Death and a Dog. Fiona Grace

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      Copyright © 2019 by Fiona Grace. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Helen Hotson, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

      LACEY DOYLE COZY MYSTERY

      MURDER IN THE MANOR (Book#1)

      DEATH AND A DOG (Book #2)

      CRIME IN THE CAFE (Book #3)

      CHAPTER ONE

      The bell above the door tinkled. Lacey looked up and saw an elderly gentleman had wandered into her antiques store. He was dressed in English countryman attire, which would’ve looked peculiar in Lacey’s old home, New York City, but here in the seaside town of Wilfordshire, England, he was just another one of the locals. Only, Lacey didn’t recognize him as she now did most of the small town’s residents. His bemused expression made her wonder if he was lost.

      Realizing he may need some help, she quickly covered the mouthpiece of the telephone she was holding—mid-conversation with the RSPCA—and called over the counter to him, “I’ll be with you in just a second. I just need to finish up this call.”

      The man didn’t seem to hear her. His focus was fixed on a shelf filled with frosted crystal figurines.

      Lacey knew she’d have to hurry her conversation with the RSPCA along so she could attend to the confused-looking customer, so she removed her hand from the mouthpiece. “Sorry about that. Could you repeat what were you saying?”

      The voice on the other end was male, and he sounded weary as he sighed. “What I was saying, Miss Doyle, is that I cannot give out details of staff members. It’s for security reasons. Surely you get that?”

      Lacey had heard this all before. She’d first called the RSPCA to officially adopt Chester, the English Shepherd dog who had more or less come with the antiques store she was leasing (his prior owners, who’d leased the store before her, had died in a tragic accident, and Chester had wandered all the way back to his home). But she’d gotten the shock of her life when the woman on the other end of the line had asked her if she was related to Frank Doyle—the father who’d abandoned her at the age of seven. Their call had gotten disconnected, and she’d rung back every day since to trace the woman she’d spoken to. But it turned out all calls now went to a central call center located in the closest city of Exeter, and Lacey could never track down the woman who’d somehow known her father by name.

      Lacey tightened her grip on the receiver and fought to keep her voice steady. “Yes, I understand you can’t tell me her name. But aren’t you able to transfer me to her?”

      “No, ma’am,” the young man replied. “Beyond the fact I don’t know who this woman is, we have a call center system. The calls are randomly allocated. All I can do—and have done already—is put a notice on our system with your details.” He was starting to sound exasperated.

      “But what if she doesn’t see the notice?”

      “That’s a very real possibility. We have tons of staff members who work voluntarily on an ad hoc basis. The person you spoke with before might not have even been into the office since the original call.”

      Lacey had heard these words before, too, from the numerous calls she’d made, but each time she wished and prayed for a different outcome. The call center staff seemed to be getting pretty irritated with her.

      “But if she was a volunteer, doesn’t that mean she might never be back for another shift?” Lacey asked.

      “Sure. There’s a chance. But I don’t know what you want me to do about it.”

      Lacey had had enough of cajoling for the day. She sighed and admitted defeat. “Okay, well thank you anyway.”

      She put down the phone, her chest sinking. But she wasn’t going to dwell on it. Her attempts to find information about her father seemed to be two steps forward, one and a half back, and she was getting used to the dead ends and disappointments. Besides, she had a customer to see to, and her beloved store always took precedence in Lacey’s mind above all else.

      Ever since the two police detectives, Karl Turner and Beth Lewis, had posted their official notice to say she’d had nothing to do with the murder of Iris Archer—and that she had, indeed, helped them solve the case—Lacey’s store had bounced right back. Now it was flourishing, with a steady stream of daily customers made up of locals and tourists. Lacey had enough of an income now to buy Crag Cottage (something she was in the process of negotiating with Ivan Parry, her current landlord), and she even had enough income to pay Gina, her next door neighbor and close friend, for semi-permanent working hours. Not that Lacey took the time during Gina’s shift off—she used it to study up on auctioneering. She’d enjoyed the one she’d conducted for Iris Archer’s belongings so much, she was going to hold one every month. Tomorrow, Lacey’s next auction was to commence, and she was buzzing with excitement for it.

      She went out from behind the counter—Chester raising his head to give her his customary whinny—and approached the elderly man. He was a stranger, not one of her regular customers, and was peering intently at the display shelf of crystal ballerinas.

      Lacey pushed her dark curls off her face and came out from behind the counter, heading toward the elderly man.

      “Are you looking for anything in particular?” she asked as she drew up beside him.

      The man jumped. “Goodness, you frightened me!”

      “I’m so sorry,” Lacey said, noticing his hearing aid for the first time and reminding herself not to sneak up behind old people in the future. “I just wondered if you were looking for anything specific, or if you were just perusing?”

      The man looked back to the figures, a small smile on his lips. “It’s a funny story,” he said. “It’s my late wife’s birthday. I came to town for some tea and cake, as a sort of remembrance celebration, you see. But as I passed your store, I felt the urge to come in.” He pointed at the figurines. “First thing I saw were these.” He gave Lacey a knowing smile. “My wife was a dancer.”

      Lacey returned the smile, touched by the poignancy of the story. “How lovely!”

      “It was back in the seventies,” the elderly man continued, reaching out a shaking hand and taking a model off the shelf. “She was with the Royal Ballet Society. In fact, she was their first ever ballerina with—”

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