Binky's Boss and Other Short Mysteries PAPERBACK

I’d like to introduce you to Frankie Chandler, unwilling Pet Psychic. Frankie’s “gift” is an unwelcome pain in the butt. She still hasn’t gotten used to receiving messages from animals, and she’s constantly—and often inconveniently—surprised by the methods they use to get through to her. It doesn’t help that animals obfuscate like seasoned politicians, only animals have the excuse that they’re, well, animals. Take Mrs. Bainbridge’s adorable Pekingese . . .

Being a real pet psychic isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I found this out last month when, after years of being a perfectly happy charlatan, I was assaulted by a mental image of a murder sent courtesy of a golden retriever named Sandy. Desperate to get through to me, the dog forced his way past my mental barrier and knocked me on my fanny—literally.
Once Sandy made it through, it was as if he had sent out little paw-engraved invitations recommending his furry friends join in the fun. Communications came to me in a variety of forms. Sometimes I received images; other times I shared an animal’s feelings. The first time I craved raw, meaty bones, I thought I was losing my mind. I hoped I had a curable disease. When I finally figured out that these impressions were coming from my four-footed clients, I thought that solving the crime would satisfy Sandy and put things right, but once the rusty hinges of my psyche creaked open, they stuck. It was one month later and my furry friends were still swinging through my mental doorway . . . uninvited.
Take the flat-faced Pekingese staring up at me. Lady Chatterley, named so by her innocent-minded eighty-year-old owner, had just projected a horrifying home movie into my mind of Ethel Bainbridge keeling over onto her black-and-white linoleum kitchen floor. The woman lay on the floor with her dead eyes staring in a neat imitation of every victim I’ve ever seen courtesy of Mystery Theater Television.
Since I was in that same kitchen right now and Ethel stood next to me chatting in excruciating detail about her beloved Sunflower garden—capitalized by Ethel—I knew LC wasn’t showing me something she’d witnessed. I tried to shake off the image of Ethel, face down on one of the black tiles.
“And every morning as I do the dishes, I just look out my kitchen window and they brighten my day. Take a look, Frankie.”
Ethel edged me toward the aforementioned window and urged me to enjoy the view. In a patch of dirt at the back end of her yard, a dozen specimens of the lady’s favorite plant stood tall, their goldenrod faces bent forward to catch the morning sun.
“Very nice.”
I slipped a glance at Ethel. As wrinkly as any octogenarian has a right to be, she had pinkish, soft skin and cottony white hair that sat on top of her head in a tiny knot. Her blue gingham housedress brought back memories of fresh-baked bread, cookies, and cuddles from my own maternal grandma, though her mule slippers were ratty enough to warrant a call to the health department. Other than the slippers, she looked fine to me.
“Would you like another cup of coffee?” She held up the decanter.
I stifled a yelp. Ethel’s coffee had the consistency of used motor oil.
“Nope. I have to watch the caffeine.” I hesitated, wondering how to bring up the subject of her impending doom. “Ethel, has everything been normal lately?” I shot a quick glance toward the canine to see if I was on the right track. It could have been a sneeze, but I think the dog laughed.
Ethel turned her pale blue eyes on me. “At my age, you’ve got to lower your standards.” She then proceeded to list her ailments, meticulously describing horrors I hoped to forget later with several glasses of wine. Maybe a bottle. Thank goodness a knock at her screen door interrupted her.
“Yoo-hoo!” called out a voice like a foghorn. “Anybody home?”
Ethel’s shoulders stiffened and her sweet old lady countenance took on the air of a hound that’s just spotted a rabbit and made dinner plans. She plastered on a smile that wouldn’t fool a blind man and opened the door to a thick woman of the same age who barreled into the kitchen brandishing a tray of brownies.
“You have company!” the woman cried. There was something eager in her manner that told me this wasn’t a surprise to her.
“I do,” Ethel said, “so come back later. Or don’t. Suit yourself.”
The woman teetered over to me and held out a hand.
“Ursula Jones. I just whipped up these brownies this morning. Instead of butter, I used Sunshine applesauce. They’re delicious and healthy.” She gave me a lopsided smile—lopsided because her lip liner, applied with an unsteady hand, arched higher on the left side of her mouth. “And you are?”
My response disappointed her. She peered over my shoulder to see if anyone more interesting waited in the living room. When she realized I was the only company, she gave a resigned sigh and tossed the brownies on the counter.
I noticed she was overdressed for a quick neighborly visit. She wore a floral A-line skirt and a matching linen jacket in pink. On her feet were thick-heeled strapped sandals, and she topped the ensemble off with a straw hat that sprouted a colorful growth of carnations on one side of the band.
“They’re not coming until next Tuesday,” Ethel said with a smirk, “so you’ve wasted a trip.”
Ursula ran her fingertips along the countertop, inspected them, and then rubbed them together as if to flick off dirt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just calling on my lonely, old neighbor.”
Ethel snorted. “She thought you were from Sunshine Produce, Frankie.”
“I did not!” Ursula sputtered, but Ethel dismissed her protest with another snort.
“They plan to interview me and take pictures for their next newsletter. That’s the national newsletter. My Corn Fritter Delights won the cooking contest.”
“Good for you.” Not a subscriber, I didn’t much care.
LC growled. My mistake. Ursula growled. “You mean my recipe! You’re a thief, Ethel Bainbridge. That Corn Fritter Delights recipe belonged to my mother.”
Ethel wobbled toward her neighbor. “Corn Fritter Delights have been in my family for generations.”
Ursula stepped closer. “Because my mother lent the recipe to your mother for the Bainbridge family reunion in 1972.”
Ethel moved in until their noses almost touched. “Since both of our mothers are dearly departed, we can’t ask them, can we? You’re just jealous.”
Ursula spread her uneven lips into a wicked smile. “We’ll just see who Sunshine Produce believes when I tell them my story.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
The two women were gearing up for a catfight. Maybe I should have stepped in, but since their age made it impossible to imagine anything more explosive than slow-motion, I didn’t think they would come to any harm. I left them to it and nudged LC into the living room with my foot so we could have a private chat. She settled onto a pink pillow that bore her name in cross-stitch and then stared at my jean pocket.
I always carry treats—a quirk of the profession. I kneeled in front of her and held a tasty chew just out of reach.
“First, you’re going to explain yourself.” I projected the scenario of Ethel-in-Trouble right back at the dog with a big question mark. All I got in return was a tail wag and an image of LC’s food dish.
I gritted my teeth and wished the dog were a cat. Sure, cats complain about everything—and I do mean everything—but they do it in vivid detail. Dogs are unfocused and easily distracted. Mental pictures are usually fragments. Have you ever looked at the vacation photos taken by your precocious five-year-old niece? Then you’ve got it.
Sometimes messages come to me as feelings or impressions, but with emotions that bounce from euphoria to depression, dogs aren’t reliable barometers. One client’s dog that “felt” suicidal had simply failed to retrieve a piece of kibble that was stuck under the couch. What a drama queen.
I moved the treat farther away. LC’s eyes followed. “You’ll have to do better than that.” I resent the image. LC cocked her head. Then she wagged her tail and sat pretty.
“Couldn’t you just show me the murderer?” I whined. “Wouldn’t that be simpler?”
LC nudged the arm that held the treat.
My hostess was now listing the faults of every Jones she had ever encountered, so after tossing LC her reward for doing nothing, I checked out my surroundings. I’d never made it farther into the house than Ethel’s kitchen. Until recently, I’d avoided all contact with my neighbors. I’m not particularly good with people. Actually, I just don’t like them much, but coming home to a murderer last month made me think it would be a good idea to have allies in the neighborhood, or at least someone who would phone the police if they heard me scream.
The furniture was sturdy but old. The thick layer of wax on the end table probably dated back to Ethel’s wedding day. At the base of a chipped lamp were several pictures. I picked up one of Ethel, LC, and a man with sandy brown hair. He was too young to be her son.
A second photograph showed Ethel from a few decades ago. She held a baby under its armpits while it “stood” on her lap. She smiled for the camera, but her eyes focused on someone to her left, someone who had been torn out of the photograph. I could see the jagged edges where the picture didn’t meet the frame.
The screen door slammed, and I replaced the photo just as Ethel panted into the room. Her cheeks glowed with the flush of a good argument.
“Sorry about that. Ursula is out of her cotton-picking mind if she thinks that recipe isn’t my own, sweet Mother’s. I practically grew up eating Corn Fritter Delights. And I’m looking forward to the ten thousand dollars in prize money. I haven’t decided what I’m going to spend it on.”
“Ten thousand dollars?”
I’d been hoping to get more face time with LC, and now that my elderly neighbor had cash coming in, I could add her to my paying client base.
I scratched LC’s ears. “Lady Chatterley looks kind of peaked to me.”
“Do you think so?” Ethel bent down for a better look at her pooch.
“Maybe she has something on her mind.” Like murder. “If you’d like to schedule an appointment . . .”
Ethel straightened up. “No offense, dear, but that psychic stuff is nonsense. Talking to dogs? I don’t think so.” She waved off my protest. “Mind you, I’m not criticizing. We all need to put food on the table. If anything, I’ll just give Lady Chatterley a dose of cod liver oil.”
A month ago, I would have agreed wholeheartedly with her opinion of psychic phenomena. That was the most troublesome part of my recent change. I’d become something that I previously didn’t respect and regularly mocked. Though I knew better now, most people agreed with the old me.
To change the subject, I picked up the nearest photograph, the one someone had callously cropped. “Who’s missing?”
“My son, Greg,” Ethel said. She might have ripped away any visual reminder from the photograph, but she didn’t seem to mind talking about him. “He doesn’t deserve to be in the same picture with Lawrence and me.” She took the photo and looked fondly at the baby in her lap.
“I practically raised the boy myself. Greg’s wife ran off. Not that I blame her. He always was trouble. Wanted things he couldn’t afford and—let’s say he took the easy road instead of the right road. Lawrence has a bit of his father in him, but he would have been much worse if Greg hadn’t taken off. I wasn’t going to let strangers have the poor kid, so I took him in and raised him like he was my own.” She set the frame back in place next to the lamp.
“So, what happened to Greg?”
“Haven’t heard a word from him in twenty-five years, and good riddance. Lawrence still lives with me. It’s this economy. Hard to find work. But Lawrence is a good boy. He’ll be fine.”
Her telephone rang, so I told her I’d let myself out. Since the image of Ethel showed poisoning, I snatched up the plate of brownies, just as a precaution.

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