Murder, She Barked

Thirty-four

I scrambled up the stairs and stopped on the first landing with Philip on my heels. I peered down the hallways on each side but didn’t see or hear anything amiss.

Trixie and Twinkletoes knew where the trouble was. I should have just followed them. They scampered up to the third floor, where I was staying. Philip and I rushed up behind them.

My door stood ajar, and the cleaning cart blocked the entrance. Philip shoved it to the left, and we ran inside.

The housekeeper with the dark ponytail and expressive eyes stood on top of a dining room chair, holding a floor duster with a long handle.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, breathing hard. Everything looked okay to me.

She pointed at the buffet. With a tinge of a British accent, she said, “I hope you have a big hamster. Because if you don’t, there’s a rat hiding under the sideboard.”

Philip dropped to his knees immediately. “Something is down there, for sure. Hand me that duster.”

As much as I didn’t relish the thought of a rat in the inn, mere inches from me, I was not going to let him take over and rescue me like I was some kind of damsel in distress.

I held my hand out for the floor duster and took it from the housekeeper. Summoning courage, I knelt on the floor and peered under the buffet. I flinched at the sight of the furry beast.

“Watch out, Philip,” I warned. I tapped it gently with the floor duster but it didn’t budge. Probably scared.

Trixie sniffed and wedged her nose as far under the buffet as she could. I imagined she wasn’t helping the situation. Even a rat knew when to be terrified and stay where it was safe.

I gave it a gentle push. It moved away from the duster but still didn’t come out. “Sorry about this,” I said to the rat, and whacked it in Philip’s direction.

It flew out of the other end.

Trixie vaulted over Philip and launched herself at it, catching it the second it left the protection of the buffet. She seized it and shot out like a white torpedo. We scrambled to our feet and chased after her. By the time we reached the doorway, we could see a blitz of white blazing down the stairs. We hurried behind her. Why hadn’t I had the presence of mind to close the door? I cringed at what Oma would think about a dog running through her beautiful lobby with a rat in its mouth.

Oh dear heaven! How could this be happening? We weren’t fast enough to catch her before she reached the main floor.

But we were fast enough to witness Mr. Luciano opening the door for her.

“Noooooo,” I screamed.

Seconds later, I stood on the inn porch, and Trixie was nowhere to be seen.

Philip slung an arm around me. Maybe it was a nice gesture, but I was too upset to appreciate it.

Aunt Birdie ambled out. “That was quite a commotion. I hope that’s not a regular event around here. Rats in the inn. How disgusting. Holly, the creamer needs refilling.”

At that moment, I wanted to pour the cream right over Aunt Birdie’s head. Instead, I stared ahead, searching for any sign of Trixie. I weighed my options. Get the receiver for the GPS collar she wore and find her before she got too far away or refill the creamer.

My responsibility to Oma came first. I returned, washed my hands, brought more cream to the buffet, and smiled at everyone as though nothing had happened.

Philip and Aunt Birdie, already back at their table, chuckled about something. I checked everything on the buffet, intending to take a brief break to fetch the GPS receiver. When I passed the front door, high-pitched barking stopped me. Once again, Trixie stood on her hind legs, straining to see through the front door sidelights.

I opened the door for her, and she trotted in like she owned the place, pleased as punch with herself for having rid the inn of a rat. Laughing with relief that she wasn’t missing again, I told her what a wonderful dog she was. The guests in the dining area even broke into applause when we returned.

Somehow, that little nightmare reset my mood. Trixie clearly thought she lived at the inn. As long as no one stole her and locked her up, she appeared to be inclined to come home. That took a heavy weight off of me. It didn’t erase the fact that someone had taken her the night before, but she knew we were a team.

I decided I should be grateful for having an aunt who cared about me, even if she went about it all wrong.

Philip might be a little too eager for my taste. Perhaps I’d been too quick to resent his jumping in to help, but wasn’t that actually a good trait in a person? It would have been far worse if he’d expected to be waited on hand and foot.

I returned to the third floor briefly to check on the housekeeper. She insisted she was fine. It turned out that she hadn’t known Sven, since Oma had only hired her recently.

Filled with my new feeling of generosity toward all, even Aunt Birdie, I returned to the dining area, where I poured myself a mug of hot cider, filled a plate with a cucumber sandwich, an egg-salad sandwich, a piece of cherry strudel, and a twice-baked crunchy dog cookie for Trixie, and joined Aunt Birdie and Philip for tea.

Philip gushed about my beautiful suite until Aunt Birdie insisted they have a tour. I indulged them because it was gorgeous. Oma deserved enormous credit for it.

When we came downstairs, it seemed like an opportune time to thank them for coming. Philip probably had entirely the wrong idea, but I would cure him of that as soon as I could out of Aunt Birdie’s range of hearing.

Philip handed me another business card. “I jotted my new phone number on here.”

Aunt Birdie raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t shared it with me, yet, Philip.”

“Just got it, Aunt Birdie. I must have dropped my other phone somewhere. Maybe it was fate. They offered me this new easy-to-remember number for the bed-and-breakfasts—1864Bed. How cool is that?”

He took Aunt Birdie’s arm and walked her down the stairs. She departed, pleased as punch with herself. I knew she’d complain nonstop once I made it clear that I had no interest in Philip.

Oma and Rose returned soon thereafter. I listened politely to how guilty Oma felt about Sven’s death. I understood completely. It never should have happened.

I confessed the story about the rat, telling it as humorously as I possibly could.

Oma did not find it remotely funny. “We have no rats in the Sugar Maple Inn. We never have. Is impossible.”

Okay. Maybe it would be a good time to buy a replacement collar for the one that mysteriously went missing the night before. I mentioned that I needed to do that.

“Holly,” said Oma, placing her hand on my shoulder. “Do not run back here in a rush. I am fine. No one here will hurt me. Yes?” She chucked me under the chin and winked, like I was a two-year-old.

I hooked the unfamiliar leash onto the strange brown collar and headed out. Trixie pranced along, stopping now and then to sniff some invisible scent on the ground. I didn’t mind. The afternoon sun shone on us with unusual warmth for the time of year. I window-shopped as we strolled, admiring fancy dog beds with canopies. A shop called For the Birds carried everything a bird lover could possibly want, from bird-themed jewelry for people to amazing cages. An African gray parrot climbed a ladder in the store window. She stopped to look at us and shrieked at Trixie, who nearly bolted. Thankfully, I had a good grip on the leash.

For the first time this visit, I walked all the way to the other end of the shopping area. The old Wagtail Springs Hotel still stood, though clearly empty. Porches ran across the front of the two-story building on both floors. It had been creepy when I was a kid. We used to dare each other to run inside, and it was even more sinister now.

“Have you ever seen a ghost in the window?”

I looked around. Mr. Luciano studied the building. His hands rested on the handle of an odd stroller. But the child appeared to be encased behind mesh.

I peered at it.

Trixie sniffed and tentatively wagged her tail.

“This is my Gina.” He walked to the front and opened the mesh so we could see her. A darling white bulldog with a brown spot over one eye looked back at us.

“She can’t walk?” I asked, wondering where she’d come from.

“Not yet. I brought her here for surgery. She had an elongated soft palate, which made it difficult for her to breathe. They let her come home to the inn today. She’s not supposed to run around yet, but it’s such a lovely day that I thought she would enjoy getting out a little.”

“She’s a beautiful dog.”

“Thank you. Gina is my joy. They say she will be fine.”

“I’m sure she will. And she has that fabulous fur bed to lounge on in your room.”

“A most thoughtful gift from your grandmother.” He gazed up at the empty, lifeless windows of the building again. “A lot of people in Wagtail think this place is haunted. No one wants to buy it and renovate it.”

“That’s silly. Ghosts don’t exist. Besides, I heard Philip might be interested in acquiring it.”

“How can you be so sure ghosts aren’t real?”

I flipped it around on him. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“I know they make for good TV shows.”

I laughed. “I’ll agree with that. I like a good scary show as much as the next person, even though I know it’s only fantasy.”

“We’ll find out soon enough. I’m bringing a team of ghost hunters to town to check out this old place. They’re going to film a show here. Did you know that several murders took place in this building?”

“Jerry was murdered in his house. Do you think he’s haunting it?” I asked.

Mr. Luciano pulled a snazzy phone from his pocket and made a note. “That’s an excellent point. I have to see if I can get into Jerry’s house. Thanks for mentioning it.” He zipped Gina’s stroller shut. “I’d better get her back for some rest.”

“See you later!” I hugged Trixie. “I have to get you over to the vet for a once-over. Have you had your shots?”

She licked my chin.

“Let’s go get that collar.”

The woman who helped us the day before greeted us warmly. “Trixie! Your leash is ready . . .” She tucked her chin in, aghast. “What’s this? You went to Prissy’s store?”

I explained about the strange middle-of-the-night dognapping and the new collar and leash.

“Sweetie, are you okay?” She patted Trixie, making cooing sounds. “That’s terrifying! A dognapper in Wagtail? Maybe that’s what happened the night Sven died. Maybe someone was trying to steal Dolce! He has dog royalty in his genes.” One eye squinted a little as she looked Trixie over. “Honey bunch, you’re as cute as can be, but somehow you don’t strike me as a show dog.” Speaking to me, she said confidentially, “They’re always a little haughty. Like they know they’re stars.”

She checked out the leash closely. “This is definitely Prissy’s cheap, excuse me, inexpensive line. No one else in town carries this brand.”

Maybe Dave could find out to whom she sold it. I certainly wasn’t taking Trixie into her store again.

“Shall I set you up with another collar?”

“Yes, and I think I’ll take a little halter, too. Just to be on the safe side. That might take a dognapper longer to remove.”

Half an hour later, Trixie pranced out in her new halter, collar, tags, and leash. I supposed I could have used the brown collar, but it seemed tainted to me. Oh no! I was beginning to be superstitious like Oma!

“From now on,” I said to Trixie, “if someone tries to remove your collar, you have my permission to bite him. If I have to buy a new collar and leash every day, we’re going to go through my savings much faster than I expected.”

She stood on her hind legs to smell the shopping bag, which contained some sample treats for her and Twinkletoes to try.

I broke one in half and gave her a piece.

In the grassy middle of the shopping area, I spotted Zelda with a Great Dane and a basset hound, undoubtedly Dolce and Chief. “Zelda!” I waved at her.

She turned her back and released the dogs in a fenced play zone. There was no way she hadn’t heard me.