The Case of the Salubrious Soft Coated Wheaten

  The Case of the

  Salubrious

  Soft Coated Wheaten

  A Thousand Islands Doggy Inn Mystery

  B.R. Snow

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either used fictitiously or are the product of the author’s imagination. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written consent of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher are illegal and punishable by law.

  Copyright © 2018 B.R. Snow

  ISBN: 978-1-942691-52-5

  Website: www.brsnow.net/

  Twitter: @BernSnow

  Facebook: facebook.com/bernsnow

  Cover Design: Reggie Cullen

  Cover Photo: James R. Miller

  Luna Photo: Jim Cummings

  Other Books by B.R. Snow

  The Thousand Islands Doggy Inn Mysteries

  The Case of the Abandoned Aussie

  The Case of the Brokenhearted Bulldog

  The Case of the Caged Cockers

  The Case of the Dapper Dandie Dinmont

  The Case of the Eccentric Elkhound

  The Case of the Faithful Frenchie

  The Case of the Graceful Goldens

  The Case of the Hurricane Hounds

  The Case of the Itinerant Ibizan

  The Case of the Jaded Jack Russell

  The Case of the Klutz King Charles

  The Case of the Lovable Labs

  The Case of the Mellow Maltese

  The Case of the Natty Newfie

  The Case of the Overdue Otterhound

  The Case of the Prescient Poodle

  The Case of the Quizzical Queens Beagle

  The Case of the Reliable Russian Spaniels

  The Whiskey Run Chronicles

  Episode 1 – The Dry Season Approaches

  Episode 2 – Friends and Enemies

  Episode 3 – Let the Games Begin

  Episode 4 – Enter the Revenuer

  Episode 5 – A Changing Landscape

  Episode 6 – Entrepreneurial Spirits

  Episode 7 – All Hands On Deck

  The Whiskey Run Chronicles – The Complete Volume 1

  The Whiskey Run Chronicles – The Complete Volume 2

  The Damaged Posse

  American Midnight

  Larrikin Gene

  Sneaker World

  Summerman

  The Duplicates

  Other Books

  Divorce Hotel

  Either Ore

  For Jim and Mary

  And to the memory of Gord Downie

  Chapter 1

  Wedding week.

  After months of intense planning and my mother and I doing everything possible to achieve perfection and anticipate the inevitable what-ifs, not to mention the interminable waiting, mercifully, it has finally arrived. But it’s only Tuesday, and I’ve still got four days to go before I can walk down the aisle and answer the priest’s question.

  Do you, Suzy, take Max to be…well, you know the rest.

  And I will respond with confident pride in a loud, clear voice.

  “Damn straight, I do.”

  My mother has threatened to kill me right on the altar if I say it. I know she won’t, and she is almost certain I would never talk to a priest like that. And I’m almost certain I won’t. But I am tempted. I know it would get a big laugh as well as give my mother something to complain about at the reception.

  Given everything swirling around me at the moment, I’m a wreck. Like a dust-bunny caught in the breeze, I’ve been unable to maintain control and keep my thoughts from drifting across the emotional spectrum, often before I even realize it’s happening. Without warning, joy becomes panic, doubt trumps confidence, animated gives way to forlorn.

  And I’m exhausted.

  I’m worn out from the minutiae and endless decisions. Worn out by my mother’s habit of changing our minds and making a few minor tweaks to what she’d assured me were the final plans. Worn out from the uncertainty of knowing exactly what’s going to happen next as well as what my new life is going to look like going forward. I’m still recovering from our debate about one decision in particular. It should have been easy. A layup in the parlance of people fond of using sports metaphors to make their point.

  But as my mother has taught me through the planning process, no detail is too small to not beat to death.

  I’m referring to the song Max and I will choose for our first dance, a relatively straightforward decision. But it required extensive negotiations with my mother. The full inventory of our first-dance conversations isn’t worth reciting, but to give you an idea, this is how our most recent chat went.

  “We really need to make a decision on the song, darling.”

  “Max and I are still discussing it. But don’t worry, the band will know what it is before the reception.”

  “Funny, darling. I think the song should be something traditional.”

  “Traditional, huh?” I said, raising an eyebrow as I went on point. “Like what?”

  “Well, there are so many wonderful choices. How about At Last by Etta James?”

  “Nah, it’s been done to death,” I said with a frown.

  “Then how about What A Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong?”

  “Great song. But it’s not a good choice for us.”

  “Okay, let’s try something a bit more current,” she said. “How about My Heart Will Go On?”

  “Next.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” my mother said, her agitation ramping up.

  “First, it’s from Titanic. And she’s singing to the memory of a dead guy. Second, it’s Celine Dion.”

  “Okay, no Celine Dion. Maybe As Time Goes By. Casablanca, dear. One of your favorite movies.”

  “To watch. Not dance to,” I said, making a face as I shook my head. “What else you got?”

  “Okay. How about Elvis?” she said. “Can’t Help Falling In Love. Beautiful song.”

  “Nah,” I said. “Not my favorite Elvis song.”

  “Then how about Hard-Headed Woman?” she deadpanned.

  “Funny, Mom. You want to solve the problem or do you want to fight?”

  “Keep talking. I’ll let you know,” she said, scowling at me. “How about Unforgettable by Nat King Cole?

  “Too slow,” I said. “We want to dance.”

  “Why are you being so difficult?”

  “I’m being selective, Mom. There’s a difference.”

  “Okay, your turn. Give me your best shot.”

  “We were thinking about a Queen song.”

  “Queen? Not that ridiculous We Are the Champions,” she said, staring at me in disbelief.

  “No. Another One Bites the Dust,” I deadpanned with a grin.

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “How about a U2 song?”

  “I do like U2,” she said, nodding.

  “I know. How does I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For grab you?”

  “It grabs me by the throat. Just like I’m going to do to you if you don’t start taking this seriously. How about The Way We Were? Streisand, darling.”

  “As long as you don’t mind me throwing up in my mouth during the whole song.”

  “We’ve Only Just Begun by the Carpenters?”

  I laughed until my stomach
hurt.

  “I give up. You’re impossible,” she snapped.

  We eventually stuck a pin in The Way You Look Tonight by Sinatra and tabled the discussion.

  With the wedding on the horizon, major changes are in the air, and dealing with change has never been my strong suit. I like predictability and a sense of order, so when changes do occur I have a solid foundation to fall back on when life begins to tilt, stir or upend. But when the foundation itself begins to shift, I get anxious. Not enough to cause the dreaded nervous sweats or induce panic attacks, but I do become edgy. Agitated and oversensitive. And for those around me lately, a total grump.

  And at the moment, a little peckish.

  I slide an English muffin into the toaster as I stare out the kitchen window at the River. As far as I can see upriver and down, the surface of the water is like glass. It’s going to be a warm August day, sweltering if the breeze doesn’t kick up, and several folks are already putting their boats through their paces. If I listen closely, I can hear their muffled engines broken only by the occasional cry of a solitary loon or the steady honking of Canadian geese in full flight.

  This morning reminds me of hundreds of others I spent on the River as a girl with my mom and dad, as a teen with my year-round friends and summer acquaintances, and, more recently, with Josie and Chef Claire and the dogs. It’s going to be one of those perfect summer days in the Islands. The kind you write home about. The kind the Chamber of Commerce prays for by the dozen. And if things unfold the way they might, like my wedding, it’s the kind of day you’ll remember forever.

  I choke up as the wave begins to build. Memories have been flooding back in recent weeks. And the older I get, I must admit to feeling overwhelmed at times by an inescapable wave of melancholy. It’s not an overpowering feeling provoking despair. It’s more of a not-so-gentle reminder of good times gone, times incapable of being recreated due to age and changing circumstances, yet still tucked away in my memory bank to be called upon when needed. Or surfacing at times when certain memories are the last thing you want to be dealing with.

  The melancholy, a somewhat new experience for me, arrived in fits and starts a few months ago then increased in frequency and intensity as the day of celebration neared. And when it did, I began forcing it into our work and dinner conversations. I’ve played far too many games of Do you remember the time when…? I’ve remembered, reminisced, recounted and replayed until my head hurt. I’ve laughed and cried, told long stories, and had even longer conversations with myself. And it’s not like I don’t know all the maxims. The proverbs of providence. Time marches on. All things must pass. There must be dozens, and I’m sure I’ve used them all over the course of the past several weeks.

  Melancholy.

  What a powerful emotion. When used well, it can provide sweet reminders of a life well led. Used incorrectly it can induce an overwhelming sense of dread and crippling fear about the future.

  My melancholy began to dominate and play out on a daily basis until, one night over dinner, Josie finally hit the wall. She put her knife and fork down in mid-meal, a rare occurrence, glanced at Chef Claire, who nodded her agreement it was time, then fixed a hard stare on me.

  “For God sake, Suzy. Will you please knock it off? We’re only moving two hundred feet down the street.”

  From that point on, convinced my foundation would remain rock-solid, I began to relax and do my best to enjoy the change process.

  The dogs also sense change is in the air and something is afoot. Josie and Chef Claire moving down the street will mean Chloe, my Australian Shepherd, will also be losing her permanent housemates. Captain, Josie’s Newfie, and Al and Dente, Chef Claire’s Golden Retrievers, will also be moving out. I keep waiting for signs of distress from Chloe letting me know she is troubled by the idea, but she’s apparently handling the move a lot better than I am.

  At the moment all four of them look anything other than stressed out. They’re in the reception area of the Doggy Inn rolling around on the floor. The object in question is a rope toy with a large knot on each end and Captain has it trapped underneath him. Given his massive size, it’s hidden from view. But the other three dogs are determined to find it. Before long, a section of the rope pops into view and Chloe and the Goldens seize their opportunity. They grab it and begin pulling hard. Captain holds the toy with his front paws and slides a knotted end into his mouth. He effortlessly holds the toy while the other three dogs wear them themselves out trying to get it from him. Captain seems amused by their futile efforts and glances back and forth at them, his tail wagging the entire time. Only Chloe’s stealth move of pulling one of Captain’s ears breaks the stalemate.

  Josie and I watch the scene play out from behind the reception counter laughing the entire time.

  “He’s so strong,” I said, marveling at the Newfie.

  “He gets it from his mother,” Josie said, gently punching me on the shoulder. “Are you feeling better this morning?”

  “I am. It’s no big deal, right?” I said, shrugging. “You guys are only moving down the street.”

  “And Chloe can sleep over anytime she wants,” Josie said, laughing again as Captain manages to get both knots of the rope toy in his mouth.

  Soon, all four dogs have a piece of the rope in their mouth and are pulling hard. Chloe’s nails click against the linoleum as she gives a mighty tug and lets loose with a low playful, guttural growl. But Captain has the upper hand, and Chloe concedes with a snort. She lets go of the toy and heads for the registration counter and hops up on a chair where she sits staring at me with a front paw raised. I return the handshake and rub her head.

  “He’s too strong, isn’t he?” I said sympathetically.

  “I don’t want it.”

  Josie shakes her head at Captain after he proudly strolls to the counter still holding the rope toy in his mouth. It’s become a slobbery mess, and he cocks his head at his mother. At first glance, it might appear he’s offering the toy to her as some sort of gift. But we both know Captain is merely trying to tempt Josie into a tugging match, a battle she knows from experience she can’t win. Josie grins as she shakes her head again at the Newfie.

  “No way. I’m not touching that. It’s disgusting.”

  Captain drops the toy to woof at Josie. Al and Dente seize their opportunity and move in to snatch it off the floor. Al ends up with sole possession, and he races toward the condo area in the back of the Inn with Captain and Dente in hot pursuit. Chloe, not wanting to miss out, hops from the chair onto the counter then launches herself through the air. She lands softly and dashes off without missing a beat and follows the other three into the condo area.

  “I get tired watching them,” Josie said.

  “Me too,” I said. “I’m gonna count it.”

  Josie gives me another soft punch on the shoulder, and we both glance at the front door when it opens. One of our favorite dogs and two of our favorite people step inside. Luna, a beautiful Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier, heads straight for the reception counter and hops on her back legs with her front paws gently scratching the outside of the counter. Josie and I lean forward and peer down at her. Luna wags what tail she has vigorously and judging by the look of anticipation on her face is expecting Josie and me to come around the counter and say hi. We immediately comply.

  “Hey, Luna,” I said, returning the hug she is giving me. “Who’s the good girl?”

  Luna licks my face several times then turns her attention to Josie who is now sitting on the floor. Luna launches herself into Josie’s lap and gives her dozens of kisses. Several moments later, Luna is satisfied with the greeting and focuses on Jim and Mary Cummings who’ve been watching the scene play out with smiles and the occasional shake of their heads. Jim and Mary always board Luna at the Inn when they need to leave town and can’t take her with them. They are not merely dog owners; they are dog people. And those of you who spend a lot of time with our four-legged friends know exactly what I’m talking about. Those of yo
u not blessed with canine-companionship may not see the distinction, but the difference is wide and deep.

  “Somebody’s excited to be here,” Josie said, climbing to her feet.

  “She’s been excited since we asked her last night if she wanted to go the Inn,” Mary said, kneeling down to pet the Wheatie.

  “Yeah,” Jim deadpanned. “I don’t think she got more than ten, maybe twelve hours of sleep last night.”

  “Oh, stop,” Mary said. Then she focused on me. “How are you holding up? The big day is right around the corner.”

  “I’m doing good,” I said, sitting down in a chair. Luna is soon occupying my lap. “But don’t tell my mom. As long as I can keep her believing I’m stressed out, she goes easy on me. It’s one of the rare times I get the upper hand.”

  Jim and Mary laugh along with Josie and me. They sit down across from me, and Luna glances back and forth at their laps before deciding on Jim’s.

  “I pulled Luna’s chart this morning,” Josie said. “She’s due for her rabies.”

  “She is,” Mary said. “And could you clip her nails and groom her?”

  “Already got it written down,” Josie said, sitting down next to me. “She’ll be here the one night, right?”

  “Yeah,” Jim said. “We’re heading up to Montreal to pick up Geraldine. She’s flying in from L.A. tonight. We’re going to do some sightseeing and shopping before she gets in.”

  “I can’t wait to see her,” I said. “It’s been way too long.”

  “Yeah, she doesn’t get back much,” Mary said. “Family, huh?”

  “She still fighting with her dad?” I said.

  “Only when she’s in the same room with him,” Mary said with a small smile. “I was surprised when she told us she was coming in for the wedding.”

  Geraldine was a childhood friend I went to school with. We’d been close, but she had moved with her mom to the west coast after her parents split up. Her brother, Billy, had stayed in Clay Bay with his dad. But several years ago, after finishing college, he’d left the area for New York to pursue an acting career. From what we’ve heard, he’s been a moderate success, which probably means he’s earning enough to survive and afford living in the City.