Murder, She Barked

Twelve

Holmes stepped forward, grabbed the porch railing, and gasped for breath.

I hurried up the steps. “What is it?”

He held out a long arm meant to prevent me from going inside. “Holly, don’t . . .”

I dropped my shopping bags and threw open the screen door. Jerry Pierce sprawled on his stomach near the bottom of the stairs as though he had fallen but hadn’t slid all the way down. His right arm stretched out toward me in a horrifyingly sad effort to crawl or grasp something. Blood matted his hair and stained his argyle vest. Around his neck hung the silver chain of a dog choke collar.

In spite of myself, I screamed and slapped my hand over my mouth. I trembled when I asked, “Have you checked for a pulse?”

“Not yet. See if you can find a phone to call 911.”

Holmes knelt on the floor in front of Jerry.

Gulping air through my mouth as though I couldn’t get enough oxygen, I raced into a dark room that appeared to be Jerry’s office. A dense white curtain hung over the front window, blocking light. Jerry’s massive desk with gargoyle legs dominated the room. Thankfully, a phone rested on it.

I picked it up and dialed 911, hoping the big, evil woman wouldn’t answer. This time the call was handled professionally. Assured an ambulance was on the way, I hung up and returned to what I feared was a corpse.

Holmes moved his fingers under Jerry’s jawline. “I think it’s too late for an ambulance. He’s cold.”

“Cold? You mean cold because he’s dead or that he needs a blanket?”

“Dead. I can’t feel anything but skin that’s way colder than it should be.”

“It looks like somebody bashed him over the head. I don’t think you would bleed like that from a fall.” I whispered when I asked, “Do you think someone choked him to death with the collar?”

“Gross. I hope not. It left marks on his neck, though. There’s not much blood on the stairs,” said Holmes, rising. “But there’s a lot on his hair.”

I shuddered. “Oh, Holmes! It appears as if he was running away from someone and was pushed or tripped. Look at that outstretched hand.”

Holmes wrapped a comforting arm around my shoulders. “It’s a nightmare. If you weren’t here, I’d be pinching myself, hoping I’d wake up.”

It wasn’t long before Dave dashed through the front door. “Good grief! What happened?”

“This is how I found him,” said Holmes.

“You didn’t give him CPR?” Dave knelt and checked for a pulse. “Oh.” It was a small simple word that said everything. He ran the heel of his hand up his forehead. “Jerry could be a jerk, but I never saw this coming. He must have ticked off someone big time.” He stood, pulled out his radio, and stepped out on the porch for a moment.

He returned and asked, “Did either of you touch anything?”

“Just the screen door,” said Holmes, “and I checked for a pulse on his neck. Holly called 911 from the phone in there.” Holmes pointed to the office.

“Is anyone else here?” asked Dave.

Whoa! It hadn’t even occurred to me that someone might be lurking upstairs. Chills ran through me, and I shivered.

“I haven’t heard anyone.” Holmes looked to me. “Have you?”

A mournful yowl startled us. Loud and shrill, it sank to a guttural wail. At the top of the stairs, a Siamese cat stared down at us and cried.

“She knows,” said Dave. “She might have seen his killer.” He glanced around. “Where’s Jerry’s dog?”

“Chief!” I said. “I haven’t seen or heard him. I’ll check the backyard.”

“Stop!” Dave held up one palm like he was directing traffic. “I can’t have you contaminating the crime scene.” He frowned at me. “Where’s your dog?”

I wasn’t following his train of thought. What did my dog have to do with anything? “She’s lost. The horrible woman at the dog store in town pinched her and scared her away.”

Dave and Holmes froze. I’d clearly said something wrong.

“Exactly what time did that happen?” asked Dave.

Before I could answer, Holmes blurted, “Oh, come on! Surely you don’t suspect Holly of whacking Jerry over the head or choking him.”

The corner of Dave’s mouth twitched. “I’m the cop, Holmes. You might not be aware of the fact that Holly appears to be involved in almost every crime in this town over the last twenty-four hours.”

Holmes tilted his head like an adorable puppy. “Is that true?”

I bristled. “Involved is a totally incorrect word. I wasn’t involved in any of them. Besides, I had nothing to do with the attack on Mr. Luciano, and I wasn’t even here when Sven was killed.”

Dave pulled out his notebook and jotted something in it. “How long are you going to be in town, Holmes?”

“Now you suspect Holmes?” I asked.

“Look, Holly. Up to now, the most serious crime in Wagtail has been public intoxication, and then most of the time, I just walk the person home. I might have a cushy job here in Wagtail, but I’m still part of the county police force based over on Snowball, and I’m not messing this up. Capisce?”

I understood all right, but some little part of me couldn’t resist the desire to point out his folly. “What about you? Jerry was pretty hard on you this morning at breakfast.”

His pen stopped moving.

It would have been smart to let it go, but I didn’t. “I’m just saying that you should do what you have to, but of all the people in Wagtail, the three of us are about the least likely suspects. I didn’t even know of Jerry’s existence until I met him at breakfast this morning. And Holmes doesn’t live here anymore.”

“I have a flight out tomorrow morning,” said Holmes in irritatingly diplomatic fashion.

“Better make other arrangements,” said Dave. “I’d appreciate it if you would stick around for a few days.”

“Look, Dave, you know where to find me.” Holmes sounded reasonable, not at all agitated. “I have a job I have to get back to. It’s not like I’m a suspect.”

Dave stared him down without blinking. “I’m in charge here, Holmes. Don’t make me prove it.”

The thunder of heavy boots on the stairs announced the arrival of backup police.

“You two get out of here.” Dave cocked his head toward the door.

We hurried out and picked up my shopping bags before the other cops piled in.

Dave flapped the screen door open so hard I thought it might have cracked. “Hold it!”

What now? I had thought Dave was a decent guy, but he was turning into a domineering terror.

“Leave those here.” He gestured toward my shopping bags.

“Excuse me? I won’t have anything to wear.”

Holmes opened one and pawed through it. “Come on, Dave. It’s just undies and dresses.”

My face burned, and I knew it must have gone bright red.

Dave relented. I could see it in his face.

But at that exact moment, one of the cops inside said, “Secure the premises.”

Panic invaded Dave’s eyes. He grabbed the bags, and looked through them, turning redder than me when he lifted a lacy bra. Handing the bags back, he said, “Hurry.”

We hustled down the sidewalk. A parade of golf carts full of people and dogs drove slowly along the sleepy street.

“What on earth?” I asked.

“You haven’t been here in a while, have you? They probably arrived by bus for a day of sightseeing. The buses park about two miles out and everyone is brought in by golf cart. They call them Wagtail Taxis.”

“That explains the big parking lot I encountered when I drove up. It’s a little different, but I like it! There’s something very calming about no traffic.”

“Life moves at a slower pace here. Locals take their golf carts everywhere—grocery shopping, to restaurants, to cabins up the road. Jerry’s murder is going to freak everyone out.”

“The golf carts are so quiet. They barely hum. It’s eerie! I had no idea they could be nearly soundless.”

Holmes brightened briefly. “When the town became a car-free zone, they decided to use electric golf carts to keep noise pollution to a minimum. Isn’t it incredible how quickly city noises become part of our norm, and we barely hear them? I love coming back to Wagtail. I wake to birdsong every morning. And at night, sitting on the porch and listening to the crickets is better than any medicine for calming raw nerves.”

We had reached the pedestrian zone and watched people pile out of the golf carts.

“Are you okay?” Holmes placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“What’s going on, Holmes? I like the new Wagtail. It’s so charming and peaceful, but something scary is happening. A car exploded just outside Wagtail last night. There was the strange hit-and-run that killed Sven, and now this? Poor Jerry, lying there, with his hand outstretched . . .”

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget that grisly scene. I’d better get back to the house to tell my folks what’s going on. They’ll worry about me if they hear it from someone else since I left for his place. Guess we’ll be around for a few days, huh? Maybe we can catch a drink at the bar one night.”

“Sounds good.” I trudged back to the inn feeling guilty for being glad that maybe the Sugar Maple Inn wasn’t at the core of the crimes being committed after all. Two murders and the attack on Mr. Luciano in such a short period of time—they had to be related. I didn’t know any of the people involved. I hoped that Dave knew what or who linked them together.

The front porch that ran the length of the inn’s main building had filled with chatty visitors. The smell of coffee wafted to me, and I spied croissants. All the guests had dogs with them, except for one couple that doted on a longhaired white cat that sat between them on a swing in the corner. A Persian, perhaps?

They all seemed so happy, so content, completely unaware that the mayor of Wagtail had been brutally murdered.

I raced past them and took the elevator up to my suite. Setting my bags down, I opened the door, and Twinkletoes ran to me, mewing.

“How did you get in here?”

She rubbed against my ankles, turning in tight circles. I picked her up and cuddled her. “Our dog is gone,” I whispered. “And Jerry is dead.”

She head-butted my chin, no doubt in sympathetic solidarity.

I carried the bags into the bedroom and set them on the floor. Twinkletoes wasted no time jumping into each of them in succession. While I hung up the clothes, she investigated every corner of the walk-in closet. When I closed the door, she returned to the bags, jumping in and out of them and sniffing carefully. I changed into a deep pink sleeveless top with a V-neck and the khakis. As usual, the pants needed to be shortened, but I had no time for that and rolled the bottoms up.

Twinkletoes followed me when I left the room, but she didn’t wait for the elevator. She scampered down the main staircase. I probably should have too, just for the exercise, but the elevator doors opened, and I took the easy route.

Suspecting that Oma’s office must be somewhere in the vicinity of the reception area, I headed that way. No one manned the desk, but I heard voices, so I peered into the room behind it.

Oma and Rose relaxed in cushy chairs covered in a bright floral fabric. The desk and office equipment gave it away as Oma’s office. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the wall behind her desk.

The two of them were enjoying lunch at a coffee table in front of French doors, which had been thrown open to enjoy the sunshine glittering on the lake. Twinkletoes had beaten me there and was already stretched out on a semiprivate terrace.

Oma was on the phone when I entered. Rose signaled me to keep quiet by placing a finger over her lips. Oma continued the conversation but waved me in and pointed to the food on the coffee table.

After Jerry’s horrible death, I would have thought food would be the last thing on my mind, but the glistening slices of pineapple and kiwi on the fruit platter with a selection of ripe cantaloupe and juicy watermelon enticed me. The loaf of crusty artisan bread, and the curious cheese with something red rolled into it in a swirl, simply had to be sampled. Unless I missed my guess, that was creamy chicken salad full of green grapes, crunchy celery, and almonds. I had to try it all. Just a taste, I promised myself.

I pulled up a chair and realized that a third, unused mug rested on the table along with a napkin, silverware, and a plate. They had expected me.

“Of course I believe you!” Oma spoke sympathetically. “Never mind him. Children can be so bossy. Mine treat me like I’ve gone daft. I’m not a doddering fool yet. Don’t give it another thought.” Oma hung up the phone. “That was Ellie Pierce, Jerry’s mother.”

I nearly choked on my chicken salad. His poor mother!

Oma sipped her tea. “She’s beside herself about losing Dolce last night. Jerry was quite hard on her.”

Rose poured tea for me and passed me the mug. “Eat slowly, dear, so you won’t choke. I’m telling you, Liesel, Jerry has gotten out of hand. He thinks someone made him the King of Wagtail. He had the nerve to tell me I had too many roses along my fence and that the blooms are not—” Rose changed to a whiny tone meant to mimic Jerry “—allowed to cross the fence line.” She leaned forward. “My prize roses!”

I swallowed and washed the chicken salad down with tea. Clearly they didn’t know about Jerry’s death yet.

Oma roared. “The next thing you know, he’ll be out there with pruning shears, clipping off the roses that dare to peek over the fence. He sent Ellie a notice that she had put out decorative pumpkins too soon—his own mother!”

“He’s dead,” I hacked.