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A Dog's Life
A Dog's Life
A Dog's Life
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A Dog's Life

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Having recently lost both parents to a brutal murder, Franklin Benjamin Cartwright has decided that it’s time to retire from life in the big city and try a quiet life in the country. While still young, he has inherited his family’s wealth and wants to leave the “rat race” behind. He decides to first try a small town called Witmore that claims to have a population under 1,000. The place turns out to have some odd characters, but plenty of quiet charm that he is looking for. It also has a romantic interest in the form of local reporter Janice Fredricks. And most important, Franklin also comes across a wayward dog that has more to him than meets the eye initially. What it also has is what Franklin wanted to avoid: murder! When the newly installed hotel manager turns up murdered, Franklin’s curious nature kicks in and he feels he can’t walk away without trying to solving it. What happens along the way surprises him and the whole town.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJul 16, 2013
ISBN9780989352420
A Dog's Life
Author

Edward Garbowski, Jr

Ed lives in upstate New York in an old cobblestone school house where he continues to write fiction and blog about writing. He is also the father of three dogs, whose Grandmother helps raise them.

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    Book preview

    A Dog's Life - Edward Garbowski, Jr

    A Dog’s Life - AN FBC Mystery

    Edward Garbowski, Jr.

    Copyright © 2013 by Edward Garbowski, Jr.

    Published by Edward Garbowski, Jr. on Smashwords

    All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

    may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

    without the express written permission of the publisher

    except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

    ISBN-13: 978-0-9893524-1-3

    www.exgwriting.com

    This book is dedicated to Barbara: Mother, friend, and inspiration.

    Thanks for everything, Chief.

    ****

    Chapter 1: The Beginning

    And…cut. That’s a wrap. Thanks so much, Mr. Cartwright.

    That was the end of Franklin’s book and the end of his segment; and not a happy ending in any way. It wasn’t meant to be happy; it really couldn’t have been. It was a book he felt he had to write to help him explain the why of life; written mostly to help him through a dark part of his life. But it was not the end of his own story; far from it. His life was just about to begin in a whole new way.

    ---

    Franklin Benjamin Cartwright was sitting in the green room of the studios of truTV in New York. He had just finished his bit of taping needed for a new episode of their renewed show Murder by the book, about writers’ real-life experiences with murder and death. He was a fan of the network channel, and of the show itself, so he easily agreed to do it.

    Although still a painful experience to relive, he assured himself that he had done the right thing by agreeing to do the show. He felt this was his last bit to put the past behind him and move forward with his new plans; Franklin was now tired of living in the past. He had written his book to have it all come out, and most people liked the book and felt it was the right story to tell. His parents had been murdered two-years earlier, and being a hobbyist writer, he felt he needed to get it down on paper. It turned out that his book was a best seller, leading to a book tour and wrapping things up with a trip on the show he had grown so fond of in the past.

    But now, it was behind him. He wanted to move on. He couldn’t even accept the money for his book, instead giving it all to his parents’ favorite animal shelter for charitable work. It didn’t matter; he only wanted to get it off his chest, and he certainly didn’t need the money.

    The Cartwright family was one of the richest in New York, and probably in the top twenty in the country. Franklin’s grandfather (on his father’s side) was John Heabert Cartwright, II, and he started one of the country’s most prestigious and profitable newspapers. The Rag is what he called it. Well that rag that he so dearly loved was taken over by his son, John Heabert Cartwright, III, and grew even more. By the time of the murder, the Cartwright fortune was estimated to be worth seven billion dollars. While the U.S. dollar might not have the same value it used to, that was still a tidy sum of money, especially to a thirty-seven year-old young man. Of course he would surely live without it to have his parents back.

    Having put his book and TV appearance behind him, Franklin now was at his attorney’s office going over the final details needed before he could move on.

    You’re sure you don’t want to run the paper? Your father would want you to continue the tradition. The lawyer had also been a close friend of the family for years. His name was Josh Cambell.

    Franklin responded in his deep voice, You know my father would want me to live my life and no one else’s. Why else am I not a fourth? He referred to the fact that his parents did not name him John Heabert Cartwright, IV.

    Well, I just had to try one more time. After all, it will seem strange not to have a Cartwright on the board of The Rag.

    Franklin signed the necessary papers to liquidate his share of the paper that his family pioneer. They didn’t call it selling anymore; it was always liquidating. The two men shook hands and exchanged promises to keep in touch, and then Franklin left the offices and headed to his apartment.

    It was not an easy decision to leave this city life behind, but Franklin was determined to get out of the Rat Race and live an easy life. He knew he might miss it at times, especially the crime beat, but it would be a better life. He might even try to start a family. Why not even get a pet? All things were possible in a rural life.

    This rural life for him was about to begin some miles up North; in Upstate New York.

    Franklin could certain afford to live anywhere he wanted, but he wanted the country life. While looking for a new place to hang his hat, he scanned several states and always kept the idea of low population as one of his criteria. When he found Witmore had a population of 900 and growing (not counting the chickens), he knew he may have found his new home. He first called up the town hall up in Witmore to inquire about relocating there. He talked to a man by the name of Horace Witmore, who identified himself as the town clerk and historian.

    Hello, my name is Frank Cartwright. I was calling to get some information about the town. I’m thinking of coming to visit and possibly move there, I was wondering if you could help me out

    Mr. Witmore sounded like an elderly gentleman with a weak ear and a country twang, What’s that? You want to live here you say? Well, we always try to welcome outsiders, but with a wariness. I’ll tell ya, it’s a great little town. Lived here my whole life and I be 87. My family founded this town one hundred fifty years ago. Yup, you’ll find no better.

    I noticed you had the same name. I also wondered if the name is spelled with an ‘h’ or without an ‘h’. My map shows without, but I didn’t know if it was a typo.

    Nope, was the quick reply, Our family name never had an ‘h’ in it. We don’t call it WHITE MORE, it be WIT MORE. Been that way since the first Witmores came to this country. That was just about the time they settled this here town. So you want to live here you say? So, what can I do for ya?

    Well, I wanted to get the name of a hotel, so I could book a room and then have a visit in the town. You know kind of get to know that place a little better. Franklin was trying to warm up to his new country gentleman friend.

    "We only have the one hotel. We don’t get too many tourists ya know. It’s a great town, but I suppose it’s not the visiting kind for some folks. The hotel is The Grand, on North Road. It’s been there for twenty three years now. It had to move after the big fire burned the original; big to do about that. Under new management now ya know."

    I didn’t know that, Franklin was taking a real liking to this country folk.

    Yeah, Tad Johnson up and retired on us six months ago. Not sure how much I like this new management. The hotel is owned by the town, so they got some new guy running it; he’s an outsider. He moved here from some middle state and started redoing the whole place. Not sure who he thinks he’s gonna attract with all the new changes.

    Is he making a lot of changes to the design of the place, or to the running of it?

    Both! He’s got all new carpeting and he’s redone all the rooms. Even given the rooms names. He says that’s the way they do it in the big cities. Maybe, but this ain’t no big city. I suppose change is good, and maybe it will bring in some tourists. I guess it might have worked already. You did say you wanted to come stay here right?

    That’s right, Franklin didn’t feel he should mention that this is the first he’s heard of the hotel changes, let alone the hotel itself. Do you have a phone number for the hotel, and then I’ll call for a booking.

    He received the number, thanked Mr. Witmore, promising to visit him when he arrived, and hung up the phone. He immediately called the hotel and was greeting by a feminine sounding voice. Hello, Grand Hotel

    I wanted to make a reservation for one. It’s short notice, but do you have any openings next week?

    Short or long notice, we can fit you in. When did you want to arrive? What kind of accommodations did you want? We do have a presidential suite; we call it the Teddy Roosevelt room.

    It appeared that everyone in this town was a talker. I was going to come on Monday, and the Teddy Roosevelt room is fine. What are your rates?

    Well, for the presidential suite, it’s she hesitated only a second, sixty dollars a night. What was your name, sir?

    That would be fine. My name is Franklin Cartwright. What time can I check in on Monday?

    Anytime, Mr. Cartwright. We’ll see you on Monday.

    Do you need any other information from me? he thought it strange for her not to inquire about at least a call back number.

    No, sir, you are all set. Unless there is something else I can do for you?

    It was his turn to hesitate, No, I don’t think so. Thank you. And he hung up the phone realizing that he never got her name. What a snob I am, he thought to himself.

    Since it was Thursday, he had plenty of time to pack and leave on Monday, and realizing he was hungry, he decided on an early dinner at his favorite diner. He walked down the two blocks from his apartment to be greeted by the owner of Joe’s Eats. Hey, Benny-Boy! How are ya? What’s the latest? You want the same?

    Hi, Joey. Yeah, the usual. How’s business? as he looked around to see a pretty crowded diner decorated in the traditional 50’s style of diners.

    Can’t complain. I mean who’s gonna listen to a slob like me anyway? Joe laughed as he always did with this same exchange that he and Benny-Boy shared. Joe always referred to Franklin as Benny-Boy or Ben-Boy. He didn’t do it just because Franklin’s middle name was Ben, but because he always tried to convince Franklin that his parents were fans of Ben Cartwright. I know for a fact your dad watched Bonanza religiously. You’re just lucky they didn’t name you Ponderosa. Franklin always tried to convince Joe that his parents thought of him more as Benjamin Franklin. The argument would never be settled.

    Joe finished pouring a cup of his strong coffee for Franklin, Now, tell me I’m hearing nasty rumors? You aren’t leaving us are you?

    Franklin was an important person, but he had started thinking about moving six months earlier. The word already got around. It was a record for this town. I’m just considering a move to some place a little quieter. I’m out of the rat race, so I might just get out of the rat nest for a little bit at least. Besides, you know I can’t stay away from your coffee for too long. He gave a wink as he sipped the bitter coffee. Hey, are you watering your coffee down?

    Joe rolled his eyes, Only you could say something like that with a straight face. Not enough battery acid in it for you? They both smiled at each other. So when do you leave? Where are you going? When are you giving up and moving back?

    The two had been long time friends, never passing up the chance to needle each other. You didn’t get that info off your famous grapevine? I thought you would have heard, I’m moving to Kansas to a town with a population of 10, and I’m taking you with me! They laughed together at this exchange. They both knew that Joe Scarbot could never leave city life; all the clean air would choke him. I’m actually leaving this Monday to go visit a town up North called Witmore, without an h. They claim to have a population of around 900, give or take a few cows.

    Joe thought for a minute, looking ever serious, and finally spoke, You’ll never survive. I’ve got you in the pool to be back within four months. Mark my words.

    Between you and me, you just might win that pool. It’s only a visit this time around, but I’ll still give you odds. Franklin finished his coffee, and got a cup to go. He said goodbye to Joe and left for a walk through town.

    As he casually walked home, he started thinking about where his life was headed. Two years ago, he never could have imagined that he would be headed for a back-woods area of the world. At that time, he had recently made a name for himself, albeit in the family business, with an exposé story on corruption at the highest level in the city. It wasn’t really his kind of story to rundown, but it had gotten him noticed for more than just his name. It also gave him the chance to work on the stories for the newspaper that he really liked: the murders and burglaries of the city were what fascinated him. He had finally gotten that career he wanted, and he even had a fiancée to go with it. And not that he cared much, but he had a good amount of family money to go with it all. Everything was good in his life...until the day his parents were killed.

    All this contemplation came to an end as he opened the door to his apartment and he said out load, I’m going to miss it here. Well, he continued to think, perhaps I’ll just go for a quick visit up North and scrap the whole idea.

    Chapter 2: The Trip

    Monday came quick, the weekend passing by in a haze it seemed. Franklin grabbed his two suitcases and made his way down to the lobby of his apartment complex. On his way out, he said good morning and goodbye to the doorman, never seeming to remember his name. I really am a snob aren’t I? he thought to himself as he made his way across the street to the parking garage. Unlike most people in New York City, Franklin owned a car that he used more often than not. It was one of his prized possessions; a 2005 BMW 760i, black exterior and silver interior. As much as he didn’t care about his family money, he certainly enjoyed some pleasures that came with being rich.

    He deposited his bags inside, got in and started the car. As always, he felt like a giddy schoolboy. He glanced again at the directions he had been given to reach his final destination, thinking they would get him there within a few hours. As he drove out of the city where he grew up, he would rethink this thought six hours later.

    Franklin was always a city boy by nature. He was born and bred right in the place so nice they named it twice. He witnessed muggings, fistfights, and even a murder. He also saw the good side of city life, going to the Italian and Irish Fests every year; the parades at the holidays. He’d been to every major and minor restaurant in the area, and even been in some of those fistfights he witnessed. He had countless friends, and few enemies. He was heir to a city he was leaving behind. These were his thoughts as he drove through the winding, tree-lined roads leading further and further North. It would be peaceful for a change, he thought. But could he take too much peace for too long?

    When he noticed the sign reading Catskill Mountain Resort, next right he realized he must have missed a turn somewhere. He wasn’t positive where he was heading exactly, but he did know it was not in the Catskills, so he turned around and stopped. He consulted his directions, and surmised that he must have missed a left turn about 100 miles back. How could I have missed that? he thought out loud. Off again he went, and he would pay attention this time. He watched the winding road and the mountainous cliffs once more, this time in reverse order while checking his odometer now and then. Almost two hours later, he figured that he was near the spot where he should have turned, but try as he might, he found no turn off. Again he pulled off the road to examine his map.

    It has to be here, he said to no one. He

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