Murder is a Piece of Cake (A Baker Street Mystery Book 2)

My neck snapped around. “What? You were the person who left Baby to die when he was just a puppy?”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “He was the runt of the litter. Scrawny cuss. Didn’t think he stood a chance. I took the humane route—”

“Don’t you dare talk about drowning a defenseless puppy as humane. You’re a monster. Aunt Octavia was right.” Arguing with someone who’d already killed at least twice and was threatening a third kill wasn’t my smartest move. However, learning that Jackson Abernathy had tried to kill Baby was more than I could handle. Something snapped. In that instant, I could have ripped Abernathy apart with my bare hands.

“Don’t lecture me. I know more about dogs than you and that crazy aunt of yours ever will. She never said anything, but she knew I was the breeder. How could she not know? I was the only person within fifty miles breeding mastiffs. She never said anything, but I could tell by the way she looked at me that she knew. And she wanted me to know that she knew.”

He spat on my newly installed and recently cleaned floor. Inside. He spat as if he were outside in a barnyard.

Between the revelations, the spitting, and the taunts, my brain refused to focus. There must have been a part of me that recognized that Jackson Abernathy was a desperate man. He’d already killed twice and was threatening to kill me and my dog. But whatever the rational part of the brain is that processes things like these, mine wasn’t working.

Abernathy was still talking, but the blood pounded in my ears, and I couldn’t hear. Words came in between the pulsing.

“Murder . . . pawn . . . duped . . . fall guy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not taking the fall. I’m not a murderer, and I’m not going down for murders I didn’t commit.”

Baby barked. The car horn blared.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the door to the broom closet open slowly.

“Stop that noise. God, I’m going to take a lot of pleasure in killing that beast this time around.” Abernathy moved toward the door.

That was the last straw. I reached down and grabbed the cast-iron skillet from the box and swung it like Hank Aaron.

There was a loud thump as it connected with the side of Abernathy’s skull. His eyes crossed in confusion before they rolled back in his head. The knife dropped from his hand. His knees buckled. He spun around and his legs wobbled.

Glass shattered outside.

A loud shot rang out.

The bullet hit Abernathy and knocked him backward, and he finished his descent to the floor. Dead.