The Bone Ranger

Louisa Bennet

Description

A new wagtastic mystery.
Monty, the adorable, food-obsessed Golden Retriever will do anything for his owner, Detective Constable Rose Sidebottom.
Of course, as these things go, Monty is no ordinary dog and Rose is no ordinary hooman.
Monty's super-smart nose and network of unique informers, and Rose's uncanny ability to spot liars make them a funny and formidable team.
When Rose is on sick leave a stranger begs for their help to find a missing person. The case soon becomes a murder investigation, and Rose's boss warns her not to interfere.
But, when dogs start disappearing too, Monty and Rose have no choice but to track down the culprits by doing what they do best - together.

Sujets

• Cozy
• Detective
• Mystery
• Dogs
• Cats
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Clan Destine Press
• Date de parution: 29 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9780645316704
• Langue: English

Extrait

Published by Clan Destine Press in 2021 Clan Destine Press PO Box 121, Bittern Victoria, 3918 Australia
Copyright © Louisa Bennet 2021
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including internet search engines and retailers, electronic or mechanical, photocopying (except under the provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,events or locations is entirely coincidental.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-In-Publication data: Bennet, Louisa The Bone Ranger (Monty Dog Detective series.)
ISBN: 978-0-6452899-8-5 (hardback) 978-0-6452899-9-2 (paperback) 978-0-6453167-0-4 (eBook)
Cover & Internal illustrations by Judith Rossell Cover typography by Willsin Rowe Design & Typesetting by Clan Destine Press www.clandestinepress.net
To Pickles and Lilly, my inspiration.


Praise for Monty & Me and The Bone Ranger
‘Charming and uplifting.’
Peter James, author of the Roy Grace novels.
‘I’m a cat person, but Monty is my sort of crime hero: loyal, loving, with a keen appetite and a great nose for mystery. What’s not to admire?
Carmel Shute, Founder, Sisters in Crime Australia
‘I fell in love with The Bone Ranger and you will too. Monty the sleuth dog will steal your heart. 5 Stars from me!’
Arianne Richmonde, US bestselling author of The Wife’s House and The Newlyweds .
‘I’ve never read anything quite so ingenious as Monty And Me.’ 5 stars
Pete MC, Amazon.
‘I laughed, I cried, I shirked work to finish reading it!’ 5 stars
Jodi Asquith, Amazon

1
M ud flies. With my front paws deep in the hole, I claw at the damp earth, soft and squishy after two days of rain. My furry bottom points skywards, my tail swishing side to side as if it is waving at the birds flying past. Momentarily I pause and, nose pressed into the rich soil, inhale deeply. Ahh. Rotting leaves, earthworms and, oh yes, duck poo. What better smell is there? Distracted, I almost forget why I am digging up the flowerbed, then I spot my deliciously manky, doggishly-smelly, yellow toy duck. I glance back at the wonky cottage where I live with my owner, Detective Constable Rose Sidebottom, hoping that she hasn’t yet noticed my excavations.
‘Monty!’ Rose calls from the back door, her hands on her hips.
Oops!
Normally I’m a good dog. A smiley, loyal, obedient Golden Retriever. But when it comes to washing my duck, I have to make a stand. Rose, like other hoomans, simply doesn’t appreciate that my duck pongs to perfection. I’m going to bury my furry friend so she can’t find it. Then she can’t put him in the washing machine. I’ve chosen a perfect digging spot behind a camellia bush, but I guess the clumps of mud flying through the air is a bit of a giveaway. I drop my duck into the hole and paw loose soil over it as fast as I can. I hear the stamp of boots on paving stones then the soft thud of Rose walking across the grass. I can smell her aroma of vanilla and peppermint and the sea.
‘Stop that!’ Rose says, almost upon me.
Caught in the middle of my crime, I lie across my half-filled cavity and pretend there is nothing to see here.
‘It’s no use pretending. Look at the state of you.’
Rose bends down. She is the youngest trainee detective in England and I’m so proud of her. I look up at her heart-shaped face and ponytail which reminds me of a fox’s tail. She’s smiling, which is a relief. But her eyes are sad. Since her near-death experience at the hands of a killer, Rose hasn’t been herself. Her boss insisted that she take sick leave, but it isn’t helping. Rose is not very confident at the best of times but now she is like a dog that’s been scolded too often. She hangs her head and hides away. She only goes out to walk me or buy food. She sleeps fitfully and has terrible nightmares. I do my best to comfort her, but my efforts have so far been in vain. I had hoped that a bit of hide-and-seek might cheer her up.
The dirt on my muzzle tickles and I sneeze.
‘You’re covered in mud.’ She sighs. ‘I’m going to have to clean you too!’
What? No!
She wraps her delicate fingers around my collar and gives it a gentle tug. ‘Out of there.’
I reluctantly leave the hole and the camellia bush. Rose tells me to sit, then stay. She plunges her hand into the earth and brings up my muddy duck. ‘Got to be washed now.’
I bark twice.
We’ve practised this, over and over again. Two barks is no. One bark is yes. When she asks me if I want to be fed, I respond with one bark. Do I want to go for a walk? One bark. Do I love her? One big bark.
‘You know, it’s almost as if you understand me,’ she says.
Rose usually enjoys this game we play. Today, her voice is heavy and her smile is gone in an instant.
She strokes my head. ‘Why don’t you like me washing your bed and your duck? I don’t understand.’
That is my point exactly. I have tried to demonstrate as best I can that my duck and my bed are not for washing. Earlier this morning, when Rose picked up said duck and headed for the kitchen where the front-loading washing machine lives, I swiped my fluffy friend from her loose grip and ran out of the door. She gave chase and I had great fun running around the duck pond, even if the little quackers did kick up a stink about what they called ‘the disturbance.’
Rose resorted to treats to lure me close, knowing full well that food is my weakness. I didn’t see the trap until it was too late. I dropped the duck. Rose snatched it and headed back into the house. So I ran ahead and then sat, head held high, in front of the washing machine, so Rose couldn’t load it. I mean, what more can I do to communicate that I like my bed and duck exactly as they are, thank you very much.
While Rose gets the washing machine going, I slink off and plonk myself down on the saturated lawn, my back to the ivy-covered shed. It’s early December and the garden is a quagmire of puddles. I resist the temptation to roll in one. Instead, I rest my head between my paws, enjoying the feel of the winter sun on my back, and ponder why it is that I understand Rose, and yet Rose doesn’t understand me.
The problem, of course, is that I can’t show Rose that I do understand her. Not beyond the yes and no game we play. I’m meant to be a dumb dog who obeys commands – although I’m not very good at the obedience thing. The big secret is that dogs pretend to be dumb so that hoomans don’t feel threatened. I probably shouldn’t try to communicate with Rose, but there is so much I want to tell her and it’s frustrating that she doesn’t understand. Hurrumph!
I hear her mobile phone’s chiming ringtone. I lift my head and prick my ears. Will Rose answer it? She’s been ignoring calls. Except from Big Man Joe, otherwise known as PC Salisbury, who is her best buddy. Except for me, of course. She always asks Joe the same question: has the DCI mentioned anything about her returning to work? I wander inside the cottage to find Rose chewing her lower lip as she eyeballs the phone. She leans closer, sees the caller’s ID, and rears up like she’s just been bitten.
‘No, I can’t,’ she mutters.
The phone stops chiming. Rose exhales loudly as if she has been holding her breath. Her tense body relaxes a fraction. I wonder why phone calls are such a big deal for her. She used to like chatting to her friends.
The phone chimes again. Rose wrings her hands. ‘I suppose I have to.’
She takes the call. ‘Dr Doom, lovely to hear from you.’ Her voice quivers.
Ah, now I know why she doesn’t want to take that call. Dr Doris Doom is the psychiatrist who is supposed to be helping Rose with her PTSD thing. I wish I knew what PTSD is because then I could try to help her get better.
I listen into their conversation, hoping to learn more. It’s not hard to overhear Dr Doom on the other end of the line; she has a loud nasal voice as if she has a peg on her nose.
‘Rose, glad I caught you. When can you come in and see me?’
Rose’s mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out. She stares around the kitchen as if seeking inspiration. ‘Sorry, I’ve been madly busy. You know how it is. I don’t have my diary to hand so may I phone you back?’
‘I’d rather we agreed a time now. You’ve cancelled our last four appointments and I can’t help you if we don’t meet.’
‘I don’t need help, Doris. Really. I’m absolutely fine. I just need to get back to work.’
‘Of course you do. You love your job. I understand. However, as you know, you can only return to work if I give you a clean bill of health. How about this afternoon at four? I’ve had a cancellation.’
Rose looks at me, her eyes pleading. It’s clear she doesn’t want to see Dr Doom and she’s looking for an excuse. So I roll onto my back and close my eyes, my paws hanging limply, playing dead. ‘Yes, that’s it,’ Rose says. ‘Monty.’
‘Monty?’ asks Dr Doom.
‘Yes. He’s ill. I…err…have to take him to the vet. At that time. At four.’ I open my eyes and roll over onto my stomach, my role playing over. Rose gives me a thumbs-up. I wag my tail. Yeah! What a team!
‘Okay, then,’ says Dr Doom. ‘When can you come in?’
‘I…aah…maybe in a month? I’ll have to get back to you.’
‘Rose, I’m here to help you. I can only do that if you see me regularly.’ Dr Doom suggests a day next week and Rose reluctantly agrees, then ends the call.
For a moment Rose stares into space. She looks down at me still lying on the floor at her feet. ‘Oh. The vet!’ she suddenly exclaims. ‘I think I forgot your jabs.’
Is this for real or are we still pretending?
She makes a phone call and books me in for this afternoon with Malcolm Kerr. I can’t believe i