Murder, She Barked

Nineteen

Like an apparition, my dog vanished.

I shouted, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! Cookie! Cookie!” As I scrambled down the tower praying she hadn’t been hit, I yelled the words over and over.

At the bottom, I bounded down the slope to the spot where I’d seen her.

Crouching, I spoke softly, hoping she would be brave enough to come to me.

A couple of yards away, the base of a large green fern wavered. I held my breath. Was she inching toward me?

“She’s gone.”

I looked up. A tall man with a weather-beaten face gazed at me. Wrinkles etched deep into his bronzed skin. Round glasses rested on the bridge of his nose.

I rose to my feet and staggered back a step. “What do you mean gone?” Not dead. She couldn’t be! I didn’t see her anywhere.

“I assume she’s your dog, or you wouldn’t be tromping around and shouting like a bonehead so early in the morning. You should know she can run like the wind.” He smiled and gazed away as though remembering it. “I don’t think her feet touch the ground. I never saw a dog move like that.”

“Are you the one doing the shooting?”

He raised his hand to show me that he carried a gnarled walking stick. “I don’t kill God’s creatures.” His eyebrow twitched up. “Not anymore.”

“Is hunting allowed here? So close to the zip line?”

“No. It’s not. Somebody has been tracking her. I don’t know what she did, but you better find her and take her home before she’s shot.”

I gazed around. “Tracking her? Like hunting her? Why would anyone do that?” The blood in my temples pounded. “Do you know which direction—” he had disappeared as fast as she had “—she went?”

No wonder everybody around here believed in ghosts. What was wrong with people? Shooting dogs and disappearing in the woods? What was that old guy doing out here anyway?

I scanned the base of the trees again. If she ran from the sound of gunfire, she was probably headed back toward town. With that thought in mind, I began the ascent to the tower.

And stopped within two feet. It had been simple enough to clamber down. Viewed from the other direction, the mountain posed a vertical challenge that might as well have been Kilimanjaro. I found myself leaning forward and climbing. Bracing myself with my hands, occasionally grasping briars, tree limbs, and even weeds for support.

At the top, I had to stop to catch my breath. I might not be superstitious like my grandmother, but this day wasn’t starting well at all.

Relieved to be back in the golf cart, I dusted off my jeans. My hands bled from grabbing rough plants. I puttered slowly in the direction of Wagtail’s pedestrian zone, watching the underbelly of the dense forest for any sign of the dog.

Would she return to the heart of Wagtail? I turned left into the residential area of Wagtail on the lookout for her as the town came to life. Bird feeders were being filled. An occasional whiff of coffee brewing or frying bacon floated my way. Bathrobe-clad residents stepped out to collect their newspapers from their stoops. Dogs were being walked everywhere I looked.

I recognized the Great Dane, Dolce, and Jerry’s basset hound, Chief, sitting together on the porch of Ellie’s house. Her curtains remained drawn, though. Unlike other homes, the dogs were the only sign of normalcy.

At the end of the street, where it joined the shopping area, I turned the golf cart around, and finally understood why Dave thought Sven’s death couldn’t have been an accident.

There really wasn’t a good reason to drive down this road unless you had business there. I stopped the cart and surveyed my surroundings. To my left, a large white Italianate home with fancy windows and an ornate cupola dominated the street. An equally ornate sign in the front yard identified it as the 1864 Inn. I fumbled in my purse for the business card Philip had given me the night before. Indeed, the 1864 Inn was one of his bed-and-breakfasts. Considerably smaller, a beige cape cod next door bore a plaque with the name Cheshire Cottage. Light-blue shutters and dormer windows on the second floor added to the cozy appearance.

On the opposite side of the street, I recognized Rose’s house. It hadn’t changed much. Colorful blooms spilled over a white picket fence. I had played in the rose-covered archway with seats on either side at the gate. Worn slate shingles on the steep roof of the two-story house reminded me of quaint homes in English villages.

Anyone who lived on this end of the street could have parked and waited for Sven without being noticed. I rubbed my forehead. Who would do such a thing? Certainly not Rose! Never!

I barely knew Philip, but it seemed like someone that tidy would have chosen a different method if he intended to murder someone. Hitting a person with a car was bound to be a messy proposition.

Besides, wouldn’t it make sense to murder someone as far away from your own home as possible? More likely it had been someone from the other side of town. Or an outsider.

Ellie’s house, up the street, was hardly visible because of the angle. Old-fashioned streetlights added to Wagtail’s charm, but in the thick fog, I doubted that they had cast a broad beam. Whoever sat here, exactly where I was now, had expected Sven and gunned the car at him when he stepped into the street. Even easier to do in a hybrid SUV with almost no engine noise. In the dark, with the lights off, he wouldn’t have seen it advance on him.

Oma had already deduced that the killer had called the inn about Dolce running loose. He knew that would bring Sven to the street.

Or would it? Dolce wasn’t Sven’s dog. She belonged to Oma and Ellie. Shivers shuttled down my arms. Wouldn’t that phone call have been directed to Oma, as Dolce’s co-owner? Or had the person asked for Sven?

I had to talk to Oma right away and find out more about the phone call. My heart pounded at the thought that she might have been the intended victim.

I rubbed my face with both hands. Maybe I was wrong. I hoped my reasoning missed the mark. For all I knew, Sven might have made a pass at the wrong woman, and an irate boyfriend with a snootful had done him in.

But that didn’t prevent me from heading back to the inn as fast as the golf cart would take me. I pulled into the parking spot and ran into the reception area.

Zelda’s eyes widened when she saw me. “She’s here.”

The dog? Had she found her way back to the inn? “Where?”

“They’re all having breakfast.”

“Thanks.”

“Holly? Don’t hit her. Keep your cool.”

“Hit her? I would never do that.”

“Really? I’d be awfully tempted.”

I ran up the stairs with Zelda at my heels.

But when I reached the dining area, I stopped cold.