Collared For Murder by Annie Knox

wore over her left shoulder like she was ready to make a run for it. I even thought I detected a faint tremor in her left hand when she raised it to brush an errant hair from her eyes.
    She was still Pris, though, and she looked as polished as new silver in her summer-weight linen pants and blush-colored sleeveless silk blouse, not a drop of sweat showing despite the eighty-five-degree heat outside and her apparent agitation. In her three-inch heels she was able to catch my eye without tilting her head.
    “What a mess,” she muttered. “I blame you, Izzy.”
    “Me?” I had found the body, but I didn’t see howthat made it my fault. Besides, I was keeping hush about finding Phillip. I didn’t want to be mobbed with questions.
    “It’s your terrible, rotten luck. Everything you touch turns to murder.”
    “Murder?” Pamela said, her fingers finally going still. “Who said anything about murder? Was Phillip murdered?” she asked, turning to face me head-on.
    Everyone in the room knew that Phillip had been found dead behind the prize table, but Jack had sworn me to secrecy regarding the cause of death.
    I raised my hands to indicate I had no idea.
    “Phillip had a bad heart,” Marsha said softly.
    “I’m sure his heart was rotten to the core. But with this one”—Pris waved her hand in my direction—“hanging about, it’s almost assuredly murder.”
    Mari finally stood up, her tear-streaked face the very picture of grief. “He can’t have been murdered,” she whispered. “Everyone admired him.”
    Even drugged-out Marsha looked at Mari like the girl was crazy. “Admired and liked are not the same thing, Mari. Phillip was a hard man. I’m sure he had enemies. But,” she added, raising a hand to forestall any comment Mari might make, “he also had a bad heart. I think we should wait for the police to tell us what’s what.”
    “Well,” Pamela said, “whatever killed him, we haveto decide what to do about the show. If it were just a single-day event, we’d obviously cancel.”
    It seemed obvious to me that the M-CFO would cancel the show no matter how long the event was scheduled to run. You didn’t just pick up and carry on after something like this.
    “But we’ve got hundreds of contestants in both the agility competition and the more traditional portion of the show. People have booked out every hotel in Merryville for the next four nights. I’ve been in touch with everyone else on the board and they agree: we need to proceed.”
    Marsha, Mari, and Pris all nodded. Apparently, I was the only one who thought the death of the director warranted canceling the event. Before I could voice my suggestion that the whole shindig be canceled, Peter Denford made his way toward our little group. He was walking over from the empty judging ring I’d seen him in earlier, coffee still in tow.
    Once again, he was dressed casually in linen and denim. He looked morose, his brooding scowl apparently his default expression, but far from heartbroken. In fact, he lifted the cup of coffee that seemed permanently attached to the end of his arm and took a long swallow before giving us a little wave.
    Mari turned and threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Peter. It’s horrible. Just horrible. I am so, so sorry for your loss,” she wailed, her composure crumbling again.
    Peter stood there, towering over Mari, one hand hanging loose at his side, the other held carefully away from his white linen shirt to prevent a fashion disaster from a coffee spill. He looked to his stepmother for guidance, but she just shrugged and offered him a tiny smile.
    “Good heavens, Mari,” Pamela snapped. “Get yourself together. You’re making a scene.”
    “Please give her some slack, Pamela,” Marsha said. “She hasn’t been feeling well. She even called this morning to say she’d be late because of a bad stomach, and you know Mari is not one to shirk from work. I think we can all stand to show her some