Sit, Stay, Slay Read online

  Sit, Stay, Slay

  Books by V.M. Burns

  Mystery Bookshop Series

  THE PLOT IS MURDER

  READ HERRING HUNT

  THE NOVEL ART OF MURDER

  WED, READ & DEAD

  BOOKMARKED FOR MURDER

  A TOURIST’S GUIDE TO MURDER

  Dog Club Series

  IN THE DOG HOUSE

  THE PUPPY WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

  BARK IF IT’S MURDER

  PAW AND ORDER

  SIT, STAY, SLAY

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Table of Contents

  Books by V.M. Burns

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Sit, Stay, Slay

  V.M. Burns

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by V.M. Burns

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: December 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0995-1 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0995-3 (ebook)

  First Print Edition: March 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0996-8

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0996-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to John Scognamiglio, Michelle Addo, and everyone from Kensington.

  I am so grateful to have a large extended family who have helped me in various ways. I appreciate my work family: Linda Kay, Monica Jill, Tim, Chuck, Lindsey, Kristie, and Sandy. I appreciate my team (past and present): Amber, Derrick, Eric, Jennifer, Robin, and Grace, Deborah, Tena, and Jamie. Thanks to Abby Vandiver, Alexia Gordon, and E.L. Reddick for legal and medical advice, and to Deborah Childs for the great insurance information. Special thanks to my family and to my good friends Shelitha Mckee and Sophia Muckerson.

  Chapter 1

  “What do you mean you didn’t qualify?” My best friend, Scarlet Jefferson—Dixie, to her friends—stared in utter and complete disbelief. Dixie was wearing a beautiful pink sweater with rhinestones, slacks, and black leather boots. At close to six feet tall, she was a Southern belle with Dolly Parton big hair. Despite the fact that we were attending a dog show, she looked as beautifully made up and well dressed as ever.

  Pleasantly plump at five foot four and with dark hair and eyes, I was comfortable in jeans, tennis shoes, and an Eastern Tennessee Dog Club T-shirt. Without makeup and my hair pulled back in a ponytail, I felt like a troll next to Dixie.

  “I thought we had done well enough to at least qualify.” I held my Toy Poodle, Aggie, close to my chest. “I was hoping you noticed what we did wrong.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, nothing that should have gotten you disqualified.” She took a deep breath and paused. “Aggie lagged a little bit during the heel free exercise, but it wasn’t bad. She caught up when you went faster, and she stayed up the entire rest of the time. Apart from a couple of crooked finishes, she was great.” She reached over and gave Aggie’s ear a scratch.

  I should have known this trial wouldn’t run smoothly from the first moment I stepped out of my car and saw Dixie and the club president, Lenora Houston, in an intense discussion.

  Lenora was an Amazon of a woman with short-cropped white hair. Head up. Shoulders back. Lenora marched around the front of the building like a drill sergeant, which wasn’t unusual since she was former military. However, her lips were moving, and she looked ready to spit bricks, as my friend Monica Jill would say.

  I had gotten there just in time to hear Dixie ask, “What’s wrong?”

  “This is a mock trial. You and all the other judges recognized that and graciously waived your fees.” She glared. “All except one.”

  “Let me guess—Naomi Keller,” Dixie said.

  Lenora nodded. “She was as sweet as pie when she agreed to judge. Now . . .” She pounded her fist in her hand. “We’re only charging five dollars per entry, just enough to cover the expenses of Utility and an extra trash pickup. If we have to pay her, we’re going to go in the hole.”

  Dixie sighed. “Do we have a choice?”

  Lenora stared for a few moments. “No.”

  “Then, as much as I hate to admit it, we’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, and we’ll just have to pay her.”

  “I know, but it really burns my butt that she told us she was waiving her fee and now says, ‘I changed my mind,’ like she’s decided to have decaf rather than regular coffee.” Lenora turned and marched back inside the building.

  On the surface, Dixie had looked as cool and calm as always. Only a close examination revealed the vein pulsing on the side of her head and the hardened look in her eyes.

  “Was the lagging enough to disqualify us?” I asked.

  “Not at all. It’s a few points off. She should have qualified.”

  The Eastern Tennessee Dog Club (ETDC) owned a building that was crude but functional. It was a long, low building with a metal roof. It wasn’t fancy, but it was located on more than three acres of land, which was mostly fenced, and provided a great venue for dog shows. The building also offered tons of parking, another must-have for dog shows and training facilities. Inside, the walls weren’t insulated, and the concrete floors were covered in green vinyl mats. The matted area of the room was sectioned off with white, folding, accordion-ring gates that made what looked like a small picket fence. The unmatted area was left for spectators. There wasn’t a lot of space for chairs, but the building had
a few bleachers, which today were full, and limited space for dog crates along a side wall near the door.

  We stood outside of the ring and watched a woman with a large playful St. Bernard puppy.

  B.J. Thompson joined our group. “Is this the kiss and cry area?”

  “You too?” I asked.

  B.J. was Black, with dark skin and hair, which she wore in long braids that trailed down her back. “I don’t care what that mean old judge thinks.” She cuddled her white West Highland Terrier. “Mummy wuvs you, and you’re going to get that smelly liver treat anyway.” She looked up. “I was saving it for a celebration if she qualified, but I think she earned the treat, and I’m giving it to her.”

  Dixie petted Snoball. “She absolutely earned the liver.”

  An excellent obedience instructor and judge, Dixie was known for being tough but fair. She believed in a positive approach to dog training, which included lots of positive reinforcement and treats, but not just any treats. She advocated the use of treats that were so special, a dog would sell its soul to get them. These “soul-selling” treats included some of the most foul-smelling dried liver, which Dixie ordered in bulk.

  The third woman in Dixie’s dog training class, Monica Jill, sauntered over to our group.

  “Where’s Jac?” I asked.

  “In his crate, where he belongs.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I am so angry with that dog.” She looked from me to B.J. “Did you see what he did?”

  Jac was a black dog with a white spot. He was most likely a terrier/Labrador mix, but you couldn’t tell what he was by looking at him. He was a young dog with a lot of energy. Getting him to the point that he was able to compete, even in a mock obedience event, had taken a great deal of practice and patience. He had done surprisingly well in the early part of the trial. He heeled both on and off leash. He stood still while the judge examined him and even did the recall exercise. He lost points during the figure-eight heel pattern when he stopped to sniff the crotch of one of the men who was serving as a post for the figure eight; however, that should have only been a few points off. Jac’s disqualification came during the group exercise. When all the owners lined up their dogs against the wall, commanded the dogs to sit and stay, and then walked six feet away, Jac didn’t stay. Instead, he followed Monica Jill and was standing there looking up at his owner, tail wagging and big brown eyes full of love and adoration, when she turned around.

  “He’s still young,” Dixie reminded her.

  Monica Jill, a tall thin woman with dark hair and dark eyes, wasn’t ready to forgive so easily. She pointed to Aggie. “He’s older than Aggie.”

  “You can’t always go by age. The breed and sex can play a big part in development and maturity.” Dixie smiled. “Aggie’s a female and a Toy Poodle. They tend to mature a lot faster than males.”

  Monica Jill huffed. “Well, he isn’t getting any liver treats today.”

  B.J. and I exchanged glances, which indicated we knew Monica Jill wasn’t as tough as she pretended to be. She also wouldn’t hold a grudge for more than a few minutes. By the time she went home tonight, we knew Jac would be eating liver, just like Snoball and Aggie.

  We became distracted watching the St. Bernard puppy. He bounded around the ring like a small pony, tongue hanging out, a look of pure joy on his face, while his owner walked the heel pattern alone. Eventually, the puppy finished his romp, hiked his leg, and peed on the ring gate.

  “At least Jac didn’t pee in the ring,” B.J. said.

  “Soiling the ring is an automatic disqualification, isn’t it?” I asked.

  Dixie nodded.

  We watched as two members of the dog club sprayed and wiped away the soiled area to prevent other dogs from getting distracted and adding their own scents. Having spent an entire day cleaning up at a dog show a few months ago, I was grateful to be competing and not working this event.

  The last member of Dixie’s obedience class, Dr. Morgan, and his German Shepherd, Max, were next. We watched as they entered the ring and waited for the judge to begin. Dr. Morgan was short and bald, with an egg-shaped head that always reminded me of Agatha Christie’s detective, Hercule Poirot.

  Both Max and his owner were serious, and they performed their exercises with an intense concentration that bordered on obsession. No smiles cracked their exterior façades. The only hint of levity came from the bright green ETDC T-shirt Dr. Morgan wore over his dress shirt and slacks. The shirts were a gift from Monica Jill for the members of Dixie’s class and bore the ETDC logo on the front, with the words Dixie’s Pack on the back.

  From our vantage point, it looked as though Dr. Morgan and Max would qualify and save our class from total humiliation. When the last exercise was over, we cheered as they walked out of the ring. Within minutes, Dr. Morgan and Max joined our group.

  “Good boy, Max.” We showered both the dog and owner with praise. Snoball had a crush on the GSD and licked him shamelessly, while Max ignored her and tried to get Aggie’s attention.

  The club volunteers who were working the table at the edge of the ring took the scoresheets from the judge. They tallied the points for each handler and then recorded them on a whiteboard outside the gate. We waited excitedly until the worker marked DQ beside number 23, which was the number on the armband worn by Dr. Morgan.

  We stared in shock at the two letters. I didn’t think anything could have been worse until the judge grabbed a large, blue first-place ribbon and turned to face the crowd.

  “St. Bernard number twenty-two.”

  There was a stunned silence in the building. Eventually, the woman with the St. Bernard puppy returned to the ring and received their first-place ribbon.

  When I finally found words, I turned to Dixie. “How is that possible? I didn’t see anything that would have disqualified Max.”

  “Neither did I.” Dixie glared. “But you can bet your bippy I’m going to find out.”

  Chapter 2

  The confrontation didn’t happen immediately. First, the shocked St. Bernard owner and the second- and third-place winners received their ribbons, took pictures with the judge, and cleared the ring. ETDC had a large glass award that the president, Lenora Houston, presented to the judge. The award was supposed to be a token of the club’s appreciation, and we’d had it made before Naomi Keller demanded monetary payment for her services. Lenora Houston, with her military buzz cut and rigid physique, looked as though she had just sucked a lemon. She smiled for the pictures, but her smile looked more like a grimace.

  During the pictures, Dixie was called to the club’s office to take care of a problem with the computer. However, confrontation was inevitable.

  “If that woman has any sense of self-preservation,” B.J. said, “she’ll avoid that office like the plague.”

  When the pictures were done, we watched Naomi Keller make her way to the office. Monica Jill, B.J., and I exchanged glances.

  “We’ve got to help her,” Monica Jill said, looking from the office to the rest of us. “Dixie was loaded for bear. She’ll eat that woman alive.”

  I stared at my friend. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Yankee.” B.J. snorted. “It means, we better get in there and make sure Little-Miss-I’m-going-to-disqualify-your-whole-obedience-class knows that we’ve got Dixie’s back.”

  Monica Jill stamped her feet. “We are not going back there like some posse intent on intimidation. We are going to keep our friend from strangling that woman.”

  B.J. grunted.

  We took a few steps forward before we realized that Dr. Morgan wasn’t following, and we turned around to see that he was shaking his head.

  “I work for the county,” he said. “I can’t get involved in anything that could potentially involve the police.”

  B.J. walked back to him and shoved Snoball into his arms. “Good, then you can hold our dogs.
”

  I hesitated a split second and then shoved Aggie into his chest and followed my two friends toward the raised voices.

  Dixie towered over the shorter woman like a dinosaur. “If you have a problem with me, then be woman enough to confront me personally. How dare you penalize my students?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dixie this mad before,” Monica Jill whispered. “I was only half-joking earlier when I said we needed to stop her from killing that judge.”

  “Well, I wasn’t.” B.J. pounded her fist in her palm. “They ’bout to throw down. I got twenty dollars that says Dixie takes her out with two punches.”

  Monica Jill gave B.J. a shove. “This is serious.”

  B.J. chuckled. “Oh, alright.” She turned to me. “You’ve known Dixie longer than the rest of us. What’s the plan?”

  I shrugged. “Plan? What plan? I don’t have a plan.”

  B.J. and Monica both stared at me.

  “What?”

  Monica Jill whispered, “You always have a plan.”

  After a quarter century of friendship, I could only recall one other time when I’d ever seen Dixie as angry as she was right now. “Wait, what did you say this judge’s name was?”

  “Naomi Keller,” Monica Jill whispered.

  Naomi Keller sat in her chair with an innocent I have no idea what you’re talking about look on her face. However, as Dixie continued to rage about jealousy and bias, a transformation occurred. Naomi Keller’s face morphed from human to something animalistic and feral.

  “Don’t blame me because your little obedience groupies failed to deliver.” She smirked. “Dixie’s pack.”

  I heard Monica Jill gasp, and then I glanced down at my bright green T-shirt.

  “You can honestly sit there and say you weren’t biased when you gave a first-place ribbon to a dog that peed in the ring?”

  Someone nudged me and then slid into the office. It was the St. Bernard’s handler, and she was carrying the blue ribbon. “Ah-hem.” She courageously approached the two fighting women.