Mutt Mysteries

C HAPTER O NE G et out of my kitchen!” I yelled at Tater, the one-hundred and thirty-pound Newfoundland dog who had burst into my workspace and taken an interest in the crown roast of pork sitting on the counter. “Molly, put the knife down before you hurt someone!” Becca Kilpatrick yelled to me as she burst through the kitchen door in Tater’s wake. I hadn’t realized I’d been brandishing my Wustof’s classic chef’s knife, my pride and joy. I slipped it onto the counter before any blood was shed, especially mine. It was that sharp. But something needed to be done about that mongrel. Ten movers-and-shakers from our small seaside town of Sea Haven were expected for Mrs. Wade’s dinner party, and she would not be a happy camper if the main course was in the dog’s belly. “I’ll get him.” Becca dropped her purse on the slate floor. She was my best friend and server for this evening’s event and had just arrived to help with set-up. The dog must have barreled through the door when she’d open