Murder, She Barked

Fourteen

A single guest lounged in a cushy chair before an enormous window wall like the one in the great room.

Dave shot a look of daggers at the poor guest, and tugged me past the fireplace. Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, with a few comfortable nooks carved out among them that were full of inviting cushions. A built-in seat in a bay window overlooked the plaza in front of the inn.

“Shouldn’t you be dealing with Jerry?” I asked.

His jaw tightened, and pain etched creases in his face. He breathed heavily as though he’d run all the way to the inn. “Yeah, I have to get right back. Tell me exactly where and when you ran into Holmes.”

“This is ridiculous,” I whispered. “You know Holmes didn’t kill him.”

Dave’s nostrils flared. “Jerry’s neighbor saw Holmes running away from Jerry’s house this morning. The neighbor didn’t think much of it at the time, but then he found Chief wandering around in his backyard. The neighbor took the dog home and left him on Jerry’s back porch.”

“If Holmes was there at all, I’m sure he had good reason.”

Dave glared at me.

“Okay, okay. I ran into Holmes outside of Houndstooth, and we walked over to Jerry’s. Simple as that. I don’t know exactly what time it was, maybe twenty or thirty minutes before we discovered Jerry’s body, and I called the cops.”

“Was there anything unusual about him?”

“Like what?”

“Nervous? Sweating? Talking too fast? Not talking at all?”

“Completely normal, I assure you. Look, I know about the conflict between Holmes’s family and Jerry. But they’re not the kind of people who resolve their problems with violence. Surely you realize that.”

Dave locked his eyes on mine. “I would have said that about everyone in this town. But somebody killed Jerry, and very possibly Sven, too.” Dave rubbed his face with both of his hands. “I don’t know what’s going on. I thought I had a handle on it. Seemed logical that the person who killed Sven threw the car he used over the cliff to get rid of the evidence.”

That did make sense. A chill shook through me. “You mean I saw Sven’s killer out on the road?”

“Hmm? Yeah, maybe.” He seemed distracted. “But the attack on Mr. Luciano and now Jerry’s death don’t fit into that equation at all. If you pick up on anything, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

“Dave, I was wondering if Sven’s death could be connected to the gold coin he won.”

Dave’s lips pulled tight. “I thought about that, too. But it hasn’t led anywhere. The men involved in that poker game weren’t here, and they all appear to have alibis. Besides, he won it fair and square. There wasn’t any animosity about it.”

“I’ll let you know if I hear anything. Right away. I promise.”

“Thanks, Holly.” Dave took off in a hurry. From the bay window, I watched him race along Wagtail’s pedestrian zone. I understood where he was coming from. In a small town, you think you know everyone. But he couldn’t afford to make assumptions about any of us. Still, I knew he was wrong about Holmes.

The guest across the room looked up from his book. I smiled at him in what I hoped was a reassuring manner, tapped the clipboard, and ventured into a short corridor that led to The Cat’s Pajamas wing. I inserted a master key in a door labeled Purr.

It opened to a cat paradise. A foot-wide catwalk circled the walls near the ceiling. Stairs and landings offered ease in springing up to it. A tunnel and assorted wider areas provided spaces for lounging.

Sliding doors led to a screened porch. A cat door in the wall allowed access that could be closed to keep the cat inside the room.

I stepped out on the porch and ran my hand over a tree to see if it was real. It was! Very clever. It was installed at a slant, and I couldn’t imagine any cat not wanting to climb it. Their inner tigers could come out.

A bird and squirrel feeding station had been erected in a private clearing just outside the porches. The feeders buzzed with activity, providing live theater for cats. I wondered if Twinkletoes knew what she was missing.

I returned to the room. People comforts hadn’t been overlooked. Two cozy chairs nestled by the fireplace. The bed had been made with a fluffy feather comforter, and over the headboard, written in a beautiful golden script and framed, What greater gift than the love of a cat? ~Charles Dickens.

That reminded me to check the gift basket. Locally crafted cat toys and treats filled a cat bed, which bore the name Sugar Maple Inn. A catnip mouse, three cute, trial-sized containers of different cat snacks, and a ball that crackled accompanied the treats—a bottle of Cat’s Meow cabernet sauvignon and a chocolate mouse—were undoubtedly meant for the person footing the bill. I peered at the name on the list, Mr. Gary Parson, who would be arriving with Tabushkin.

I tore myself away from the amazing cat room to peer at the bathroom. Spotless. The new housekeeper was doing a great job. A disposable eco-friendly litter box was ready for the lucky feline guest, Tabushkin.

The remaining rooms on the list were located in the main section of the inn. I took the grand staircase up to the second floor.

Oma had renamed all the rooms after dog activities. The shabby chic white room with a tall four-poster bed, sparkling chandelier, and whitewashed floors had become Play. Next door, Sniff reflected Oma’s European roots, with painted furniture that looked like it belonged in an Alpine bedroom. The adjoining room, Wag, featured two beds painted blue and nestled in a cozy nook under a semicircular wood ceiling. I recalled sleeping there one summer and pretending I was a princess.

Like the cat baskets, the dog baskets featured toys and treats made in Wagtail. But the cobalt blue bottle of white wine bore the Our Dog Blue label from a Virginia winery. I sniffed the air. Very subtle lavender. No musty dog odors, but my inferior nose couldn’t begin to pick up what a dog could smell. The gleaming hardwood floors left little chance for scents to linger. Not that people would notice anyway, only their dogs, whose powerful olfactory capabilities would make a person a superhero.

I checked off rooms on the clipboard as I visited them. Everything was in order. Only a double-check of the cat and dog food on hand was left to be done.

Heavenly aromas wafted to me when I opened the door to the official kitchen.

A guy wearing a white chef’s coat pulled a roast turkey from the oven. I introduced myself to him. “Are we serving dinners at the inn now?”

He laughed. “Only small fare. Goulash, chili, sandwiches, cheese and fruit platters, that sort of thing.”

“Then what’s all this?”

“Dog and cat food. We use only the best people-grade ingredients.” He pointed to pots as he spoke. “Barley, lentils, brown rice, green beans, carrots. We have a whole menu, and we make custom meals for dogs with special needs.”

I looked at the chart in my hand. “But I’m supposed to be checking for commercial food.”

He gestured toward a large pantry. “A lot of people like to keep their dogs and cats on the food they eat at home. We stock it on request so they don’t have to worry about packing it or finding it locally.”

I admit that I was a little bit blown away. “Everything is geared toward the pets.”

He laughed. “Not everything. We want to indulge our human guests, too.”

He took the green beans off the stove, poured off the hot water and blanched them with ice water to prevent them from overcooking.

I ambled into the pantry. Checking my list, I confirmed that every cat and dog food that had been specially requested was indeed on hand.

I waved to the chef and made my way back to the registration desk, pleased to assure Oma that everything was ready.

At four o’clock a line of golf carts trundled up to the registration area. People piled out of them, some with pet carriers, and others with cats and dogs on leashes.

I showed Mr. Gary Parson and his Russian Blue cat, Tabushkin, to their room. From his perch on Mr. Parson’s shoulder, Tabushkin took in his surroundings with great interest.

An amiable guy with a head of curly almost-black hair, Mr. Parson had come for a week of rest and relaxation. “I hear they have a cat aviary where Tabushkin can play.”

I apologized for my lack of knowledge. “Let me know, okay? That sounds like fun for cats.” On my way back to the registration desk, I wondered how much fun it was for the birds that lived there.

Time flew by as we settled the new visitors in their rooms. Each dog guest was issued a Sugar Maple Inn collar with GPS for the duration of the stay.

Oma vanished for a few minutes and returned dressed in an equestrian-motif silk blouse, pearls and a gold chain, and a mid-calf length camel skirt that buttoned down the side.

“You’re so chic,” I said.

She tapped her watch. “Better hurry. It’s almost time for Yappy Hour.”

I couldn’t match Oma’s elegance, but I did twist my hair up with a clip that I found in my purse, and I changed into one of the new dresses. It was pink cotton and very 1960s, with a dipping round neckline, tight bodice, and big skirt. It would have to do.

I trotted down the grand staircase into a cluster of guests and dogs. Oma spied me and waved me out to the porch, where Rose and Holmes waited for us. It seemed the whole town had turned out for Yappy Hour.

The tables outside of restaurants had filled up, as had our porch, a wonderful vantage point from which to watch the parade of proud people and well-heeled dogs. The smaller dogs and many of those with shorter fur wore coats. And what coats! Embellished with their names, glittering with sequins, elegant with pearls, sparkling with crystals. The dogs didn’t seem to care. Hunting breeds happily mingled with uptown dogs. No one was a snob in Wagtail.

“We’ve started serving drinks, too?” I asked Oma.

“Not at Yappy Hour. That’s to get everyone out and mingling at the restaurants. But some people take their drinks and rock on our porch.” She winked at me. “No one notices or minds. Kids,” I assumed that meant Holmes and me, “there’s been a slight change in plans.” She draped a deep ruby-red shawl over her shoulders.

Rose patted Gingersnap, Oma’s golden retriever. “Would you mind if we skipped Yappy Hour today? We’d like to visit Ellie. She must be reeling from Jerry’s death.”

“We’ll be back to join you for dinner,” said Oma, handing me Gingersnap’s leash. “Maybe we can talk Ellie into coming.”

I glanced at Holmes.

“We’ll go with you.” He said it fast, as though it was all decided.

“Terrific,” said Rose. “You can carry my pimento-cheese tea sandwiches and Liesel’s German potato salad.”

Did Holmes know that a neighbor had reported seeing him at Jerry’s house that morning? How could I ask him about it? Holmes carried the food and I set out with Gingersnap. Her tail wagged like crazy, and she tugged me in all directions as she tried to greet each dog and person who walked by. She kissed everyone within reach. Gingersnap took her job as the Sugar Maple Inn’s canine ambassador very seriously. There wasn’t a soul she didn’t like.

We walked slowly, to accommodate Oma’s injury.

As we strolled by the shops, I realized that my fliers about my Jack Russell were missing from many of them. “Where did my fliers go?”

We came to a halt.

“If I didn’t know he was dead, I’d be blaming it on Jerry,” said Rose. “He never liked fliers around town.”

“This is so disappointing. Is there a local newsfeed or website where I can post about my dog?” I asked.

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Oma. “We have a website about the town, but nothing that shares news or alerts.”

We turned and walked along a thoroughly charming tree-lined street.

“Is this where Sven was killed?” asked Holmes.