Murder, She Barked

Five

Yelping all the way, a yellowish-white tornado of fur bounded through the registration area and halfway up the steps.

The calico kitten sat at the midway landing of the stairs and regarded the dog regally, twitching her tail to demonstrate mild annoyance. She didn’t budge, though. The kitten stared down the impish dog, who scrambled to a stop and wisely retreated a few steps.

How did she get out of the car? What to do now? I took my room key from Casey, who acted as though the confrontation between the dog and the cat was perfectly normal. He picked up the phone and dialed.

After a couple of irritated barks, the dog trotted over and stood by me.

“You didn’t dock her tail,” observed Mr. Luciano.

I studied him. Could he be the person I’d seen on the road? Was that where he’d gotten his injuries? Medium height with a large head and expansive forehead, bushy eyebrows, and a stocky build. Probably about fifty. Could he have injured his hand pushing the car over the cliff?

“Officer Dave is on his way,” announced Casey.

Officer Dave? That was so cute. Only in a small town!

The sweet dog eyes fixated on me.

“How did you get in here?” I hissed at the dog.

I bent over to pick her up but she backed away. If I kept coming toward her, she might run, and then she’d be on the loose in the inn. She didn’t have a collar, and I didn’t have a leash. What a nightmare. Would she follow me if I simply walked toward the door? I wasn’t eager to go out in the fog, especially after hearing Mr. Luciano’s tale. But I was a tad skeptical about his story. Why would anyone be hanging around at the inn waiting to clobber a guest? Unless that person had been waiting just for Mr. Luciano . . .

“She’s a Jack Russell, isn’t she?” asked Mr. Luciano. “I thought it was traditional to dock their tails.” He tilted his head at me like a dog trying to understand. “You know, cut them so they’re short.”

Casey stretched up and peered over the desk, trying to see her. The cat was out of the bag, so to speak.

The dog wagged her tail tentatively, unsure of herself. The tail wasn’t long, about ten inches or so. It curved upward. A black spot covered part of her rump and extended one-third of the way down her tail. The other half was yellowed white, like her body.

I smiled at Mr. Luciano and said the obvious. “Her tail is intact.” Clutching my room key, I walked toward the exit door, my heart pounding. Would she follow me?

“What’s on her nose?” asked Mr. Luciano.

I couldn’t be rude. This was my grandmother’s inn, and if there was one thing she had pounded into my head it was that I represented the Sugar Maple Inn, and I could never ever be rude to a guest. But I thought I’d gone about as far as I could with evasive responses. “Doritos.”

He chuckled. “You fed her Doritos?”

“She helped herself.”

“What’s her name?” he asked.

“My apologies, Holly,” said Casey. “I had no idea that you brought your dog. She’s not wearing a collar. Did she lose it?”

I trudged back toward them. Might as well be honest about it. I couldn’t sneak her in now anyway. I told them the whole sad story. “I’m very sorry. I’ll try to coax her outside.”

Casey ducked down for a second. When he reappeared, he rounded the front desk and walked toward me slowly, a collar and leash in his hand. “This is a Sugar Maple Inn collar. There’s no leash ring on it, because it’s only for locating dogs, but you could sling this leash under it. Do you think she’ll come to you if you offer a treat?” He handed me a couple of teeny bone-shaped cookies and a sunflower-yellow collar bearing the words Sugar Maple Inn. A plastic box hung on it.

“A Sugar Maple Inn collar?” Since when did inns have collars?

I knelt on the floor and held out the dog cookie. “Treat!”

She studied me.

I broke the cookie in half and pretended to eat part of it. She promptly bolted toward me, snatched the cookie, and retreated before I could grab her. I handed the collar back to Casey. “Maybe you can latch it on her if I catch her?”

I held out the second piece of the cookie, but this time I was ready. When she darted at me, I tackled her, flinging my arms around her.

Casey snapped the collar on and looped the leash through it in spite of her wriggling attempts to be free. He handed me the leash when I stood up. “Well, at least she won’t get away from you again. All Sugar Maple Inn collars have GPS in them. Um, nothing personal, but she reeks. The groomers in town are closed at this hour. I can recommend You Dirty Dog. They’ll be open in the morning.”

I’d been away too long. Since when did Wagtail have enough business to support a dog groomer? When I was growing up, a dog bath in the mountains involved a swim in the lake or a splash through a garden hose in the backyard. “So she can stay?”

“Your grandmother said you hadn’t been here in a while. Didn’t she tell you that the Sugar Maple Inn is now a premier pet resort destination?”

I couldn’t have felt more stupid. “What does that mean? There are boarding facilities for guests’ pets?”

“No, nothing like that.” As though it was a slogan, he proudly stated, “We never board, we pamper. People come here to vacation with their pets. Dogs are our specialty, but we have a building just for cat lovers, too. The Cat’s Pajamas, a wing where no dogs are allowed.”

No wonder Mr. Luciano had been so inquisitive about the dog. He was probably a dog lover. I hadn’t given any thought to her tail. “Thanks, Casey. I’d better park the car.”

The little dog seemed unsure of herself when I walked toward the entrance, pulling gently on the leash. She bolted and stopped. She tested the leash in various directions, clearly confused.

“Looks like she’s never been on a leash before,” said Mr. Luciano.

I was beginning to suspect the same thing. Walking slowly, we headed outside. Just in case Mr. Luciano had told the truth about someone attacking him, I listened carefully. All I heard was crickets. The rain had finally stopped.

I opened the passenger side door and found the glove compartment hung open.

“Did you do that?”

She readily jumped into the car. I slammed the door shut and hurried to the driver’s side. The thick fog prevented me from seeing more than a few feet ahead, but I found a parking space and began to have inviting visions of a cozy bed.

Cold mountain air pierced my damp clothes when I stepped out. The mist swirled around us, thick as a London fog.

The dog strained at the leash. I followed along behind her. Much as she had when we saw the man on the mountain, she barked with crazy excitement. Goose bumps raised on my arms.

Straining to see through the mist, I gazed around but saw nothing. I tugged at her and headed for the inn. She quit barking and stopped to do her business, while I waited impatiently.

Mr. Luciano had planted notions in my head, I told myself. After all, this was Wagtail, not some big city where people were attacked at night. Nevertheless, the second she finished, I ran for the inn. Happily, the dog bounded along ahead of me—blindly into the misty night. High heels were never meant for running. Stumbling, I tried to pick up speed when the lights of the inn became visible. The dog and I raced through the door.

“Now you can lock the doors, Casey.”

I paused to catch my breath.

Casey scrambled to hit a button under the desk. Mr. Luciano rested on the couch clutching a bottle of water in his hand.

“I’ll wait with you for Officer Dave.”

Casey gazed at me with worried puppy dog eyes. I could see the relief in his expression. He shoved his hand up his forehead, lifting the shock of hair that grazed his eyes.

The inn wasn’t very big, but I wondered if he might be too young for so much responsibility. Oma had me pull the night auditor shift when I was a teen, but no one had ever been clobbered right outside the inn. Maybe I should cut him some slack.

I smiled encouragingly. “How long have you been working here, Casey?”

“Since June. I work Mondays and Tuesdays, but this is the first time I’ve worked a weekend. Mrs. Miller asked me to come in, since, well, you know,” he choked up, “since Sven died.”