Murder, She Barked

Seven

Apparently not. As exhausted as I was, I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts kept returning to Oma. I should have pressed her to tell me what was wrong with her. Not knowing might be worse than the truth because I imagined all sorts of terrible things.

And I couldn’t stop thinking about the man I’d seen on the road and the fire. I’d managed to wash the smell out of my hair, but the image of the flames came back to me every time I closed my eyes.

When the first rays of sunshine announced a new day, I stretched and gently moved my doggy friend to the side, even though I’d barely slept. I wrapped the robe around me, and ventured to the balcony.

A wrought iron railing arced around my little vantage point above Wagtail. The area below was just waking up. The mist from the rain had cleared, leaving a blissfully crisp fall morning. I inhaled the clean mountain air.

They say you can never go home again. Except for the first few years of my life, Wagtail hadn’t really been my home, yet I found myself smiling and curiously happy to be back. In the distance, graceful mountain ridges seemed to undulate in green waves. Farther away, the waves turned to blue with wisps of white clouds rising into the sky.

Maybe my contentment sprang from temporarily leaving my job troubles behind.

No, it was more than that. I didn’t hear any traffic. No trash trucks chugged through the streets. No horns blared. Birds twittered in the trees, and even though the town stretched out in front of me, it was blissfully quiet and serene.

The stores were still closed, but a few joggers and brisk walkers exercised, every single one of them accompanied by a dog, or two, or three.

Originally a resort built around crystal clear natural springs, Wagtail’s waters had drawn guests for their healing powers. Stores and hotels had catered to wealthy visitors. Even today, the center of town remained a pedestrian zone, free of cars and exhaust.

Adorable stores and restaurants lined the sides of the walking area. Wide sidewalks provided ample space for pedestrians, benches for the weary, and outdoor tables at restaurants. In the center, a green grassy section stretched away from me. Trees lined the sides, and a charming gazebo graced the center.

Beyond the pedestrian zone, the roofs of quaint houses made for a picturesque scene, with chimneys rising above the rooflines.

Eager to see Oma, I ironed my silk blouse in a hurry. It would never be the same. I doubted that even a talented dry cleaner could remove the stains, and there I was, ironing them so they’d be set in the fabric. Unfortunately, I now knew why my suit was dry-clean only. The wool had shrunk, but the lining hadn’t. The jacket wasn’t fully dry, so I canned that immediately. The lining now draped below the skirt, and caused the material to tug and pucker. I had no makeup except for the lipstick in my purse. My suede shoes had stiffened but I jammed my feet into them because they were all I had. After I checked on Oma, I would have to take a stroll through town and buy a few things to tide me over.

My hair kinked from sleeping on it wet. I brushed it into a ponytail, one of the benefits of long hair on bad hair days. How good could a person look in a stained blouse, no makeup, and a dry-clean-only skirt that had air-dried and shrunk? I looped the leash on the dog’s collar and hurried out to the elevator.

The kitten pranced to the elevator with us and readily boarded it as though she’d been riding elevators her whole life.

The dog hesitated. She didn’t want to enter the elevator again. Silly girl. I picked her up, and she squirmed when the elevator doors shut. At least she hadn’t soiled in the inn. I set her down. Terrified, she froze.

When the doors opened, she shot out.

The kitten danced past her, headed toward the registration desk.

We followed Twinkletoes and proceeded outdoors, where I found a very thoughtfully placed doggie restroom. The dog still seemed a bit confused by the constraint of the leash, but she did what she needed to, and we headed back inside to more familiar territory in the main part of the inn. The dog readily trotted along with me. She paused now and then for a sniff, but who could blame her for that?

Oma had knocked down some walls, opening the Dogwood Room, the main gathering room, into the old lobby area. The huge stone fireplace remained, along with the rustic pine mantel that I remembered. I paused in front of the grand staircase. Opposite it, the original entrance of the inn fronted on Wagtail’s pedestrian zone. The Dogwood Room lay to my left and a corridor led away to the new reception area.

I hoped Oma hadn’t updated the wonderful old kitchen that she maintained for her personal use. I had spent countless hours in its warmth and hated to imagine it gone. But before I reached it, my grandmother called to me from a table overlooking the lake in the dining area on the other side of the grand staircase. She had removed the narrow old windows in favor of a breathtaking window wall where guests could enjoy the panorama of the lake and the mountains. A few brave guests sat outside at tables on the stone terrace.

The relief I felt at seeing Oma reminded me how much I loved her. I didn’t like the looks of her elevated leg, though.

I rushed over to her and planted a kiss on her cheek.

Officer Dave sat at the table with her. Heavy bags sagged under his eyes. He probably hadn’t gotten any sleep at all. He clutched a mug of coffee in his hands.

A crisp white square topper covered a rose tablecloth. Dave’s breakfast—a waffle covered with blackberries—made my mouth water. The delicious scent of sage wafted from sausages on a side dish. A basket of croissants and hearty breakfast breads looked so incredible that I wanted to select one, slather butter on it, and sink my teeth into it.

A vase of sunflowers graced each of the dozen round tables. I reveled in my surroundings. Oma seemed fine, the sun glittered on the lake below, and it felt great to be back at the inn.

Oma grasped my hand and didn’t let go until she noticed the dog. “Ja, who is this? Casey mentioned that you brought a dog.”

Oma hated that she still had a German accent after fifty years in America, but it sounded charming to most people, including me.

“She doesn’t have a name yet. I found her yesterday when I drove up here.”

Dave murmured, “Morning,” before digging into his breakfast.

The dog placed her front paws against the seat of Oma’s chair and wagged her tail with delight. Oma reached down to pet her. There was a little spark between them. Maybe Oma would keep the dog after all.

“When I was a child, this kind of dog often performed in the circus.” Oma reached for a little glass canister on the table and pulled out a tiny cookie in the shape of a bone. She held it over the dog’s head and asked, “Do you know any tricks?”

The dog’s ears perked up, and she pranced on her hind legs briefly, her nose uplifted for the treat. Oma chuckled and fed her the bone.

“What happened to your leg?” If it hadn’t been for the elevated foot, Oma would have looked perfectly normal. She wore her silvery hair in a short, sassy cut. For a woman just over seventy, her skin showed remarkably few wrinkles. She’d never been fond of makeup and didn’t really need it. She wore a white turtleneck, brown trousers, and a hand-knitted red vest embroidered with tiny white hearts. I assumed she had knitted the vest herself.

“You didn’t tell her?” asked Oma of Dave.

“There was a fire, Liesel.”

“Yesterday evening,” said Oma, “someone murdered Sven, one of my employees.”