests vied for the parcel.
The issue had become so contentious it now dominated the front page of the Tattler, as I could see through the weathered plastic cover of the paper rack in front of Sally’s store. As a stringer for the Tahoe daily, I resented having to spend a dollar and fifty cents to read news I help write, but the snoop in me won out over the skinflint when I spotted the Helvetica bold headline about the park:

PAWS PROPONENTS PERSIST IN DOGFIGHT OVER PUP PARK

Hackles are raised over an off-leash dog park proposed for a prized five-mile stretch of beachfront property, part of a fifty-acre estate donated to the Tahoe Historical Society by the Haversham family. Haversham House has long been a popular tourist attraction, but due to economic downturns and dwindling financial reserves, its fate now seems uncertain.

‘It is our fervent wish to protect Haversham House from those who would selfishly destroy it,’ says Abigail Haversham, prominent Tahoe citizen and namesake, who inherited the nineteenth century estate from her late father, William Haversham. ‘Renovation plans for Alpine Haven Senior Center, in concert with Alpine Paws Park, will not only ensure that a significant piece of Sierra Nevada history escapes the developer’s wrecking ball but also preserve my family’s legacy to future generations.’

There are plenty of seniors or seniors-to-be in Tahoe who would clamor for lodging in such an exclusive lakefront retirement community, but I’m not including myself in that group just yet. In case you don’t remember me, I’m Elsinore MacBean. That’s Elsie, for short, or just plain Beanie to my friends. Although I’ll soon be receiving my AARP card, I’m thankful to say I’m not one of those people who look like their dogs, especially since my Basset Hound, Cruiser, could definitely use a facelift.

Although our efforts to raise money for the park had been fairly successful thus far, we wouldn’t stand a Chihuahua’s chance against the big dogs of business without community support. The only thing developers cared less about than a public dog park was an old folks’ home. Fortunately, not everyone in Tahoe felt that way. The Silver Lions, a militant senior group, were determined that the Alpine Haven plan would prevail over other interests.

One Silver Lion member, my good friend Rosie Clark, also chaired the fund-raising committee for Alpine Paws, volunteered at the shelter, and taught in the humane education program, just to name a few of her activities on behalf of four-leggers in South Tahoe. She had organized a committee to host a Bark in the Park Ball this year to help raise more money for the canine cause. In keeping with Halloween, the ball would be held at the Haversham “Haunted Mansion.”

The excitement in the languid autumn air was palpable, at least among the human contestants, many of whom, like Rosie, wore costumes to complement those of their pets. Cruiser and I, alias Sherlock and Watson, were no exception. Even though I’m generally regarded as the Sierra sleuth in these parts, I let Cruiser be Sherlock this time. I had fashioned a Cruiser-sized cape and deerstalker hat and attached a miniature spyglass and pipe to the cape. The judging would be difficult, though. There were some clever contenders for the Best Canine Costume award: Frankendog, a ghoulie Puli, and a trio of extra-terrierestrials whose owner was outfitted in a silver spacesuit.

“Rags, come!” Rags scampered back to Rosie, who was dressed as Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. He leapt obediently into the wicker picnic basket she carried.
I beckoned to my stubborn dog. He had discovered an abandoned peanut butter yummy on the pavement and was giving it a thorough sniff before sampling. As usual, he took his own sweet time responding to my command.

“Cruiser! Leave it!” I managed to extract the gummy yummy from his jaws and tossed it into a nearby waste container. I didn’t like him eating things I hadn’t given him, especially since there had been a number of dog poisonings in Tahoe recently. Finally, I had to leash Cruiser and drag him away from the spot where he’d found the treat; the judging of the costume contest was about to begin!

Passersby paused to gawk at the spectacle of haute-coutured canines strutting their stuff on the catwalk, or, in this case, dogwalk. Among the gathering crowd of spectators I spotted my friend Sheriff Skip Cassidy, who had come mostly for Cruiser’s and my benefit, or so I thought...

“Well, if it isn’t Sherlock Bones himself,” Skip said, petting Cruiser. Cruiser had already coated his costume in drool, which dribbled onto Skip’s hand. Fortunately, Skip has never minded a little dog slobber. He couldn’t mind and still be Cruiser’s and my friend. Besides, he’s had his hands in messier things in his line of work as county sheriff.

“Hey, thanks for coming, Skip,” I said, offering him a dry corner of Cruiser’s jowl towel to wipe his hand.
“Did I have a choice?”

“Not really. Cruiser would never forgive you if you missed his first modeling gig.”

“Speaking of modeling, where’s Nona?” Skip said. “I thought she was coming up to see this.”

Since I’d tragically lost my husband, Tom, in a forest fire, Skip had become a surrogate dad, or at least a doting uncle, to my pretty young daughter.

“She couldn’t make it, but she said she’ll be here as soon as her latest shoot with Vicky’s Secret is wrapped up. I’m surprised to see you taking time off from work for a puppy pageant.”

He laughed. “Well, things are very busy at the office, but I couldn’t afford to miss this dog show, considering...”

“Considering what?”

“I just thought maybe I should come along and keep an eye out for any trouble.” Feeding me tidbits of information this way, Skip didn’t realize that he was teasing me like a dog with a squeak toy.

“Okay, I’ll bite.” He didn’t know how close that was to the truth. I hated it when he withheld news from me. “What kind of trouble?”

The sheriff’s usually sunny countenance clouded. “There have been death threats,” he said, hooking both thumbs in his lawman’s utility belt.

“That’s terrible! Who’s been threatened?”

“I have!” I was startled by a cold nose nudging my elbow. I turned to face first Rags, then Rosie Clark, who was still toting him in her basket. Her ruby slippers sparkled in the sun. I gave Rags a friendly caress, and he responded by lapping my hand with his small pink tongue. “And Rags, too,” she added.

“What do you mean, Rosie?” I said.

“I’ve been getting some malicious e-mails from someone who says he’ll hurt me and my dog, if I don’t back off.”

“Back off from what?”

“The dog walk park. Someone is dead set against it, apparently.”

“No big surprise there,” Skip said. “Haven’t you been reading the news?”

“Yes,” I said. “Sometimes I even write the news!”

“I’m not the only one who has been threatened, though,” Rosie continued. “Other Alpine Paws proponents have received similar threats, including Abigail Haversham. She told me she also received a vile e-mail, warning her off the project. She was quite upset about it.”

“I would be, too,” I said. “Poor Abby’s really been taking some heat over this.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about Abigail,” Rosie said. “She can give as good as she gets.”

“Do you know Mrs. Haversham, Beanie?” Skip asked.

“Who doesn’t? She’s top dog in the fight for the park.”

“True,” Rosie said. “Without her backing, the Alpine Paws project doesn’t stand a chance. She’s wealthy, well-connected, and a force to be reckoned with.”

“Abby usually gets her way, all right,” I agreed.

“Any idea at all who might have sent the e-mails?” Skip said.

“I have my suspicions, but it could be just about anyone who has a bone to pick on the issue,” Rosie said.

“Can you think of anyone in particular?” I said.

“Walter Wiley comes to mind.”

“Who’s Walter Wiley?” Skip said.

“The crabby old coot who lives in my neighborhood,” Rosie said. “He hates dogs. He’s always cussing out any dog owner who walks within ten feet of his property, including me. His grass looks like Astroturf, accent on the first syllable.”

I laughed. “Yeah, I know the kind you mean. I’ve never understood people who obsess so about their lawns and make enemies of their neighbors over it.”

“I never have, either,” Rosie said. “It’s only grass, for crying out loud.”

“Funny thing is, many of them are dog owners themselves, so they should be more tolerant of someone else’s pet,” I said. “People in glass doghouses shouldn’t throw bones.”

Rosie laughed, “You can say that again.”

“Did you answer any of the e-mails you received, Mrs. Clark?” Skip said.

“No, I thought it best not to.”

“Smart,” Skip said. “You don’t want to encourage this nut.”

“There were attachments, but I never open attachments from unknown senders because of computer viruses, so I just deleted the e-mails. I shouldn’t even have bothered reading any more of them after the first one, but morbid curiosity got the better of me, I suppose. I printed copies of the messages first, though, if you’d like to see them.”

“Good idea,” I said. “It could help us find out who is behind this. They could be empty threats, or this person could really mean business.”

“Unfortunately, threats like these all too often are eventually acted upon,” Skip said. “It takes a pretty sick puppy to do something like this, though.”

“I know,” Rosie said. She hugged her bushel of unconditional love closer, stroking Rags’ grizzled charcoal coat. Rags nuzzled his mistress’ open palm and gazed up at her adoringly with almond-shaped, obsidian eyes. “It would kill me if anyone ever hurt my boy.”

I thought of Cruiser and the discarded treat he had nearly snatched up from the pavement before I could intercede. “I know just how you feel.”

“Have you gotten any more e-mails from him?” Skip said.

“No, but I haven’t checked my mail yet today.”

“Well, if you get any more, forward them to me.” Skip handed Rosie his card. “Here’s my e-mail address.”

“Thank you, Sheriff. I’d rather not open any more of his nasty old e-mails, to tell you the truth.”

“What makes you both so sure it’s a man who’s sending these threats?” I asked. “For all you know, it could be a woman.”

“I know that,” Skip said, an edge in his voice that I attributed to the fact that he was still worried about proving himself worthy of his new responsibilities as sheriff. “It could be anyone who wants to kill Alpine Paws.”

I didn’t like the sound of that one bit.

“She’s right,” Rosie said. “It might be a woman. I’m only assuming it’s a man, but one thing’s for certain...”

“What?” Skip and I echoed.

“Whoever it is hates dogs. I mean, dogsbody doesn’t exactly sound like a dog lover, does it?”

“Is that the screen name the sender uses?” Skip asked.

“Yes, and he... or she... always signs the e-mail the same way.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

Rosie, who is no shrinking violet herself, looked frightened when she answered, “Sirius about murder.”