Prologue

Like the father of the Prodigal Son, Velma's mother had accepted the fact that her middle daughter – Velma - would never be like her and get married. And also like that father, when she was proven wrong, her excitement knew no bounds and she went crazy with the preparations. Working with her in this over-the-top planning exercise was Daphne who just loved a huge social extravaganza. The end result of this was that the wedding was still months away and the two of them had gotten together and were riding Velma's last nerve like a bucking bronco. Which meant that, in the time-honored tradition of couples dating back to the Garden, she took it out on Shaggy.

A case in point…

One evening, Velma was at home in her, Shaggy, and Scooby's apartment. Shaggy and Scooby were at the restaurant which required less of their attention since Shaggy had named a full-time manager to run the place in order to focus more on the Gang's private detective agency. This gave her a few quiet hours to herself and she was finishing up the polishing draft of a paper which she was submitting regarding Loop Quantum Gravity for her master's level class on Quantum Physics. While technically a sophomore in hours, here faculty advisor did not force Velma to strictly follow prerequisite requirements since she knew as much as any of the doctoral candidates and, honestly, a few of the professors.

Her phone rang, which broke her concentration and was annoying. She picked it up and the screen said, 'Mom'. Like many young women, she had two names for her mother. When her mother was not being annoying, she was 'Mom', when she was being annoying, she was 'Mother'.

Velma took a deep breath and gave her mother the benefit of the doubt, "Hi Mom. What's up?" The 'new' Velma - as people were calling her (also annoying, but the 'new' Velma let it slide) - tried to use upbeat phrases such as 'What's up?'

Her mother's voice was breathless, "Oh, thank goodness I caught you. You need to make a decision tonight."

Her mother had a tendency to start conversations in the middle, "About what?"

"About the cupcakes!" Well, that was obvious…

"Cupcakes?"

"I sent you an e-mail."

"An e-mail? Why not send it by Pony Express?" Yes. Velma was a millennial.

Her mother ignored this, "Open your e-mails."

Velma turned back to her computer and checked her e-mails, "Is it the one that you sent fifteen minutes ago?" Would her mother get the implied sarcastic dig?

No, she would not, "Yes. That's it. Pick one."

Velma opened the e-mail and there were multiple attachments which she had to click on one-at-a-time and wait for them to open. True to her mother's words, they were photographs of cupcakes.

"They all look like cupcakes."

"You have to choose one."

"I will defer to your decision."

"I'm not going to make that decision. This is your wedding. I might get it wrong, and you'll be disappointed."

"About cupcakes?"

"The devil is in the details, sweetheart." Mothers also have a nomenclature code for their daughters. 'Sweetheart' does not connote a Rhodes Scholar.

"I promise you. I will not be disappointed by the type of cupcake being served at the reception."

"But it's your wedding, so you have to participate in the decisions."

The fight over the wording of this sentence had already occurred. The first time her mother had said it, Velma had responded, "Excellent, I'll see you at the courthouse on Wednesday." Which had prompted her mother to burst into tears and Daphne to glare at her friend with that glare that only Daphne could really pull off. It was an awesome glare and Velma envied it – except when it was aimed at her. Which had prompted Velma to fold like a cheap card table and apologize.

Not wanting to apologize again, Velma took a swing, "The third one."

"Which one is the third one?" Her mother had obviously randomly added the attachments to the e-mail in no order.

Velma clicked on one, "It says 'Aunt Lacy's Bakery."

"There are two from Aunt Lacy's."

Velma was going to need to find something to kill, "Its white."

"But that one has chocolate cake inside and you don't like chocolate cake."

"Then why is it one of the options?"

"It's so pretty."

"Can we get the same design with a vanilla cake?"

"Yes. That's the other Aunt Lacy option."

"Then why…?" Velma let that question die on her tongue, "Good, let's go with that one."

"Great! Now, have you made a decision on the napkins?"

Velma heard the electric lock click in the door, "Mom, Shaggy's home. I've gotta go. Bye." And she hung up before another word could be uttered about napkins.

Shaggy backed through the door carrying two bags of groceries and Scooby followed behind, unladen. Shaggy saw his fiancé and smiled, "How's your evening been?"

Velma's answer was a string of expletives.

Shaggy nodded, "And how's your mother?" He made his way to the kitchen counter and put down the groceries.

Shaggy's immediate complete understanding gave Velma sappy, cheesy, maudlin, syrupy thoughts about how pleased she was with the end result of the planned wedding, even if the event itself was going to drive her bonkers.

"Sorry."

Repeat this conversation once every two days for the last 90 days and that's Velma's immediate past. Repeat it once per day for the next 270 days and that's Velma's immediate future.

But this story isn't about that.

Being 90 days into Velma and Shaggy's engagement means that Scooby Doo is 70 days into his relationship with Amanda Kitchings (formerly Amanda Black), a human. There is a phrase - mixed race couple - which still, sadly, exists within American lexicon. But it no longer brings forth images of nooses, hanging trees, and molten tar. There is a phrase - same-sex couple - which, sadly, still brings forth loud and angry political and social debates and the inevitable (usually baseless) 'slippery slope' arguments. But the phrase inter-species couple was a new one and the first 70 days of the relationship brought about a shocked silence on the matter from those who normally would react the strongest.

But haters are haters. And there is nothing haters love more than something new to hate.

Chapter One

The playground at the park had become Scooby and Amanda's special place. He now met Amanda and Bettie at their apartment, and they walked down to the park together nearly every day. That is, unless Amanda had to work. Robbie's child support and alimony payments were enough so that Amanda now only had to work one job and Robbie's parents were making sure that those were paid on time each month while their son served his sentence. Working only one job, she could control her hours much better than when she and her ex-husband had been trying to maintain a house in Danforth. But she couldn't afford to lose her job and, if they asked her to work late, then she worked late.

On those days, Scooby would go down and pick up Bettie at the daycare which was located immediately adjacent to the apartment complex. Bettie had put Scooby's name on the pick-up list which the daycare workers found to be a mixed blessing. Having the Scooby Doo come by was an excellent thing to talk about with their friends after work, but it would take fifteen minutes for the remaining kids to calm down after he left.

Bettie had established a group of kids that came to the park at the same time every day. They were her pack. She laughed and frolicked and wrestled and raced and laughed some more. Scooby and Amanda rested under the same tree every evening, watched the kids play, talked, and enjoyed each other's company. But Bettie wasn't with them today. Scooby didn't remember why. They were alone and the park was nearly empty. The noises of the park seemed distant. He tried to remember walking to the park from the complex and that memory also seemed vague and insubstantial. But none of that mattered since the air was warm and the ground was cool and he was lying next to Amanda. Her hand was resting on his back as was their habit. All was well with the world.

She didn't normally stroke his back as physical contact was not something with which she was comfortable. Resting her hand on him was her compromise between his needs and hers. But today, she began to stroke his back with long gentle strokes. It felt really, really good. The long strokes began to stray from his back and down his side. He lost himself in the feeling and began to roll over. The stroking motions moved down his side and then his chest and then his stomach and then…

Scooby jerked awake.

He looked around. He was in his bedroom and not at the park. That wasn't real.

He checked the clock. It was early morning and not late afternoon. That wasn't real.

He looked between his legs. Okay. That was real.

He needed to calm himself down. Brussel Sprouts. Brussel Sprouts. Brussel Sprouts. Brussel Sprouts. Brussel Sprouts. Brussel Sprouts.

Brussel sprouts, the old tried-and-true, began to work and he found himself calming. It was a dream. His conscious mind had now taken over and reality was taking control of his thoughts. As he had gotten older, those type of dreams had diminished in frequency and were pretty rare now. To have one at all was startling. But with a human! That had never happened before. Ever! He tried to mount a mental 'Ew-w-w-w-w-w' but it wouldn't solidify. What was happening to him?! A few deep breaths and he was himself again. A very confused version of himself, but himself. When things like this happened and he was disoriented, he always turned to Shaggy. He needed to talk to Shaggy.

He crossed the hall and knocked on Shaggy and Velma's door. No answer. He knocked again, "Raggy?"

The door opened and there stood Velma, "What is it, Scooby?"

He tried to appear as if nothing was wrong, "I reed to speak rith Raggy about romething."

"First, it's 5:45 in the morning. Can't this wait? And second, Shaggy woke up with a craving for doughnuts. So, he went out to pick up a couple of dozen. Can I help?"

Velma was wearing one of Shaggy's t-shirts which hung down to her knees and the sleeves hung down past her elbows. She wasn't wearing her glasses which made her eyes look kind of small. Her hair was not in its usual ponytail and was sticking out in all directions and there was a lump of her hair which seemed stuck to the top of her right ear and made a circle which looked like an Ewok ear on the side of her head. But the neckhole in the shirt was at her neck on her right side and pulled all the way to her shoulder on the left, revealing her entire left shoulder down to the collar bone. And she had not showered yet so her scent was organic and not perfumy. Kind of nice. And there was something…

"Ro ranks. Rye rotta go. Bye."

And Scooby sprinted across the hall and slammed his door behind him.

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

Brussel Sprouts. Brussel Sprouts. Brussel Sprouts. Brussel Sprouts. Brussel Sprouts. Brussel Sprouts.

And now, for the first time in his entire life, Scooby had something which he could never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever tell Shaggy.

There was a knock at the door and Velma's voice came through, "Hey Scooby. I'm making some coffee. Do you want a cup? And, by the way, can you please put some more effort into aiming? I know it's your bathroom but it's beginning to smell like a city fire hydrant in there."

Scooby breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't need Brussel sprouts as long as Velma kept talking.

"Roffee rould be great. Ranx."

Two seconds before the front door opened, Scooby's nose went to red alert – doughnuts! All other thoughts were lost for the next twenty minutes.

Three hours later, Fred had just finished finding a parking place in downtown Crystal Cove at rush hour which was no small feat. He was in the lobby of the tallest office building in the town at four stories which required it to have an elevator. The directions he had been provided told him that the office he was looking for would be listed under TempOffice. The placard next to the elevator showed that the entire fourth floor was dedicated to that company. He got on the elevator, pressed '4', and rode to the top without stopping. The doors opened into a wall-free lobby area with a single receptionist and surrounded by open-work-plan desks and offices. There was a general buzz of activity although only about a third of the desks were filled. The average age of the people in view was mid-twenties.

The receptionist looked up and smiled, "Can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Tim McAdams."

She looked down at her screen and typed, "Yes. Dr. McAdams is in one of our private offices. 4B. Go right down behind me and it will be on your right.

"Thank you."

The few partial partition walls in the place were glass with the exception of four rooms that he was approaching to his right which were enclosed in normal non-transparent walls to the ceiling. He passed 4A and found 4B open. Inside was a young man also in his mid-twenties (maybe it was a theme), but Velma had warned him to be ready for that. The younger man was placing a framed diploma and a framed certification on the built-in wooden shelves in the office.

Fred knocked at the door, "Dr. McAdams?"

The therapist turned. He was about 3 inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter than Fred and did not have a receding hairline. Fred noticed that on people now. The therapist smiled, "Well, I plan on calling you Fred, so I suppose it's only fair that you call me Tim."

Fred stammered, "Okay, Tim. I'm Fred… I guess you already know that."

"Well, this is a big day for me. You are my first official client since I became a certified therapist."

Fred nodded, "That's cool." And that was supposed to make him feel better?

The smile remained, "For me? Yes, it's cool. For you, its disconcerting. Right?"

"A little."

"I guess you chose me because of my grand opening bargain rates."

"That's part of it, I guess, but mainly because Velma said you were good."

Fred had mentioned that he was a referral from Velma on the phone, but Tim still got a warm feeling. A referral just felt good. "Velma is a very exceptional person."

Fred nodded.

"But she was also very experienced with therapy. I believe that you said you've never seen a therapist before."

"That's right."

Tim gestured toward one of the three chairs in the office. They both sat. Then Tim continued, "Velma and I hit it off well but, because of her experience, she was able to do a lot of the heavy lifting herself. Since you do not have any experience and you are my first client, you and I are going to have a talk at the end of the session about whether or not you need or want someone with a little more grey hair. Is that okay with you?"

Fred nodded, "I guess that makes sense."

"So, why are you here?"

"I can't sleep." Based on the swollen black bags under Fred's eyes, this would have been an easy guess. Fred was not quite 32 and looked forty.

"You know that I'm a psychologist rather than a psychiatrist and can't give you a prescription."

Fred shook his head, "I don't want pills. I need to deal with something."

"Now, you're playing my song. What is it that you need to deal with?"

Fred's eyes dropped into his lap and his hands clench the arms of the chair, "Three months ago, I killed someone."

Tim's voice was calm with just the tiniest inflection, "Holy shit, Fred."

Fred looked up, "Is it normal for a therapist to say 'holy shit'?"

The calm voice remained, "There are a number of reasons that a therapist might say such a thing. One would be to provide an emotional response to something the patient just said and so demonstrate that they were reacting empathetically to the statement rather than therapeutically. A second might be to snap the patient out of an approaching downward spiral by providing the curiosity of a therapist using an expletive. And the third might be that I just say 'holy shit' sometimes when something surprises me."

"Which one was that?"

"Hell if I know."

"Velma said that you were sort of odd."

"And now that we have established that, let's get started. Go through the details as you remember them of when you killed this person."

Fred took himself back, yet again, to the night at Southeast Riley Elementary School when he had shot and killed Frank Herring. And he began to talk.

About fifteen miles north of the chair in which Fred sat, the Scooby Doo Investigations office was open for business. Shaggy's pre-dawn doughnut craving had created an early start to the day and he, Scooby, and Velma had arrived around 7:30. Daphne had followed a little after 8:00. Scooby had been in a very strange mood all morning and had almost refused to look at Velma even when they were all crammed into the car together. At first Shaggy had thought that maybe Scooby was mad at Velma but he knew what that looked like since it happened often. This was not that. This was a new one. Shaggy was befuddled.

On arriving at the office, Scooby had gone straight into his office, which was not abnormal, and shut the door, which was. Then he had stayed in their quietly and by himself for an hour and a half. For Scooby, being the most social of the group, this was unheard of. Shaggy prepared his reports and made his phone calls and Velma prepared her reports and her surveillance plans. It was Thursday and she had no classes, so she would be in the office all day. Therefore, it was paperwork day.

At a little after 9:00, Scooby's door opened and he spoke in his most professional voice, "Raggy? Ray Rye see roo a moment?"

"Certainly Scoob." He got up from his desk, crossed the room, and entered Scooby's inner sanctum. Scooby shut the door behind them. The dog had no plans for a full confession. His quickly passing reaction to Velma from this morning were off limits as they would be forever, but last night's dream was another matter. He had to talk with someone about that and would probably share it with one of the Government analysts at the Annunaki Project but that did nothing for him. The only person that ever really helped him was Shaggy.

Scooby gestured toward the visitor chair, "Rease, rave a seat."

"Sure pal," Shaggy sat and waited.

Scooby made his way around the desk and sat in his own chair. He could sit in a chair human-style and would do it at business meetings with clients, but it was uncomfortable. So, he climbed completely up into the chair and sat in it dog-style.

"Raggy, Rye might need some help."

"Just say it, Scoob. You know you can count on me."

"Rast night Rye rad a dream."

"What was the dream about?"

"Rit ras about Aranda."

"What happened?"

"Rell… She… Rye… She…" Scooby was thinking too much about the details of the dream and had to stop himself. Brussel sprouts. Brussel sprouts. Brussel sprouts. Better to just say it, "Rit was a rex ream."

Shaggy understood Scooby better than anyone but there were some words that Scooby rarely used and various alternatives quickly went through Shaggy's head: 'hex seam', 'Mets team', 'text ream', "Oh! You had a sex dream."

Scooby nearly fell over the desk reaching out his paws to put them over Shaggy's mouth, "Let the rhole rorld know, rhy ron't roo?"

Shaggy brought it down to a whisper, "Sorry. So, you had a sex dream. You're a guy. It happens. What of it?"

Scooby matched Shaggy's whisper, "Rit ras rith Aranda." He then looked at the door, "and she's ruman."

Shaggy shrugged, "That is a new twist on things. But, I mean, you two are dating and it seems likely that your subconscious could kind of be adding two and two together."

"Rhis isn't roo and roo. Rhis is roo and ratermelon."

"Scooby. It's your subconscious mind. It isn't always going to factor in the realities of your relationship."

"What if Rye now go around rooking at every ruman woman Rye see and thinking arout rex?"

"Then you would be one step closer to being a normal human male."

"Rou're reing rippant."

"I know I'm being flippant, buddy. I'm trying to make the point that maybe you're taking this all a little too seriously. It was a dream. And, technically, in 47 out of the 50 states, it's not illegal."

"Ron't remind me. It's not going to rappen. Rat is a roundation of my relationship rith Aranda. We ron't want it."

"Then it won't happen. Don't let a dream flip you out. It was a dream."

Scooby took a deep breath, "Rou're robably right. Rhe idea of being physical rith a ruman woman… just rot for me."

"To each their own, pal. I'm pretty fond of them, myself."

"Rokay, Rye feel better now."

Shaggy got up and returned to his desk and within a minute Velma was standing next to him, "Did you find out what's bothering Scooby?"

"Yeah, he had a dream about Amanda and apparently things in the dream got a little physical."

"Okay."

"And I think that now he's worried that he might be getting physically interested in human women."

Velma squinted slightly as she did when she was trying to figure something out, "Well, I can see how that would be bothersome to him, but why was he acting weird around me… Oh shit."

Shaggy wasn't stupid and he knew what conclusion Velma had just drawn. But sometimes ignorance was the better part of valor, "What?"

Velma was caught. If Scooby was having any kind of physical feelings towards her… ewwwww. But to mention it to Shaggy? That would put him in a bind that he just didn't need to be in. So, she also chose the better part of valor, "Oh, nothing. I think I can get my surveillance logs up to date by lunch if you want to take me out."

"I can think of nothing that I would like more."

In the therapist's office, Fred took the story up through when he blacked out after pulling the trigger the third time. Tim sat and scribbled notes in a paper notepad on his lap. The only noise in the room for a moment was the sound of pen on paper. He stopped writing and still said nothing.

Fred got impatient, "What do you think?"

"I'm sure that you understand that therapy isn't about what I think. It's about what you think."

"I suppose."

"You say that you can't sleep. Do you lie awake at night unable to fall asleep or do you fall asleep and are then woken up by vivid dreams or nightmares?"

"Both. They go in spurts. I'll sleep okay for a couple of days and then I'll start having crazy dreams and then I'll go for days with no sleep at all."

"When you lie awake at night, what are you thinking about?"

"Sometimes, I think about the shooting but most of the time it's just about work or football or movies or kids or…"

"Stop right there. One of these things is not like the others. Kids?"

"Yeah, Daphne wants to have kids and I don't."

"You two have discussed this?"

"Yes. She's waiting for me to process things."

"And have you processed things?"

"Yeah. I'll give in and we'll have a kid."

Tim held up his finger, "I'm trying to remember if I've ever heard a worse reason for having children."

"I just can't really get my head around the idea of having a child. Maybe there's something wrong with me."

"Maybe. Probably not. Did you have this conversation with Daphne before or after the shooting?"

Fred had to think for a moment, "Before."

"When you saw your wife struck and go down, what were you thinking about?"

"I don't know. I was kind of in the moment, I guess."

"Describe to me in detail what you saw when he hit your wife."

"I saw him let go of her and I knew that she could get away but she didn't run away, she turned to fight him. But he was already drawing his fist back and she didn't know that the punch was coming. I tried to call out and warn her but it happened too fast. She turned right into it."

Fred stopped to swallow, "Her head… her head snapped back and twisted. It looked like… It was bad."

"Fred, what did it look like?"

"She looked so small and he looked so big…" The mental image of Daphne's head snapping and the huge Frank Herring standing over her filled Fred's mind. In that instant, he had known what Shaggy's life was like. The fear was overwhelming, "I don't want to talk about this."

"Then you're wasting your time here. If you want to sleep, you need to keep talking."

Fred took a deep breath. He had known that he would have to talk but didn't know it would be so hard. He took a long, slow, deep breath, let it out, and continued, "The way her head twisted didn't look natural. The way she fell didn't look natural. I knew that she was dead."

"In the moment that you thought she was dead, what were you thinking?"

"I wasn't. I really wasn't. It was like a house had been dropped on me. A wall of feelings hit me and my nervous system overloaded. I couldn't think. All I could do was feel."

"How did you manage to aim?"

"I turned it all off."

"You turned it all off?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Training. I started doing checklists in my head. Breathe. Point. Aim. Squeeze. Aim. Squeeze. Aim Squeeze. And Frank Herring was dead."

"When did you turn it back on?"

"What?"

"When did you turn it back on?"

"Daphne wasn't dead. Everything was okay."

"When did you turn it back on?"

Fred processed the question and couldn't find an answer, "I don't know."

Shaggy was staring at his screen but not getting any work done. Through no one's fault, the two most important people in his world were now uncomfortable around each other and would remain so until a new equilibrium was established within this new dynamic. He knew there was nothing he could do to hasten the new equilibrium but that didn't mean his life was going to be any more comfortable for the next few days.

Daphne had decided that she wanted to answer most of the office calls. It gave her the option to screen potential clients while posing as a receptionist. A little sneaky but well within her moral limits. She called across the room, "Shaggy, Al Fogerty on line 1." Al Fogerty was head of investigations for AJH Insurance which was one of Shaggy's better clients.

"Thanks, Daph." He picked up the old-fashioned phone and pushed the blinking light, "Hey Al. What's up?"

"Good morning Shaggy. I've got a new work order for you. Requires some travel."

Shaggy started taking notes, "What's the gig?"

"It's a death benefit claim. Company wants a site assessment to confirm that the death was accidental."

"Do you think it was a suicide?"

"No. But we are wondering why the County Sheriff's Office ruled out murder and manslaughter so quickly."

"Murder?!" Shaggy punctuated the word with a gulp and his raised voice caught Daphne and Velma's attention.

Al laughed at the other end of the line, "You know, I still love it when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Act all scared."

"Who's acting?"

Al laughed again, "The location is Peso City, Nevada."

"Like, I know where Nevada is. Where's Peso City?"

"It's a wide spot in the road that contains a small Wild West Theme Park just north of Beatty on Highway 95 between Las Vegas and Reno. It's just outside of Death Valley."

"Of course. It had to be near Death Valley."

"The best travel arrangements are to fly into Las Vegas and rent a car for the drive up. How soon can you be ready to leave?"

"I'll have to check with the team. Coordinating all of our schedules might take a few days."

"The work order is only approved for one investigator."

"You mean (gulp), you want me to go… alone?"

"That's what we're willing to pay for."

"Don't you have an office closer, like in Las Vegas? Why are you sending me?"

"Well, it's kind of your thing. There apparently is a ghost involved."