Chow Down (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

has always been my time to kick back, take things easy, and enjoy life for a while. This annual vacation from most responsibilities allows me to recharge my internal batteries. It prepares me to tear into the upcoming school year with the enthusiasm and direction that my students might be lacking. As a side benefit, I also get to indulge in one of my favorite luxuries: sleeping late in the morning.
    At least that’s the way things are supposed to work.
    But this summer something had gone horribly wrong. The demands that the Chow Down contest had placed on my time and energy were much more wide-reaching than I’d bargained for. When Faith and I arrived home that night from the day’s jaunt into the city on behalf of Champions Dog Food, I was tired, I was cranky, and I needed a break.
    I pulled into the garage, opened the door to the house, and Faith went bounding on ahead. The Poodle, predictably, had recovered her high spirits after snoozing in the bus on the way back. She couldn’t wait to see what sort of new excitement might be waiting for us at home.
    I could hear the other dogs racing to come and greet us. They barked in welcome, and I picked out Faith’s distinctive voice as she replied. I dragged myself into the kitchen, tossed purse, keys, and cell phone onto the counter, and sank into the nearest chair.
    “Long day?” asked Sam. He’d followed in the Poodles’ wake. Who needs good ears when you have a canine security system?
    “Very.”
    I rested my arms on the table, put my head down, and closed my eyes. After a minute, I realized that Sam hadn’t responded to my comment.
    “Did I say that out loud or did I just imagine it?” I asked, voice muffled by my arms.
    “No, I heard you.” Sam was smiling; I could hear it in his voice. “I was waiting for details.”
    “Don’t hold your breath.”
    “That bad?”
    “That long, anyway. Remind me again why I want Faith to be the face of Chow Down dog food.”
    Sam pulled out a chair at the table and sat down. “Because it’s important to your son?”
    “Oh, right. I knew there was something.”
    “I have an idea.”
    “Perfect,” I mumbled into my sleeve. “One of us should be using his brain.”
    “Why don’t you go upstairs and take a bubble bath? Meanwhile, I’ll get some coals started in the hibachi. By the time they’re ready to cook, I bet you’ll feel much better.”
    Sam had had a gas grill until a few months earlier when I’d given it away to my ex-husband in a sudden fit of inspiration. Long story there. Suffice it to say that we were now making do with a more primitive arrangement.
    “That doesn’t sound half bad. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
    “Nope.”
    “I’m leaving you with all the work.”
    “I think I can cope. Davey’ll help.” Sam got up, placed his hands on my arms and pulled me to my feet. He turned me in the direction of the hallway that led to the stairs and gave me a gentle push. “Go.”
    “Yes sir.”
    He watched me walk away. “You’re cute when you’re submissive.”
    “Don’t get too used to it,” I said.
    Davey’s and my former house, an older abode in a busy family neighborhood, sported plumbing and fixtures that had been built in the middle of the previous century. He and I shared a bathroom with a small, no-frills bathtub that doubled as a shower. Hot water was supplied by an economy water heater that worked well enough for brief showers but was unpredictable when it came to long, luxurious baths.
    Consequently, moving to the new house with its state-of-the-art master bathroom and spa had been a revelation. Now I had a separate, glassed-in shower stall and a spacious tub with a whirlpool that could comfortably seat three. There were ledges for plants and candles, and all the hot water I could possibly want. The only thing lacking in my life was the time to relax and enjoy it all.
    When I reached the top of the staircase, a turn to the right would have taken me toward Sam’s and my room. To the left lay Davey’s bedroom. Aside from a few minutes over breakfast, I hadn’t seen my son all day. It didn’t take me two seconds to decide which way I wanted to go.
    Davey’s door was open but he wasn’t there. Furnished when the house had belonged to Bob, the room had bunk beds, a ceiling fan painted like an airplane propeller, and posters of the hottest cars Davey could find. Two dresser drawers hung partly open, and a pair of dirty socks had been kicked under the night table. The