Sleeping Dogs Don't Lie

  Sleeping Dogs Don’t Lie

  An Albertus Eagle Detective Beagle Mystery — Prequel

  Chloe Grace

  Karen Botha

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

  * * *

  Copyright © 2019 by Karen Botha

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Who is Chloe Grace?

  Dog Food Recipe

  Bella’s knitting corner

  Doggie pins

  Chapter 1

  Hello. I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Albertus Eagle. Albie to my friends. Cos, well, Albertus is a bit of a mouthful, even for the most eloquent. I’m here to tell you the story of how I became known within my inner circle as the Detective Beagle.

  I didn’t become that because I’m anything special; you need to understand that right from the start.

  There is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about what I do.

  But, what makes me able to tell my story over and above my friends and acquaintances, is that I’ve found a voice.

  I’ll come to that later. I’m jumping ahead, starting at the end, and if I’ve learned anything these past few months, it’s that, to be sure of your conclusion, the proceedings must follow a logical path. Otherwise, the less intelligent amongst the human clan can’t keep up.

  So, where to start...

  I know, in the middle, I’ll skim over the beginning because it’s boring.

  I was born. Yay!

  I had a great mom but then I moved out and started my adult life with an adopted mom, Milly.

  Most people find her eccentric. She’s a professional pianist. Has been since she burst out of the womb. Pretty much.

  From what I understand, she started playing when she was only three. Her grandfather would pop her on his lap and sit with her at the grand piano. That’s why she fell in love with it. It had as much to do with being close to her grandfather as the tinkling of the keys.

  Well, at first.

  Then she became fairly decent at that whole playing-the-piano thing, and life took on a path of its own.

  Now, she’s turning seventy next week and still wowing the audiences. This amazes pretty much everyone she comes into contact with. I hear odd bods whispering all over the mansion about how long she’s continuing to play professionally; the shock at her longevity is not limited to one or two individuals. And from what I hear, she’s put more than the odd nose out of joint.

  They don’t think I know what they’re mumbling about because they pay me no attention. I’m just the mutt, but I have a nose for sniffing out trouble. And I hear. Everything.

  Her colleagues and family alike were expecting Milly to be in the ground by now. But she isn’t. She’s not only still alive and very much kicking while fussing over my welfare, but she’s also still tramping the music circuit, playing to full houses at least one night over the weekend, and regularly up to three.

  Milly doesn’t leave me at home like she does the cat. I accompany her as part of the act. I’m torn about my feelings on travelling, not least because it gives me a break from her. The cat, not Milly. She’s incessant. Following me wherever I go. Like I want her hanging around sniffing at my food. So, getting out and about is some nice downtime from her. Although, it’s always a worry when I get back because she can get way too comfy on my bed for my liking.

  But, Milly and I have gotten ourselves into a routine now where we don’t have a choice. I travel on stage with her, you see. It’s kind of like a special thing. People cheer when they see me, and then I get treats when we’re done.

  Like the gifts they bring for Milly.

  Tonight, she was given a manicure from some faceless donor happy to ‘bring her as much pleasure as she brings him,’ the card said. This mystery person kindly bought a voucher for a therapist to visit the big old stately home we rattle around in. They’re to massage her hands and shape her nails as she uses her fingers so much. I think the gesture is not only original, but kind.

  Particularly as I received a canine hairdresser thrown into the mix. They’re supposed to visit the house at the same time.

  So thoughtful.

  What was better than the gift itself though, was Rose’s face when Milly opened the gift card. Rose is her envious accompanist.

  “Oh, look at this. What an imaginative gift.” Milly holds up the card and flashes it around before handing it over to Rose.

  Rose and Milly play together, two pianos on stage facing each other. The star of the show is Milly, but Rose has been with her for the last thirty years. At least.

  I know that because every night I hear her grumbling to Ron her faithful ‘boyfriend’ when she thinks Milly is out of earshot. Earlier tonight was no exception.

  “She’s never going to die. I’m done with waiting patiently in the wings for my turn at the spotlight. It’s never going to come if I let events play out for themselves.” Her constant moaning makes me need to scratch for some kind of distraction.

  Ron, waddles over to her on his stumpy legs and places his chubby hand on her shoulder. She looks up at him with doe eyes I’d be proud of, and he pulls her into him.

  “Don’t worry about it, my love. Your day will come. I’m certain.”

  Personally, I’m not so sure.

  Rose isn’t a patch on Milly, and now, because she ignored Milly’s advice to stretch her fingers and hands religiously three times daily, she’s suffering. Her hands are cramped up with arthritis now, whereas Milly has no such issues. Plus, and I’m not being biased here, Rose is nowhere near as good as Milly.

  It doesn’t matter how long Rose waits, she’ll never enjoy the fame on her own that she receives from being the understudy to the real star, let alone take the limelight. She’s kidding herself. It’s Milly who made their fortune. Humans reckon they’re brighter than animals, that they’re in an elite tier all of their own. But not all of them. Some people don’t want to listen, like Rose.

  You can probably tell Rose isn’t my favourite human. I tolerate her, especially when she scratches my ears, but that’s about it. I’m always pleased when the concert is over, and we leave, so I don’t have to hear her surreptitious whining any longer.

  In the car back to our place tonight, Milly is still delighted by her gift. I think it’s mainly because it is a little different from the bunches of flowers that she donates to a charity which distributes them to people who will gain more joy from them.

  “I can’t believe it, that’s a wonderful gift isn’t it, Albie?” I snuggle up to her on the back seat to show that I agree. “I think I’m going to book that manicure in for tomorrow, what do you think? Shall we have a pamper day to recover from this weekend?”

  That is an incredibly good idea because, at four shows, this weekend has been one of our busiest for a long time. I could sleep for a week so the promise of a little pamper party sounds delightful. It plays havoc with my ears, you see. I’m used to the volume of the pianos, that's no longer an issue, but the crowd. The way they whoop and cheer shoots right through me, making my claws curl into the stage floor.

  Yes, that sounds like the perfect way to spend tomorrow.

  I shuffle even closer into Milly's side, craning my neck to nuzzle into her cheek. She smiles, her eyes gl
ittering in the night light, and tugs on a floppy ear before leaning down to kiss my brow.

  “Oh codswallop. We can’t do tomorrow. Hugh is visiting with that ghastly wife of his.”

  I slump like all the hot air has stopped feeding my balloon.

  Her son, Hugh. Now he’s a character.

  I don’t think he ever liked me. He could be jealous of one of her old china tea cups. In fact, possibly is. Especially the one with the nice red flower that she favours. But then, I do think she’s fonder of that tea cup than she is of him, anyway. So, all’s fair in love and families.

  Hugh really is a piece of work. He and his wife, who, incidentally, always looks as though she’s chewing a wasp. Her one redeeming factor is that by marrying Hugh, she took him off Milly’s hands. Although how anyone could marry him, I do not know.

  He’s lost all his money in poor investments and it’s not even as though he’s a looker. Hugh is all dark with a muscled jaw, and eyes the same colour as his hair. His features aren't soft in the slightest. His strong genes must come from his father who was an army captain back in the day. I never met him, he died before I moved in. I’ve seen pictures knocking around, but they’re all a little high for me to see clearly. I reckon all Hugh’s bad traits came from pops though, because Milly doesn’t have any.

  But, back to Hugh. I hear him chattering in the hallways of this huge mansion where Milly and I live. He dreams about the day Milly dies. I'm not kidding! I hear him! Several times. On every visit.

  It's outrageous if you ask me. But, he does it behind Milly's back, so she doesn't know. Although she's smart, so she probably guesses.

  It's fairly standard for him to lean into his wife and utter words like, “This drawing room could be an entire apartment on its own.” And then he gazes around as though seeing how it will be one day.

  For her part, the wife, well, she nods with too much thirst for my liking.

  Hugh's designs make me chuckle though because Milly’s not going anywhere soon, mate. And when she does, she’s leaving it all to the animal charity.

  Our car pulls up to the electronic gate that serves our stately grounds.

  “Here we are.” Milly pats my head and, even though I’m shattered, I look up at her, my heart overflowing with a warm love that can never be too extreme. I nuzzle into her, and her hand slips to wrap around my shoulder, her head nuzzling into mine.

  As our chauffer pulls to a stop outside the entrance to the kitchen that we use on informal occasions, my tail wags in expectation of what’s coming next.

  Milly steps out of the Bentley as soon as the driver opens the door for her. I must sit and wait until invited to join her. It’s a game we play. Sometimes she pretends she’s about to give me the all clear and then, just as I’m poised to leap free from the back seat, she changes her mind.

  Not tonight, though. “Come.” Her command is accompanied by a wave of her hand and a warm smile.

  With a response time better than any police dog, I’m off that seat and bounding into the kitchen. My tail waggles so hard that my bottom wiggles as I stand next to my bowl, drool pooling at the corner of my saggy mouth, standing by for my after-event treat.

  I always eat in the kitchen, I prefer it in here. It used to be the staff area of the house back in the day, and the thick stone walls are cooler and less formal than where Milly eats in the dining room.

  That’s a stuffy place and has a bad energy.

  There’s a bunch of ghosts hanging around in there from the team of poor unfortunates who were poisoned back before Milly came to live here. That’s the issue with living in such a history-laden house. There’s no dodging the past.

  Although they never seem to bother Milly.

  She carries on as if she’s not even seen them. I regularly catch her walking right through one, which is asking for trouble in my book. I guess she’s reached seventy, almost, so her lack of respect for the surrounding spirits can’t have done her any harm.

  I guzzle what's in my bowl as though it’s the last meal she’ll ever serve me. I speed up more than normal because ‘the cat’ is circling. It’s either this or she’s on my bed. There’s just no escape from her. She does have a name, Cleo, but I prefer to call her ‘the cat.’

  Thirty seconds later when I’ve taken my time with my food—the cat has wandered off, I settle onto the sofa knowing that Milly will join me once she’s removed her performance makeup. As has become our routine, I glare at the cat who has materialised again until she takes off, leaving Milly and I alone to watch the programmes she’s recorded while we’ve been out.

  Actually, Milly watches TV. I snooze.

  I find her preference in TV shows the height of boring, but I sit there and wait because when the credits go up, she rises and takes her place on her worn piano stool.

  This is my favourite part of the evening. Sitting with her while she produces something amazing. She’s not only a performance pianist you see, she’s also a composer. This is where most of her wealth comes from, the concerts are more like fun for her, but she's rich because of her compositions which add just the right amount of tension to blockbuster movies.

  She carries enough clout to demand her business associates keep to her odd hours which span late into the night. Tonight, is particularly exciting because when the doorbell goes and Jarvis brings in her visitor, I immediately recognise him. I vacate the sofa in a rush, eager to say hi. Barclay Otterly pats my head as he heads towards Milly. He’s a big movie producer over in the States. He drops in on Milly regularly, and I especially enjoy his visits, if for no other reason than the cat disappears upstairs.

  Plus, an extra tickle between the ears can never be sniffed at.

  The last time he was here, they fought. Milly refused to change a piece she’d written to meet the needs of his client.

  I’ve never seen him like that.

  He went all puce in the face, and he stormed around, waving ornaments at her. The vibrations from his anger made the hair on my back stand up, so I went and sat with Milly, just to be certain she was safe.

  They made up on the telephone later. So, here he is again. All smiley and kissy with her when they embrace.

  He presses a box of chocolates and a bunch of flowers into her outstretched hands when he releases her. “My dear, Milly. So good to see you again.”

  Most humans don’t forgive as readily as I do, so the fact he’s bought her gifts to show his continued devotion buys his way back into my good graces quickly.

  Plus, there may be a stray chocolate going spare if I play my cards right. Although I can’t risk Milly finding out. Every time I manage to snaffle one she shrieks so loudly I’m sure someone lurking in the woods could hear her. Worse still though, she threatens me with the vet. That has me cowering behind the sofa.

  I wasn’t planning on going anywhere when Barclay showed up because I’m literally not a pussy like the cat, but now that he is accompanied by chocolate, I’m certainly shifting. I keep my eye trained on the gift for fear of missing the moment that Milly opens and shares its contents.

  “How have you gotten on with the piece, then?” he asks after Jarvis pours whisky into two crystal tumblers.

  Milly takes a sip before replying, her beady eyes don’t move from his young face.

  Even when she’s finished, she doesn’t speak.

  What’s wrong with her? I scream internally. Why isn’t she telling him, or better, playing her composition to him. It’s incredible.

  I don’t say any of this though, instead I place my head on her lap, hoping to remind her that she needs to answer the waiting Barclay.

  It works because off she goes. There’s my gal.

  “I will play it for you.”

  She opens the box that accompanied Barclay’s visit and offers it to him. He pats his stomach and shakes his head. Milly pops one into her oval mouth without glancing in my direction, then rises with a theatrical self-assurance before heading towards the old grand piano which resides in the corner by t
he huge window.

  I potter around and sit on the velvet bottom of the floor to ceiling drape, it’s softer than the worn wood on my butt. I do this often and it almost smells as good as my bed.

  As soon as Milly’s fingers begin playing, I’m off. I forget all about Barclay standing next to me gazing into the artistically-lit, sculptured garden while I drift to a peaceful place as her fingers work the keys. This particular film is a love story and Milly’s nailed it with this piece, so much so that my head goes woozy.

  Barclay swirls around on his patent shoes.

  “You haven’t changed it.”

  Uhoh. He’s back to that red-faced beetroot look again.

  I widen my eyes, sitting bolt upright, poised for action.

  “We are paying top dollar for you, Milly. You need to listen to the brief. You can’t change the way the movie is cut.”

  I have no idea what he is talking about because no-one is cutting anything here. The music is wonderful, and Milly knows it. I’m disappointed in Barclay, because he should too. He’s supposed to be one of the best in the business.

  “I changed the beginning, but this mid-section is non-negotiable.”

  “Don’t you understand that it isn’t your position to negotiate? I don't know why my boss wants to keep working with you. You are the most difficult person I have ever come across.” He storms towards the door, his feet clanking on the polished boards then stops, poised with his hand wrapped around the knob. He leaves the door unopened.

  Milly's voice is soft as she addresses him. “If you want my fame to help sell this movie, then this is how the piece will stay. I will not compromise my brand.”

  That's when Barclay leaves.

  Chapter 2

  When Barclay leaves, his face is still bright red, and beads of sweat litter his top lip. They mutter a few curt good nights and then we all go to bed.