The Dog Who Knew Too Much

by Krista Davis

  I checked my watch and said as sweetly as possible, “Pippin should be arriving soon. Maybe we should cordon off the reception lobby? If word gets out and these Pippinmania types rush to see him, it could be a madhouse.”

  Mr. Huckle, who had stood a discreet distance away during Birdie’s tirade, nodded. “I’ll help you bring up the stanchions and ropes. While you get the star settled in his room, I’ll stand guard.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Huckle.”

  I waved at Aunt Birdie and fled toward the basement. I would certainly hear about this from my mother. Luckily, she had also suffered from Aunt Birdie’s cranky nature. I wished Aunt Birdie would find a hobby that didn’t involve me.

  Mr. Huckle and I spent the next half hour arranging crowd-control stanchions at the hallway that led from the main part of the inn to the reception lobby.

  Fortunately, in spite of the ropes, the Pippinmania crowd hadn’t caught on that their favorite celebrity was about to arrive. Trixie and I left Mr. Huckle to crowd management and hurried along the corridor to the reception lobby on the west side of the inn.

  At the sight of me, my normally calm Oma jumped from the desk chair in our office and rushed to join us. Her eyes shone with excitement. “Did you know that Howard Hirschtritt is a famous actor? I have seen him on television!”

  Oma was always impeccably dressed in what she liked to call country chic. Today that consisted of a violet plaid skirt with a white blouse embroidered with flowers that matched the colors in her skirt. Oma never wore makeup other than lipstick, so I noticed immediately that she had gussied up a bit with blush and mascara. If I wasn’t mistaken, even Gingersnap, her golden retriever who was the canine ambassador of the inn, sported a new collar embroidered with the words Best. Dog. Ever.

  Gingersnap was a sweetheart and definitely deserved that kind of praise.

  Zelda, the daytime desk clerk, chirped up. “I didn’t realize that Howard Hirschtritt was with Pippin’s entourage. He’s been nominated for three Emmys! We have Hollywood royalty coming with Pippin.” Zelda tweaked her cheeks for color and fluffed her long blonde hair. “They say he has given several famous actors their start in the business.”

  “Are you hoping he’ll discover you?” I asked. It was always interesting to meet someone famous, but I had no aspirations of finding fame in Hollywood, and I hadn’t known that Oma or Zelda had Hollywood dreams.

  “Well,” said Zelda, “if they’re going to make a TV show with a dog in it, maybe it would be helpful to have a cast member who can communicate with the dog.”

  She had a point. Zelda fancied herself an animal psychic. I was still a little bit doubtful about her abilities, but Zelda thought she could communicate with them. She even had a side business as a pet psychic. On occasion, she had been dead-on. I wasn’t so sure, but just because I couldn’t read a dog’s mind didn’t mean she couldn’t.

  At that moment, Shadow, our handyman, passed through the registration lobby with his bloodhound, Elvis. “All the prizes for Pippin’s Treasure Hunt are hidden on the mountain, ready to go. The guys from Chowhound are supposed to set up their tents this afternoon. I get along with Augie just fine, but one of us probably ought to go up there and check on him. I’d hate to have everyone get to the top and not have any grub.”

  I gave him a thumbs-up. Augie was a nice guy. Sometimes he was so generous that he overextended himself and couldn’t accomplish everything he had promised. “As soon as we get Pippin and friends checked in and settled, I’ll take a hike up there. It’s so pretty with everything coming back to life after the winter.”

  Trixie and Gingersnap pricked their ears and gazed expectantly toward the sliding glass doors.

  Two Wagtail taxis drove up. Golf carts were the primary means of transportation in Wagtail. All visitors left their cars in a large parking lot outside of town and were transported into town by golf carts, better known as Wagtail taxis.

  “They’re here,” Zelda breathed.

  Shadow hurried outside to help them with their luggage, and Oma straightened the belt on her skirt.

  After all the preparation and anticipation, the sliding glass doors opened and a blonde fashionista wearing a leather jacket and oversize sunglasses backed into the lobby snapping photos as Pippin, America’s favorite dog, walked into the Sugar Maple Inn.

  An adorable border collie and yellow Labrador retriever mix with bright eyes, Pippin engaged Gingersnap in proper doggy protocol for meeting a stranger. Friendly and good-natured in spite of his long flight from the West Coast, he promptly introduced himself to Trixie, too.

  It was immediately clear why he was America’s favorite dog. He had the fluffy fur of his border collie ancestors, but he was definitely Labrador yellow with a whitish blaze on his face. His ears perked up at the base, but the tips flopped over, which gave him the appearance of being an eternal puppy.

  Pippin’s human entourage followed him inside while the photographer continued to take pictures.

  “I’d like to get a shot of Pippin checking into the inn,” she said.

  A tall man stepped toward the registration desk. He patted the top, saying, “Pippin, paws up!”

  Pippin promptly left his new dog friends and stretched to place his front paws on the top of the desk. Zelda played along by handing him the key to his room, which Pippin promptly took into his mouth. It would be an adorable picture.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Holly Miller, the co-owner of the Sugar Maple Inn. Do you think we could have a copy of that?”

  The photographer looked a little bit put out. She lowered her sunglasses and eyed me as if she wasn’t impressed by my jeans and pink buffalo-check shirt. “Sure.”

  “Good grief, but you people are out in the boonies. I didn’t even know places like this still existed.” The man who spoke was partially bald with smooth facial skin and a prominent nose.

  I recognized him right away as Howard Hirschtritt from TV shows he had starred in. But I didn’t think I had seen him in anything recently. I wouldn’t have known him by name if we hadn’t just been talking about him, but his face was very familiar.

  He stretched out his arm and made a production of looking at his watch, a modern silver style with a brown alligator strap. “That’s it, kiddos,” he said. “Hope I don’t see you around.” He spoke like a grump, with a grumble in his tone.

  “Howard, wait!” cried a pretty young woman with large brown eyes and lush lashes. “Where are you going?”

  The man snorted. “I am not a dog sitter. I may play the role of the father-in-law, but I am not a dog sitter.”

  She pumped her hands on her hips.

  I could tell she wasn’t a pushover.

  “Excuse me, but isn’t this your job?” she demanded. “I was led to believe that you would be in charge of this project with Pippin.”

  His upper lip curled as though she amused him. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty, sweetheart. The guy with the dog will take care of everything.” He strode toward the door.

  The woman followed him. “If you’re not staying here, the least you can do is tell us where we can reach you.”

  “Darling,” said the man in a droll tone, “that would defeat the purpose of leaving, wouldn’t it?” Chuckling to himself, he sauntered out of the inn.

  Two

  The young woman watched the automatic door close behind him and whipped around. “Can you believe him?” she asked her companions. “You’d think he would have left an itinerary and a number where he can be called. Howard Hirschtritt was one of the main reasons I was excited about this job, and now he has brought us to heaven knows where and abandoned us.” She gazed at the others. “Do any of you know what we’re supposed to do?”

  They appeared to be fairly clueless.

  A red-haired guy said, “At least we won’t have to hear about that watch again.” He imitated Howard when he said, “It’s a ra
re Cape Cod–style Hermès.”

  The two women and two men who had arrived with Howard snickered.

  The pretty woman looked at the man who had gotten Pippin to pose for his photograph. “I guess you’re in charge.”

  He was blond with an athletic build. There was no mistaking the annoyance with which he said, simply, “Nope.”

  “Didn’t Howard tell you what we’re supposed to do?” she persisted. “He just said as much.”

  He held up his hands as if in protest. “I’m just Pippin’s assistant. No one ever tells me anything. I’m here to make sure Pippin has a vacation before you guys start shooting.”

  “Don’t look at me,” said the photographer. “I handle Pippin’s social media.”

  “Bonding,” said the red-haired guy. “We’re supposed to become buddies. Remember the show Friends? The actors were sent to Vegas to bond before they started shooting. It’s not a bad idea, actually.” To Zelda and me, he said, “Camille and I are supposed to be a couple in a TV show about our rascally dog, played by Pippin. Howard has the role of the grouchy father-in-law. The producer thought it would be a good idea if we all became friends and if we got to know and love Pippin. That kind of genuine affection comes across on-screen. And it’s important when there are a lot of snide, teasing comments in a show. You don’t want them to seem angry when they’re supposed to be funny.”

  That explained a lot. It wasn’t perfect timing for me to butt in, but they all looked tired and I didn’t want them to start moaning about Howard’s abrupt exit again. “Welcome to the Sugar Maple Inn.” I reached out to pet Pippin and shake his paw. “I’m Holly Miller. If you need anything at all, please ask us. Everyone in Wagtail is excited to have Pippin vacationing here.”

  Zelda smiled at them. “Camille Ladouceur?”

  The woman with the brown eyes stepped toward her. She had a mane of dark hair that rivaled Zelda’s long locks. “That’s me.”

  Zelda checked them in one at a time. While she checked in the two men, I showed the women to their rooms.

  Camille and Marlee Seidel, the thin photographer, followed me.

  “I can’t believe that Howard took off,” griped Marlee. “What is he thinking? And why couldn’t they have sent us to Miami Beach or someplace fun?”

  “Do you think this is some kind of trick?” asked Camille. “Maybe it’s part of their plan. You know, leaving us to our own devices so we’ll have to be a team to survive?”

  “Survive?” screeched Marlee. “I don’t do survival.”

  “Camille, you’re in Stay.” The door to the room bore a little plaquette with the word Stay. “All the rooms in the main section of the inn are named after things dogs like to do.” I swung the door open.

  Camille walked in slowly, taking in the mahogany four-poster bed piled with pillows and surrounded by silky curtains. A bay window overlooked the plaza in front of the inn, and the walking zone beyond called the green.

  She paused in front of the fireplace in the corner. “This is lovely. I’d like to stay in here the whole time curled up with a good book.” She fingered the basket of goodies from merchants in Wagtail. “Um, Holly, I don’t know quite how to ask this, but the room is paid for, right?”

  “You don’t have to worry about that. Your stay has been taken care of by the production company. We serve breakfast and lunch and offer limited room service. You’ll find the menu on the desk. But we don’t serve dinner.”

  “That’s a relief. At least someone planned ahead. I got a little worried when Howard abandoned us. Thanks!”

  I closed the door and unlocked Chew. The afternoon sun shone through the window that overlooked Dogwood Lake and the mountains. A stone fireplace on the adjoining wall was a rustic touch, and it melded nicely with the country chintz fabric of blooming peonies on a light blue background.

  Marlee tossed her purse on the bed along with her expensive-looking camera. “When I signed up as Pippin’s social media manager, I never expected this. I thought we might go to Paris or Tokyo. He’s very popular in Japan. But no, poor overworked Pippin had to go on a dog vacay in the boonies.”

  “Maybe you’ll enjoy it, too. He’s going on a hike tomorrow morning,” I said cheerfully.

  “Ugh. They’ll want pictures.” She flopped backward onto her bed, hitting her head on the camera. “Ow.” She rubbed her head and lay there.

  I assumed that was a cue for me to exit.

  I returned to the lobby to collect Jim McGowen, Pippin’s handler, and Finch Morrison, both of whom were, thankfully, much more cheerful than Marlee.

  It appeared to me that Jim was already flirting with Zelda. “Pippin’s going on a hike and a picnic tomorrow,” he said, “so he can run around in the woods off leash and play with other dogs. But I won’t have anyone to keep me company. Maybe you could join us?”

  Finch glanced around. “I believe I take offense to that. Camille and I will be there. We’re supposed to play with Pippin. Right, Pippin?”

  Pippin looked up at Finch and wagged his tail at the sound of his name. Finch knelt and massaged Pippin’s ears. “We’re going to play together.”

  Zelda was blushing. “That sounds like a lot of fun, but I’m scheduled to work. Maybe I’ll see you later on in the day? We have some great bars and restaurants.”

  Jim towered over Finch, whom I vaguely recognized from a TV show in which he had played a hilariously sarcastic little boy. His flaming-red hair gave him away. He looked much older now that his hairline was receding, though I suspected he was only in his midtwenties. His hair waved and was long enough to tuck behind his ears. His beard was neatly trimmed, and in the middle of all that red hair, impish blue eyes still evoked memories of the spunky kid he had portrayed.

  Finch was a bit portly and carried himself with all the energy of the average couch potato. In contrast, while Jim wasn’t thin, he exuded the get-up-and-go of a more athletic type. He was grinning at Zelda.

  “Ready to go upstairs?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure Pippin wants to leave his new friends,” Finch observed.

  The three dogs were romping together, all tails wagging.

  Suddenly, Jacob Minifree, a local six-year-old with fat cheeks and absolutely no inhibitions, ran into the lobby and flung himself at Pippin. He wrapped his arms around Pippin’s neck.

  “Whoa, there!” Jim rushed to Pippin’s aid. “Everybody loves Pippin, but we have to be respectful of all dogs.”

  To his credit, Pippin wagged his tail and bravely endured the child’s hugs.

  Jacob’s mom was well-known around town because she subscribed to the let them run free theory of child-rearing. I wasn’t the only person who suspected she liked that idea because she had eight children. Oma had heard endless complaints from residents about members of her brood showing up in dangerous locations without adult supervision.

  At Jim’s coaxing, Jacob let go of Pippin and patted his fur with the palm of his hand held flat. “Is this the real Pippin?” he asked.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “My mommy said it would be a fake Pippin, but he looks like Pippin to me.”

  “What’s your name?” asked Jim as he reached into a canvas bag the color of desert sand. It appeared to have all kinds of compartments and handy pockets.

  “Jacob.”

  Jim pulled a tiny plush replica of Pippin from his bag. “This is a gift for you from Pippin for being his number one fan.”

  Jacob grasped the toy dog. “Thanks, Pippin! Can he come outside and play with me?”

  “I’m afraid not. He traveled a long way to get here and Pippin is tired.”

  “Oh.”

  “Maybe your mom can bring you to Pippin’s Treasure Hunt tomorrow.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you then, Pippin.” Jacob waddled out the door.

  Jim frowned. “He’s pretty young. Shouldn’t someone
take him home?”

  Zelda snorted. “You’d think so. But his mother would just send him outside again. So how do you get a job as a dog’s assistant? That sounds like fun!”

  “It was a fluke. I found Pippin in a shelter and adopted him,” said Jim. “He was a goofball and took a great picture, so I started training him, and before I knew it, he made more money than I did at my day job as a computer programmer. Now I’m the personal assistant to America’s favorite dog.”

  “Thanks to Howard, you’re also in charge,” teased Finch.

  “Sorry, Finch, you’ll have to tuck yourself into bed. But I will gladly take you for a run,” Jim quipped.

  The doors flew open, and a woman with a helmet of unmoving platinum hair burst into the reception lobby. She wore a vivid fuchsia dress and so much jewelry on her ample bosom that she sparkled from all the bling. She pushed past the men to Zelda and placed a pudgy hand on the desk. “Rae Rae Babetski checking in. And I’ll need to know in which room Howard Hirschtritt is staying, please.”

  Zelda shot me a desperate glance. I guessed she didn’t want to break the bad news about Howard.

  “Howard has disappeared,” muttered Finch in a disinterested tone.

  Rae Rae turned toward him and paused for a moment while she stared at him. With a gasp, she pulled her head back. A delighted grin spread on her face as she declared, “Oh my word! You’re little Tiger!” She pronounced Tiger with a deep Southern accent—Tah-guh.

  Finch was obviously used to hearing people refer to him by the name of the character he had played. “Roar,” he said in a bored voice, languidly holding up his hands and curling his fingers like pretend claws.

  “You’re just adorable! Are you going to be in Pippin’s TV show?”