Murder, She Barked

Thirty-two

Oh, joy. What could I do? I searched around, desperate for a reason to sit at another table. The place was packed.

“Holly!” Ben nearly jumped up. He acted like the kid in school who was always absurdly eager to have the teacher call on him.

I squared my shoulders. There was no reason we couldn’t be friends. “Come on, Trixie.”

I sat down. “Good morning. Where’s your girlfriend?” Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the nicest way to start, but it was how I felt.

“She’s sleeping in. Dave knows he’s not allowed to speak to her unless I’m present. I have the golf cart, and I really don’t see her walking all the way down here. So, to my way of thinking, I’ve got all my bases covered. Man, I slept better last night than I have in years. Must be the fresh mountain air.”

He grinned at me brightly, but I suspected his perfect night’s sleep was the result of a certain romantic interlude, and I thought it downright rude to rub my nose in it.

Shelley poured me a cup of tea, winked at me, and left the pot on the table. “What can I get you this morning?”

Swell. Casey had already blabbed to everyone about the rescinded proposal.

“I’ll have what Holly had yesterday, with the home fries and the toast and the works!” Ben beamed.

I’d never seen him so happy. Why did I want to blow a raspberry at him?

“What’s the special today?” I asked.

“Eggs Benedict. Your choice of smoked salmon or Canadian bacon.”

“Does that come with the home fries?” asked Ben.

“If you want it to.”

“I’ll change to that, please, with the salmon.”

“I’ll have the same, with fruit salad instead of the home fries.”

“Same for you, Trixie?” asked Shelley.

“Salmon for dogs?” asked Ben.

“They love it! But we use baked salmon for the dogs, not smoked, because it’s so salty.” Shelley rested her hand over top of mine briefly. “How you doin’, hon?”

I did my best to seem on top of the world. “Great!”

But I caught her tilting her head and grinning at someone. When I turned to look, Holmes ambled up to our table. Easygoing with that natural smile of his, he slid into one of the chairs at our table. “Mornin’ all.”

Without having to ask, Shelley poured coffee into his mug. “Eggs Benedict?”

“My favorite!”

She tittered like he’d flirted with her and scooted away to another table.

“Heard you had a rough night here,” said Holmes.

When I was about ten, Holmes, my cousin Josh, and I had gone through a stage where we formed a fist with a knuckle sticking out, and punched one another in the upper arm. I reached over and pretended to punch him.

“What’s that for?”

“For being so annoyingly right. Rose told you about the cruise, didn’t she? You knew all along.”

He held up his palms. “I swear she never said a word about it. So Oma confirmed it?”

“No. I found brochures in her room last night.”

“What’s wrong with her taking a cruise?” asked Ben. “Sounds like a good idea.”

I flashed a warning at Holmes that I hoped he understood. I didn’t want to talk about the inn being sold where guests might hear. “Nothing. She could use a vacation.”

Ben’s gaze flickered between Holmes and me. He knew something was up. He played along, though. “So what happened last night?”

Again, I skipped the part about Oma. There was no point in guests overhearing and thinking she was out wandering through town in the middle of the night. “Someone stole Trixie.”

She perked up at the sound of her name.

I told them the whole story, ending with the curious change of collars. Shelley served tables near us, but she listened in as I talked.

“Why would anyone want her?” asked Ben.

I forgave him for the callous way it sounded. I knew what he meant. I shrugged.

Shelley placed a platter on the table in front of me. A beautiful yellow sauce covered an egg. Bright orange salmon peeked out from underneath it.

Trixie danced on her hind legs.

“Yours is comin’, darlin’.” Shelley served Ben and Holmes, then bent down to place Trixie’s dish on the floor. Trixie’s nose was in it so fast I barely caught a glimpse of egg and salmon.

“Not that it’s any of my business,” said Shelley, “but you could track the GPS on the collar. Now, if the dog thief has any sense at all, he would have tossed that collar out in the woods somewhere so it wouldn’t be connected to him. But it’s worth a try.”

Another patron signaled her, and she rushed off.

“That’s brilliant!” I exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of that? Those collars must be expensive, so at the very least, we ought to recover it.”

“I think we’d better come with you,” said Holmes. “You don’t know where it might take you.”

“Yeah!” Ben speared a home fry. “What if it’s in somebody’s house? You don’t want to come face-to-face with the dog burglar.” Gazing at his plate, he added, “These are so good they don’t need catsup.”

The rich hollandaise sauce complemented the flavor of the salty salmon. We finished our delicious, if indulgent, breakfast quickly. I reminded myself that it wouldn’t be long before I was back in my own home, eating dry toast or boiled eggs for breakfast. I might as well enjoy the inn while I could. If Oma sold it, this might be the last time I would come here, a thought that depressed me to the core of my being.

We hurried over our second mugs of coffee and, in my case, tea.

Unfortunately, now that Trixie knew the drill, she kept pulling at the leash, wanting to eat other dogs’ food. We were going to have to learn some table manners.

I carried her out of the dining room, far easier than tugging her away from the dog dining bowls on the floor. She scampered along happily, though, to the registration desk. Oma gave us a questioning look when we trooped in.

“How do you track a GPS collar?” I asked.

“Aha. Very clever of you.”

I gave Shelley due credit for the idea.

Oma went to the computer and looked up the number of the collar, which made me feel very guilty because I had simply grabbed another one last night without logging it in. We corrected that immediately.

She handed us a small black box similar in size to a TV remote control. A screen filled one side, and a tiny antenna stood on the end. “This will show you the direction of the collar. This number shows how far away it is.”

As we watched, the number flickered and reduced by one, then by two.

“It’s moving,” said Holmes.

“Maybe the thief is carrying it,” I suggested. “Or put it on his own dog.”

“It’s toward the front of the inn,” said Oma.

Trixie leading the way, Holmes, Ben, and I rushed to the front porch.

“This is like a treasure hunt,” said Ben.

If I hadn’t been so upset about the theft of Trixie, I would have thought it fun, too.

I held the transmitter in my outstretched hand so they could see it. “It’s still moving, but toward our left a little.” Like a unified military unit, we all changed our position.

I looked out over the plaza in front of the inn. It could be anyone. Brewster, wearing a Hair of the Dog T-shirt, walked toward us with his Irish setter, Murphy. Philip, the B and B owner, juggled a couple of bakery boxes not too far behind him. To their left, Peaches Clodfelter argued with Tiny.

Jerry’s mother, Ellie, trained Dolce, trying to get him to sit and ignore everyone around him. Dolce didn’t show any interest in the other dogs, but Ellie struggled to keep him focused when Philip passed by them. Dolce refused to sit and tried to follow him.

My dreaded Aunt Birdie marched toward us. Even Mr. Luciano paced on the plaza, checking his watch every few seconds.

Oma hobbled up behind us and peered at the receiver in my hand. “That collar is coming back on its own. It’s only twenty-five feet away.”

I held my breath, waiting for the little signal on the gizmo to turn away. Instead the number of feet continued to decrease.