Dinner And A Murder: The 3rd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) by Nancy Skopin

There’s a three-mile path that winds around the refuge. It gets muddy in the fall and winter, but wasn’t too bad tonight.
    As we walked, D’Artagnon sniffed the air, the ground, and the bushes. I stroked his back whenever he stopped walking, and fed him the dog biscuits one at a time.
    After half an hour he started to tire, panting and moving more slowly. I knelt down and poured some water from the bottle into my hand, and he drank. Then he licked my face and allowed me to hug him, wagging serenely.
    When we got back to the marina I rinsed his feet and my boots with the hose, and returned him to Kirk. I received another lick on the nose from the grateful pup, and retreated to my office.
    The fax tray was still empty, so I occupied myself typing up the surveys I’d conducted earlier in the day. I called down to the boat to let Bill know where I was. I felt guilty that I’d been neglecting him in favor of work and D’artagnon, and the weekend was almost over. While we were on the phone my fax started ringing.

Chapter 9

    T wo hundred and twenty-two pages rolled out of my fax machine that night. I had to reload the paper tray twice.
    Bill joined me in the office and we scanned the reports as they came in. There were four airline accident reports, but only one with fatalities. Each began with an identification number and the date on which the accident had occurred. They included flight numbers, a chronological history of each flight, the type of aircraft involved, location of the accident, aids to navigation, and meteorological data collected from the national weather service. There were also lists of injured persons and, in the one case, fatalities. 
    I didn’t understand a lot of what I was reading, but I felt certain the answer lay in the fatalities, so that’s what I focused on. I copied the whole thing, flagging the pages with lists of names on them. I would take the original to Sam in the morning.
    Bill hadn’t had dinner, so at 10:30 he went out. Forty minutes later he was back with an extra large pizza. He ate, and I drank coffee, and we both read the pages about the accident that had included fatalities. I opened a blank Excel spreadsheet, and as Bill read me the names of the deceased passengers and employees I entered the data.
    Around midnight my vision started blurring. We left everything on my desk except the leftover pizza, which we broke into bite-sized pieces and delivered to the bow of Kirk’s boat. The scent would probably wake D’Artagnon and he’d have a nice surprise.

    First thing Monday morning I called Sam. He’s not a morning person, but he is a creature of habit and always arrives at the office early.
    “Pettigrew Investigations,” he grumbled.
    “Good morning. I’ve got those accident reports for you.”
    “Finally! Bring ‘em on down.”
    “Is now a good time?” I asked.
    “No, but it can’t wait. You’ll have to do a couple surveys for me today so I’ll have time to look ’em over. Hit the road, Nicoli. There’s work to be done.” And he hung up.
    I looked at my watch. It was 8:02. Sam always did donut shop surveys on Monday mornings. Oh my God , he was going to ask me to survey the House of Donuts. I hated doing the donut shops. My will power weakens around just about anything covered with chocolate.
    I arrived at Sam’s office in less than twenty minutes, handed him the two hundred and twenty-two pages plus a copy of my Excel spreadsheet, and poured myself a cup of coffee.
    “Don’t get comfortable,” he said. “I need you to go right back out.”
    “Not the House of Donuts,” I whined.
    “Hey, they pay on time. What, are you too good to survey donut shops now that you’re investigating murders all the damn time?”
    “I do bar and restaurant surveys every week, Sam. It’s just the frickin’ chocolate. ”
    “So don’t buy the chocolate. Suck it up, Nicoli. I need you to do the Sunnyvale, Mountain View, and Redwood City stores before ten.”
    “Why