Dogs and Goddesses Read online

  DOGS AND

  GODDESSES

  Also from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  THE UNFORTUNATE MISS FORTUNES

  by

  JENNIFER CRSIE

  EILEEN DREYER

  ANNE STUART

  DOGS AND

  GODDESSES

  JENNIFER CRUSIE,

  ANNE STUART, AND

  LANI DIANE RICH

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  DOGS AND GODDESSES

  Copyright © 2009 by Jennifer Crusie Smith, Anne Stuart, and Lani Diane Rich.

  Cover design by Mara Lubell of Works Progress Design

  All rights reserved.

  For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  ISBN: 0-312-94437-3

  EAN: 978-0-312-94437-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / January 2009

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This book is for

  Bailey, Bernie, Bowser, Leo, Lucy, Max,

  Milton, Rags, Veronica, and Wolfie

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  We would like to thank our beta readers, Eileen Cook, Heidi Cullinan, Sally Fifield, Samantha Graves, and Lynda Ward, for reading some really flawed first drafts;

  Mara Lubell, for the D&G coffeehouse logo and type design;

  Charlie Verral, for being the fabulous godfather/host to another collaboration;

  Amy Berkower and Jodi Reamer, Jane Dystel and Miriam Goderich, and Stephanie Kip Rostan, Monika Verma, and Elizabeth Fisher, for having the patience of saints;

  Jen Enderlin, for making everything we did better;

  and Alesia Holliday, for grace and Google.

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  Although we did extensive research for this book, we also created the history of Kamesh to fit our story. Nothing in this novel should be taken as historical fact. Kamesh never existed. Nobody worshiped Kammani Gula. As far as we know, there were no dying and resurrected kings in ancient Turkey. We made it up. It’s fiction, we can do that.

  ONE

  Abby Richmond’s ancient two-toned station wagon shuddered to a stop in front of the dust-covered windows of the Temple Street Coffeehouse, and the Newfoundland beside her sat up and barked.

  “Bowser, I think we’re in trouble,” Abby said, peering through her windshield at the old building. “It doesn’t look like much of an inheritance.”

  Bowser tried to lumber to his feet, but even in a full-sized station wagon there wasn’t enough room for a full-sized Newfie, so he settled back down again, looking up at her with his dark, gentle eyes.

  “Yeah, I know; you need a patch of grass and something to eat,” Abby said. “The lawyer said there’s a place to park in the alley around back. Let’s reconnoiter.”

  Bowser replied with the low raspy sound that meant agreement. Bowser tended to be a very agreeable dog. Abby pulled back out into the sparse traffic on Temple Street, managing to just miss clipping a Lexus, and drove around the corner in search of the elusive alleyway that belonged to the building. She pulled in and parked, then let Bowser out.

  There was a small, brick-walled courtyard in back, and Bowser rushed toward the thick green grass with a muffled yelp of gratitude as Abby wandered over to the stone bench. The only piece of litter was a yellow flyer, and she picked it up and shoved it in her pocket before she sat down. The smell of honeysuckle was in the air, and the June sun was bright overhead. She’d always thought of Ohio as flat and brown compared to the lush ripeness of landscaped Southern California, but this courtyard was an oasis of greenery.

  She looked up at the back of the three-story building she’d inherited. It looked in decent enough shape, and her mother, the Real Estate Goddess of Escondido, would doubtless be able to sell it quickly and profitably. If Abby decided to let her.

  “What do you think, Bowser?” she said. “Do I hand this over to my mother … ?” Her cell phone rang, the booming strains of the “Ride of the Valkyries.”

  “Speak of the devil.” She flipped open her cell phone with a sigh of resignation. “Yes, Mom.”

  “Have you reached that godforsaken town yet?” Amanda Richmond demanded.

  “I’m here.”

  “I suppose it’s as bleak and scrubby as it always was.”

  “It’s actually very pretty around here,” Abby said. “How long has it been since you’ve been here?”

  “Thirty years, and I’m never coming back. Does the building look like it’s worth anything? I’ve got connections in the Ohio real estate market, and the sooner we move on it, the better.”

  Abby looked up at the building. The back was painted lavender, the bricked courtyard was lush and overgrown, and a wide set of stairs led up to the French doors. The roof looked solid, the windows a little dusty. All in all, it looked like home.

  “I haven’t decided yet. I may want to stay here for a while.”

  “What?” her mother shrieked. “Don’t be ridiculous—you’re a California girl. You don’t belong in the flatlands.”

  “It’s actually quite hilly,” Abby pointed out. “And I’m not sure where I belong.”

  Her mother’s silence was evocative of her disapproval, but Amanda Richmond hadn’t become the Real Estate Goddess of Escondido without learning how to play her clients. And her daughter. “Someone’s been trying to get in touch with you,” she said abruptly. “Some moldy old professor. Apparently my mother promised him cookies, or something equally ridiculous. I didn’t want to give him your cell phone number, but he was quite insistent. She was probably sleeping with him.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Abby said. “That’s my grandmother you’re talking about!”

  “That’s my mother I’m talking about,” Amanda said, her voice tart. “And you hadn’t seen her in more than fifteen years. Neither had I, for that matter, but I doubt she’d have changed her spots before she died. What are you going to do about the building?”

  “Live here,” Abby said, defiant.

  Another moment of angry silence. “Very well. Professor Mackenzie will be looking for you. Be prepared to deal.”

  Only her mother could slam down a cell phone, Abby thought, pushing up from the bench. Bowser ambled over to her, his plumy tail swishing back and forth. “Amanda’s flipped, Bowser,” she said.

  Bowser, of course, said nothing.

  “Let’s go check out my inheritance.”

  The first floor of the building was like a railroad flat—two long and narrow rooms. The French doors opened up into a kitchen, with a wide island in the middle, a series of commercial ovens and a storeroom on one side, semi-enclosed stairs on the other. The front room was dusty, chairs piled haphazardly around the room, the afternoon light filtering through the fly-specked storefront windows, but even with the musty, closed-up scent, she could still find the faint trace of cinnamon and coffee on the air.

  “I guess I shouldn’t have been so quick to annoy my mother,” Abby said, looking around her before heading back into the kitchen. That part of the building was at least relatively dust-free, and she tried to imagine her grandmother moving around the room, an apron tied around her waist. Maybe something like Chocolat with Johnny Depp lurking around the corner.

  Except she could barely remember what Granny B looked like.

  According to the lawyers, two of the three apartments upstairs were empty; she ought to grab her duffel bag and find out where she w