Free A Shot in the Bark (A Dog Park Mystery) by Carol Ann Newsome Page A

rotten luck. Who would have thought Luthor could hang on to twenty-five dollars, much less twenty-five thousand? And that Dourson would find it? Now he's got more questions, and he'll continue digging.
    So far, I have been peripheral to this investigation. This is my third investigation. I've never been a "person of interest," though this time there are more loose ends that could trip me up.
    My first removal was too close to me. It was exciting being in the spotlight, though it was very exhausting and I had to keep up the pretense much longer than I cared. I became a virtual prisoner in my own home just to avoid people. But the bliss! It was worth the risk to have serenity again, with the added pay-off of an inheritance. That first removal was such an epiphany. That I could remove people who disturb me! The blights on existence that make life less than pleasant for the rest of us could be eliminated. This exhilarating truth made my self-imposed confinement both necessary and difficult. I wanted to skip down he street and sing tra-la-las. Not a good look for someone in mourning.
    I spent my time in planning. Thinking how it could be done, deciding who might be next and how long I should wait. I rated the people around me. Considered their good and bad points. It really all boiled down to who was making life unpleasant and was unlikely to change
    I felt like Santa Claus, making a list and checking it twice.
    My second removal came a year later and I don't think anyone would have argued with my choice. He was a stupid man, misogynistic, always yelling at his kids, the dogs. Drinking beer on his porch wearing a Marlon Brando undershirt (I refuse to call them "wife-beaters") displaying an unpalatable physique. His was the only worthwhile opinion on any matter, and I'm sure if he ever apologized to his wife for anything, she'd have fallen over in a dead faint.
    He was tricky, having so many people around him. My break came when one of his children complained that they never had peanut butter in the house. Dad was allergic and almost died once.
    I waited until he was leaving for his annual hunting trip, then left a bag of brownies in his truck. I made them with peanut oil. He went into shock in his hunting blind and wasn't discovered until his buddies missed him hours later. I'd put the brownies in a plain white bakery bag, layered with tissue. The police figured he picked them up at some country store during his trip. There were too many miles and too many back roads to find the source. The only fingerprints on the bag were his.
    There was a token investigation, centered around his wife. She was properly bewildered and was not a baker. A search of the house did not reveal chocolate or peanut oil. She received her life insurance, sold the house and moved away. This was a relief to me because she was just the sort of woman to find another just like him. And if she didn't, her boy was getting old enough to start displaying behavior he learned at Papa's knee. Their house was soon occupied by a young couple who refinished the floors, tore out the cabinets, and exorcised the ghost of Archie Bunker, Jr.
    Removal number three was a supervisor who thought nothing of demanding that I work on the weekend and deliver reports to her home after hours. None of which was necessary. On one occasion, she was home with a cold. I brought along a bitter herbal powder. I told her it would help her symptoms and offered to fix her some in some water. She was touched by my consideration. I laced it with sleeping pills. When she passed out, I put on rubber gloves and rinsed out her glass to eliminate any residue. I wiped my fingerprints off the jar of herbs, and pressed her hand to it. Then I put it in her cabinet. I dragged her into the bathroom, removed her clothes, and ran bath water. When it was half full, I placed her in, pulled up on her ankles so that she was flat on her back under water. She never woke. I had read how it is impossible to rescue