Double Dog Dare

Table of Contents

Praise for the
Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter Mysteries

Fine-Feathered Death

“A wonderful new addition to the ranks of amateur detectives . . . The well-timed humor . . . sets it above the current crowded crop of cozy mystery series. Johnston’s ability to blend pet love, mystery, and romance into one well-wrapped package makes this a summer treat for mystery and pet lovers alike.” —
Front Street Reviews

"Exciting . . . Johnston is a creative storyteller who not only writes a fascinating mystery but also creates a deep character study.” —
Books ’n’ Bytes

“A fast-paced who-done-it . . . Kendra is a fun character, and her supporting friends and assorted critters make an enjoyable read.” —
Fresh Fiction

“You’ll laugh out loud! Don’t read it when you have to be quiet!” —
Mystery Lovers Corner

Nothing to Fear but Ferrets

"Linda O. Johnston has a definite talent for infusing humor in just the right places . . . Pet lovers and amateur-sleuth fans will find this series deserving of an award as well as a place on the bestseller lists.” —
Midwest Book Review

Sit, Stay, Slay

“Very funny and exciting . . . worthy of an award nomination . . . The romance in this novel adds spice to a very clever crime thriller.” —
The Best Reviews

"A brilliantly entertaining new puppy caper, a doggie-filled who-done-it . . . Johnston’s novel is a real pedigree!”

—Dorothy Cannell

“Pet-sitter sleuth Kendra Ballantyne is up to her snake-draped neck in peril in Linda O. Johnston’s hilarious debut mystery,
Sit, Stay, Slay
. Witty, wry, and highly entertaining.”

—Carolyn Hart

SIT, STAY, SLAY
NOTHING TO FEAR BUT FERRETS
FINE-FEATHERED DEATH
MEOW IS FOR MURDER
THE FRIGHT OF THE IGUANA
DOUBLE DOG DARE

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

DOUBLE DOG DARE

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / June 2008

Copyright © 2008 by Linda O. Johnston.

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form
without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in
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For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eISBN : 978-1-4406-3117-7

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design
are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Linda wants to express ongoing appreciation to those writers and critiquers who give her great suggestions, as well as an occasional hard time, when she attempts to describe Kendra’s stories on the computer: Janie Emaus, Heidi Shannon, Marilyn Dennis, and Ann Finnin. And special thanks to Marcy Rothman, who lends additional moral support.

Then there’s Linda’s husband, Fred, who claims he occasionally reads a paragraph or two of Kendra’s adventures. Kendra doubts it. Linda, too. But at least Fred’s a great help on outings when Linda’s Lexie is invited along.

Chapter One

WHERE WAS HE?

For the past nine days, that enigma had bombarded my brain nearly every conscious instant: Where was Jeff Hubbard?

After all the angst I’d gone through to determine whether or not to move in with the hunky P.I. and security expert, I’d finally made the huge decision to go for it.

Mistake? Maybe, since that was when he’d disappeared.

I sighed, as I’d been doing a whole lot lately. At the moment, I sat in my law office, staring at the same file I’d been blinking at for at least half an hour. A couple of weeks ago, I’d have absorbed the plaintiff’s pleading immediately—a complaint in a new lawsuit involving one of my boss’s senior citizen clients. Not now, though. Instead, I was thinking about Jeff. Again. Still.

And . . .

My desk phone rang. Excellent. A diversion.

I lifted the receiver and held it to my ear. “Kendra Ballantyne. ”

“Hello, Ms. Ballantyne,” said a familiar, smooth voice.

“Ned?” Why was the cop sounding so formal? It wasn’t like we hadn’t solved several murders together. Okay, maybe I’d been the one to solve them and shove that in his face— which happened to be an especially nice-looking African American one. But—

“Yes, Ms. Ballantyne, this is Detective Ned Noralles.”

Again with the formality.

“I know,” I asserted, then stopped. And started shivering. I suddenly had a good idea why this guy might stoop to formality with someone he was so well acquainted with. “Wh-what is it?” I managed to stutter softly.

“There’s some news about Jeff,” he responded, sounding nearly as hoarse as I did.

Obviously not good news, or Ned would be his usual brash self.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear.

“Have you found him at last?” I asked airily. “Put him on the phone.” I figured I could either act flippant or start sobbing before I had any answers.

“He hasn’t been found, Kendra, but his car has— submerged in one of the California Aqueduct canals west of Palmdale.”

Palmdale is a town north of L.A., in the Antelope Valley, in an area sometimes called the high desert. It’s—

Okay, so my mind dashed off defensively in a geography lesson instead of focusing on the awful thing it had heard. Well, potentially awful. “That’s a partly good thing,” I finally responded, realizing that I was stabbing the palm of the hand that didn’t hold the phone with my not-so-long nails. I relaxed my fist a little. “If he wasn’t found there, then he got out of the car. So, he’s okay. We just need to—”

“There’s blood in the car, Kendra. Not a lot, but some undoubtedly washed away. The authorities up there have sent it to a lab for DNA testing.”

I paused for a hugely long moment as I tried to speak around the lump that suddenly inflated inside my throat. Or maybe it was the tears I felt streaming down my cheeks that drowned my ability to talk.

Drowned?
What an awful word choice
, I chastised myself. I wasn’t drowning.

But Jeff . . .

“Spit it out, Ned,” I finally said as forcefully as I could, muster. “Are you trying to tell me Jeff’s . . .”
Dead
. My mind spit out the word. Shrieked it inside my brain. But I couldn’t say it.

Saying it aloud might make Ned think it was so. And if he did, then where did that leave me?

“We still don’t know anything for certain,” Ned said gently. “We’ve only found his car with evidence that something may have happened inside it. The window was broken, apparently from the impact.”

“You’re sure of that? I mean, could Jeff have broken it himself to escape?” Okay, I could have been grasping at straws—

“It’s possible, but—”

“See! Jeff could have swum out the opening. He’s probably fine. Wherever he is.”

“I hope so. I really do.”

I purposely tuned out the doubt in his tone. I didn’t bother to remind Ned that the two of them had been nearly archenemies for years, from the time that Jeff, too, had been a cop and they’d gotten into a fistfight. Jeff had supposedly won, although the unapologized-for fiasco had ultimately cost him his job with the LAPD. In the ensuing years, they hadn’t exactly become best friends.

But I wanted to believe Ned. Maybe he did hope that Jeff was alive and thriving . . . somewhere. So they could argue again, if nothing else. Trade barbs and insults and one-upsmanships.

“Now, then.” I attempted to sound all business as I leaned forward and rested my arms on my desk. “How are the authorities up north conducting their search? Now that they have a vicinity to look for Jeff, it’s time to call out whatever resources they have, right?”

“That’s what I understand they’re doing.”

“Search and rescue teams? Including K-9s? And—”

“Oh, right, since you’re a part-time pet-sitter, I’ll bet you trust dogs even more than people.”

“Could be. So . . . ?”

“I’ll head up there tomorrow to talk to the guys in charge. I’ll let you know how they’re looking. But, Kendra, after all this time, the possibility that Jeff’s—er, Jeff floated out that window and downstream rather than swimming out . . . The authorities in the area may be conducting a cadaver search.”

“Then you have to convince them otherwise. No cadaver search, unless the evidence is clear and convincing that there really is a cadaver instead of a living, breathing, injured human being. Right?”

“We’ll see.” Which of course meant no.

“Well, thanks for the update, Ned.” I attempted to sound grateful and upbeat. But inside, I was shredding apart.

One thing I knew, though.

Ned and I were likely to be in the same neighborhood up north tomorrow.

I COULDN’T CONCENTRATE on that complaint I’d been reading at all now. And I had a client meeting on another matter to prepare for, starting in half an hour. So, after I hung up, I leaned back in the ergonomically ideal chair my boss, Borden Yurick, had gotten for me that was upholstered in the same brilliant blue as my visitors’ chairs, and thumbed through that client’s file.