Murder, She Barked

Nine

“I’m not accusing you of anything. Still, it would be helpful if I knew you were elsewhere at the time it happened.”

It was my turn to look down at my plate—mostly so he wouldn’t see me trying not to smile. I’d bet anything this was his first murder investigation. “Got a pen?”

He handed me one, as well as his little spiral notebook. I jotted down Ben’s name and phone numbers.

“Thank you, Holly. I’d better get down the mountain to that car. Thanks for the breakfast, Liesel.”

“Anytime.” Oma lowered her leg and tried to put some weight on her foot.

I jumped to my feet, scaring the dog, and assisted Oma in standing.

“Such a nuisance. You’re a dear to come and help an old woman.”

“You’re not that old.” Since I was the result of a high school tryst between my parents, they were younger than the parents of my friends, some of whom had parents who were seventy-two, like Oma.

“This ankle is reminding me that I’m not as young as I usually feel.”

Together we hobbled to the front door of the inn, the little dog staying just ahead of us.

“Now go buy something pretty. I’ll be fine.”

I watched as she shuffled away. She turned around. “And don’t forget to buy your cute dog a proper collar with a name tag.”

I caught my reflection in a mirror. Oma was right. I looked terrible. The stores probably wouldn’t be open yet, but I could have a walk around town. Prepared to give my credit card a little exercise, I stepped out onto the stone porch that fronted Wagtail’s pedestrian zone. Stone pillars supported the porch roof and a wrought iron railing ran between them.

The crisp, cool air of fall invigorated me. A man in a beret sat in one of the rocking chairs far to my left. He cupped a steaming mug in both of his hands, the picture of contentment. His bulldog peered through the railing at the goings-on in town.

“Holly!”

My grandmother’s best friend, Rose, trotted up the front steps and threw her arms around me. “Oh my goodness. It’s been far too long. Let me look at you.” She stepped back. Rose’s warm hazel eyes took me in. Wrinkles of wisdom had moved in around them, and laugh lines etched her face under cheeks as round as lady apples. She still wore her hair short and yellow blonde, but gray streaks had lightened it a bit. I suspected she still drew admirers, even in her seventies. She wore a long-sleeved red boatneck T-shirt and navy trousers. Had I ever seen her when she wasn’t smiling?

“Is this how they’re dressing these days? You’re a mess, child!”

I laughed. “Did Oma tell you to say that? I was drenched yesterday and need to buy something to wear.”

She hugged me again. “I’m so glad you’re here.” Holding my hands, she tugged me over to a set of rocking chairs and sat down.

She faced me, reaching down to stroke the Jack Russell. “I hear you have a serious boyfriend. Tell me about your sweetheart. Is he handsome?” Her shoulders lifted in excitement.

“He’s nice looking.” Ben was cute in a bookish way. Medium height, he had never been much of an athlete, but that didn’t matter to me.

“Nice looking?” Her mouth puckered like she had bitten into a lemon. She recovered quickly and swiped her hand through the air. “Aw, we girls are always more interested in what’s inside a man. Does he make you laugh?”

“He’s fairly serious. Not much of a joker.”

Rose blinked at me. “But he makes your toes tingle, right?”

She was so cute, believing all those silly tales about love. “Rose, he’s a good man. You’ll like him.”

“Good man?” Her chin pulled back, and she drew the words out as though they were repulsive. “What kind of phrase is that to describe your boyfriend? Honey bunch, if you’re not feeling fireworks and tingling toes . . .”

Panic raised its ugly head for a moment. I hadn’t given Ben more than a passing thought since I left him in Kim’s clutches. Could Rose be right? Nonsense! I was being silly. Oma had been my overwhelming concern. Who could think of anything else with all that had happened?

“Rose, is Oma ill? She won’t say.”

Rose’s upper lip pulled inward and her eyes darted to the side. Sucking in a deep breath of air, she said, “I’d better let her tell you that.”

My heart sank. It must be bad. If it weren’t bad news, they’d have told me by now. I melted against the back of the chair, glum, and the dog leaped into my lap.

Rose clutched the arm of my rocking chair. “Now honey, don’t be upset. To be honest, I’m more worried about you than I am about Liesel. You brought your dog with you, but not your boyfriend.”

“She’s not mine.” As soon as I spoke, I knew that wasn’t true. I would be keeping this rascal with the bright eyes, no matter what Ben said about it. I told Rose the sad story about how she came into my possession. “I don’t suppose there’s a car detailer in Wagtail? I hate to take Ben’s car back to him in such a sad state.”

“I’ll ask around.”

“Thanks, Rose.”

She disappeared into the inn, and I strolled down the steps into a little plaza.

I turned to gaze up at the inn. Much smaller than a hotel, but larger than a bed-and-breakfast, the inn fell somewhere in between. Wagtail had been a popular destination in the late 1700s, thanks to the mineral springs. Old documents proved that Thomas Jefferson and his family had visited regularly to partake of the waters. It had been a booming resort for decades.

The inn had been built in the 1800s by a wealthy man whose ailing wife frequented the waters for their curative powers. His son later expanded the huge six-bedroom house to eight bedrooms with an addition. Local stone covered the walls in a variety of colors that we had delighted in as children. They ran from white to deep red, and gold to brown, with plenty of pink and salmon and the occasional black stone. We used to hunt for green and blue rocks, but there weren’t any.

The building featured two main levels with a dormered third floor attic—where I was now staying. The roof had been raised in the center of the attic level to accommodate my suite. The addition of the circular balcony with a wrought iron railing on the suite added a stunning architectural element. A somewhat smaller addition had been built on the left side, presumably the cat wing.

Family lore had it that my grandfather had won the inn in a heated poker game. His family had already owned one-thousand acres of mountain property, but nothing as chic or elegant as the mansion. I’d never quite believed the story about the poker game, but that was the tale I’d always been told.

As I studied the inn, Mr. Luciano bolted out the front door and down the steps. He certainly wasn’t dressed for jogging in those laced-up leather shoes, but he sprinted away from the inn, his expression decidedly more distressed than it was last night.