The Ghost and Mrs. Mewer (A Paws and Claws Mystery Book 2)

by Krista Davis

  We had played together as children when I came to stay with my grandmother during summer vacations. Clementine had grown up with all the luxuries of wealth. Her father was well known as the richest man in Wagtail. They bred beagles and horses on a gentleman’s farm just outside of town. But horse-crazed Clementine had never played the princess. She mucked out stalls, was always present when a horse gave birth, and could handle just about anything on the farm.

  She winced at the sound of a crash in the back of the store. “I’ve got it,” she yelled to the cashier as two young boys dashed by her. She reached out and grabbed the collars on their shirts. They squealed but she reeled them in. “Say hello to Holly.”

  “Hello, Holly.” They choked out the words with complete disinterest and wriggled out of her grasp to pet Trixie.

  “Where’s your sister?” she asked them.

  The boys looked at each other. They appeared to be twins and a handful of trouble.

  “I’m so sorry. The D-I-V-O-R-C-E”—she spelled the word—“has been hard on all of us, and I’m afraid I’ve been too indulgent.” Speaking to the children, she added, “I thought we weren’t going to act like wild monkeys anymore.”

  They giggled and ran down the aisle.

  “I’m sure they’re very sweet. How’s your dad?”

  “Off to a major dog show with Babylicious and her last litter. He’s convinced that Baby is a star. I think your grandmother’s Great Dane, Dolce, is at the show, too.”

  She winced at the sound of another crash. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe we have a mess to clean up in the back. We’ll have to get together for lunch sometime.”

  “I’d like that.” I watched as she rounded up her little boys and hustled them toward a girl about the same age. Triplets? Her daughter was trying to rebuild a pyramid display out of cans that were rolling on the floor. She carried a stuffed dog, old and threadbare in spots, that looked exactly like one Clementine had had when we were kids.

  Clementine set the boys to work picking up cans and did her best to restore the display.

  A tall, seriously good-looking man roamed past their aisle, distracting me. Short hair the color of coffee beans had outgrown its cut just enough to be charmingly ruffled. He wore the haven’t-shaved-in-a-couple-of-days look. Boots, jeans, T-shirt, green army jacket—he could have walked out of an ad for cowboys.

  He pretended to study some bins of nails, but it appeared to me that he was actually watching Clementine and her children.

  Seven

  Clementine spotted him, too. Her eyes widened in fear. She wasted no time grabbing the hands of the two boys. “Emily, let’s go.” She dodged out the other end of the aisle and through the store to the entrance, where she beat a hasty exit.

  The good-looking guy ambled toward the front and exited the store a beat behind her.

  I set my items on a display rack and dashed outside with Trixie to see if Clementine needed help. Holding the boys’ hands, she ran as well as anyone could in those shoes. Her daughter raced ahead of her.

  The man pretended to window-shop. When Clementine and her troop turned the corner, he picked up his pace. Trixie and I did, too.

  By the time we reached the corner, they had all vanished. I paused and listened for any sound of distress. If the guy had nabbed them, surely he wouldn’t be able to keep those two boys quiet.

  A pebble shot toward us on the sidewalk. Trixie sniffed it, but I looked in the direction from which it had come.

  A darling one-story shingled house was set back a bit on a heavily landscaped lot. The sign near the sidewalk identified it as Pampered Pet Portraits. A large show window at the front of the house displayed stunning paintings of animals. Trixie and I strolled toward it.

  “Don’t come over here.” It was little more than a frantic hiss.

  “Clementine?” I peered behind a row of manicured boxwoods.

  Clementine crouched with her children, holding a hand over each of her sons’ mouths. “Is he gone?”

  “I think so.”

  “Make sure.”

  I casually returned to the sidewalk and gazed around. If he was hiding, I didn’t think he’d toss a pebble my way.

  We doubled back, and I pretended to admire the portraits in the window. “I don’t see him, but he could be hiding.”

  “Ouch!” Clementine stood up. “What did I tell you about biting?” She grabbed the boys’ hands. “Thanks, Holly.” Her eyes canvassed the area so fast that it made me dizzy.

  “Clementine, do you need help? Maybe you should come to the inn.”

  “No, no! We’re good, thanks.” She took off down the street with her three children.

  “That was strange, wasn’t it?” I asked Trixie as we walked back to the store. I didn’t know what Trixie was thinking, but I pondered what I had seen. If the man had been her husband, surely the children would have run to their dad. Was her ex the type who would hire someone to spy on her?

  I would have to ask Oma if she knew anything about Clementine’s domestic problems when I returned to the inn. I paid for my purchases and stepped outside, keeping an eye out for the mysterious man.

  It dawned on me that Hair of the Dog wasn’t too far away. It wouldn’t hurt to nose around a little bit for Zelda’s sake. “C’mon, Trixie. Let’s ask a few questions.”

  Trixie wagged her agreement and happily sniffed everything her nose could reach on the way to the pub. Located in a Tudor-style building with outdoor tables in the front, the pub was a source of aggravation for some townspeople who hated the noise when it closed at two in the morning. We stepped inside. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim light.

  A chalkboard advertised Bewitching Brews, Spooky Spirits, and Monster Burgers.

  The woman behind the bar pushed back hair the color of Kahlúa. She tilted her head at me. “What can I get you, Holly Miller?”

  I didn’t remember her from my recent visit. It seemed like I would have. She had a girl-next-door face and a don’t-mess-with-me attitude. She wasn’t much taller than me, but she oozed energy. “Do I know you?”

  “You do now.” She stuck out her hand. “Val Kowalchuk. Everybody knows you. Up until this morning, your arrival back in Wagtail was the hot news in town. Guess they’re still talking about you, but in a slightly different way now”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“since you found the body.” She slapped the bar. “What will you have?”

  It was probably the height of impoliteness to barge into a bar for information without ordering anything. “How about a sparkling water for me and plain water for Trixie?”

  “Sure thing.” Val slid a frosty glass toward me and poured water into it. She pulled a small stainless steel dog bowl from under the bar and filled it with cold water.

  I lowered it to the floor for Trixie, who lapped at it.

  “So, Val,” I said casually in a hushed voice, “were you here last night at closing?” I gulped the refreshing water, more thirsty than I’d thought.

  Val squinted at me. “You’re the third person today to ask me that. I’m here every night at closing. Comes with the territory.” She took a breath. “Our girl Mallory was very big on Zombie Brains. They’re sweet, so they go down easy, but they pack a wallop. We make ’em small for that reason. But I have a strict policy about cutting people off when we think they’ve had too much to drink. Mallory was what I’d call giddy. Not stumbling, not slurring words, just talking loud and being silly.”

  “What was she talking about?”

  “I didn’t pay much attention. Men and ghosts, I think. But then, all the ghost guys were here. Mark, Grayson, the whole gang of them. Mr. Luciano bailed early but the rest of them closed the place down.” She leaned her elbows on the bar. “I’ll say this, though. She was flirting with every single one of them. I’d say she left the whole lot of them in confusion about who might go home wit
h her, if you know what I mean.”

  I knew exactly what she meant. “Was Eva here?”

  Val smiled. “Is she great or what?”

  “Was she upset about Mallory?”

  Val raised an eyebrow, and I knew I’d phrased my question wrong. “No. But there was something going on. Eva kept an eye on Mallory, for sure.”

  “So who else came in here asking questions?”

  “Started with Officer Dave, then Doc, and now you. Is Mallory a friend of yours?”

  I shook my head. “Barely knew her. I just feel terrible. She was all alone in a strange place and something really awful happened.”

  Val’s eyes widened. “I know what you mean. Everybody is asking how she could have drowned in shallow water like that. Of course, I have a vested interest in hoping she didn’t drown because she was loaded. I just bought this place. Don’t need that kind of reputation.” She leaned toward me again. “Is it true that she was wearing a ghost costume?”

  I nodded. “Did she ever come in here before?”

  “Oh sure. She was a talky sort. Had all kinds of plans to marry Mark. Rumor had it that she wanted to move in with him but he put the kibosh on that and sent her packing.”

  “So she didn’t live in Wagtail?”

  “Far as I know, she came up now and then to try to win over Mark but he wasn’t interested. This is what I want to know. She left here at two in the morning wearing a nice dress with chunky jewelry. One of those bib necklaces that are so popular. Why did she change into a ghost costume in the middle of the night? Why would she do that? Was there a party somewhere in town? I must be getting old, because when I close the bar, I go upstairs and fall into bed. The last thing in the world I would do is put on a Halloween costume and run around.”

  I laughed at her reference to being old, because Val was probably in her mid-thirties. If memory served, though, Hair of the Dog was open for lunch, so she probably didn’t get much sleep. I pulled out my wallet and paid. “Val, if you hear anything, give me a call, okay?”

  She smiled. “Sure thing. We girls have to stick together.” And then she was off, tending to something in the kitchen.

  Trixie and I walked home, enjoying the beautiful fall day—only to find chaos in Oma’s office.

  We sidled past the little cluster of people crowding the room. Wearing his uniform and appearing quite official, Dave leaned against Oma’s desk, his arms resolutely crossed over his chest. Rose appeared worried. Her fingers were curled into tight balls. Mr. Luciano was speaking with her.

  To my utter dismay, Aunt Birdie showed up. I had to give her credit for dressing well. She wore a narrow black pencil skirt with a red top and a matching shawl-collar sweater belted at the waist. A prominent red and silver necklace hung on her neck, and silver earrings peeked out from under her black hair.

  Birdie sniffed and nodded in cool recognition when I said hello. She headed straight for Mr. Luciano and Rose.

  Three other people whom I didn’t know mingled in the room.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered to Oma.

  “I am so relieved that you have returned. Would you mind helping Shelley put together a little buffet lunch for us in the office?” Oma wrung her hands. “My first big problem as interim mayor—whether to call off the ghost walk because of Mallory’s death. It’s such a popular tradition. And it’s only two days to October thirty-first. The visitors who are here came for our Howloween events.”

  “Call it off? Because she was murdered?”

  “Holly! Not so loud. This is what I need to determine. Most Wagtail residents live off tourism one way or another. Howloween is always a big draw.” Oma lowered her voice to the tiniest whisper. “After all the news about the recent murders, we’re having to put our best paws forward to recover.”

  I had been there during that time and understood how the murders might have discouraged tourists. Before then, residents like Zelda hadn’t even bothered to lock their doors.

  Oma clapped her hands. “Will everyone please take a seat?”

  I slipped out quietly to help Shelley. As usual, she already had everything under control.

  “Today’s lunch special is pulled pork. If you could set up these chafing dishes and drinks on the buffet in your grandmother’s office, that would be a huge help. I’ll be along shortly with the food.”

  I pushed the cart to Oma’s office, glad to have an excuse to listen to the discussion.

  One of the men was saying, “I don’t think there’s a thing to worry about. Mallory was probably soused. It wouldn’t be the first time in history that a drunk fell into water and drowned.”

  “Officer Dave?” asked Oma.

  “The police are still searching the area as we speak. They’re going through the Wagtail Springs Hotel as well. It will take some time.”

  “The hotel? Don’t tell me we have to cancel the costume gala!” Rose’s voice escalated to a shrill pitch. “What are you searching for?”

  Dave took a deep breath. “Evidence.”

  “You don’t think this was a tragic accident?” asked Oma.

  I held my breath, thinking of Zelda.

  Dave seemed uncomfortable. “I”—he placed such emphasis on the word that I wondered if he might be alone in this opinion—“don’t believe so.”

  Oh no.

  Rose gasped. “Dave Quinlan, you better be wrong. Wagtail can’t take another murder so soon after the previous ones!”

  One of the men whom I didn’t know chimed in. “I’m speaking for all the merchants when I say that we will ruin the reputation of Wagtail if we cancel the ghost walk. People came here from great distances and at quite some personal expense. They expect to be entertained.”

  Another man spoke up. “I’d like to point out that the merchants spent a lot of money in advertising and inventory and special events for Howloween.”

  The first man spoke again, quite angrily. “Are we going to cancel everything? I don’t see why we should single out the ghost walk.”

  Shelley rolled in a cart with food, and we arranged it on the buffet while the others gazed at Rose.

  She ticked items off on her fingers as she spoke. “There’s the apple bobbing relay to see if dogs or their owners can bob faster. Canine and feline trick-or-treating at homes throughout Wagtail. Hayrides, the cemetery celebration, dog and cat costume parades and contests, Howloween portraits, the cornfield maze for dogs, the ghostly feather agility games for cats, and the grand costume gala at the hotel—not to mention the unofficial contests and specials being held by individual stores and businesses.”

  A costume gala at a deserted hotel? Had I heard that correctly?

  The merchant shook his head. “We can’t call everything off. They don’t do that in other towns. Can you imagine any big city that would cancel everything because one person died? It might be different if we had a madman on the loose, but”—he glared at Dave—“what we’ve got on our hands is the very sad drowning of a drunken young woman. I say we sweep it under the rug as quickly as we can.”

  My eyes met Shelley’s. She appeared as horrified as I felt.

  “Let’s not make light of this,” said Oma. “Mallory’s death is a terrible tragedy.”

  Luciano cleared his throat. “Look, I’m as upset about this as everyone else, but I’m footing the bill for an entire TV crew. What are we talking about realistically? Will we be able to get inside the hotel tonight to shoot the show?”

  “I still don’t understand.” Rose frowned at Dave. “Didn’t she drown in the gazebo? Why are you searching the hotel?”

  “It’s just a precaution. Some people reported seeing . . . someone . . . in the Wagtail Springs Hotel last night.”

  “Who?” demanded Rose.

  Dave exhaled. With a sheepish expression, he said, “Becca Wraith.”

  The merchant snickered. �
��A ghost? What are you expecting to find? Ghost fingerprints?”

  The other man exclaimed, “Oh, for cryin’ out loud! My wife says she saw Becca Wraith’s black panther walking along the street last night. People have gone Howloween crazy. They’re seeing ghosts everywhere.”

  “It’s not that ridiculous,” Dave protested. “Mallory was dressed as Becca Wraith when she died. She might have been inside the hotel with someone.”

  The door opened, and Doc Kilgore peeked in. “Sorry I’m late.” He tucked a pair of glasses into the pocket of his blue plaid flannel shirt and took a seat next to Oma.

  Aunt Birdie sat up straighter and primly crossed her thin legs.

  “Doc,” she said, “Dave has just told us Mallory’s death might not have been an accident.”

  Rose gazed at Doc Kilgore hopefully.

  Doc scratched the side of his face and winced. “Well now, Dave was one of my scouts. Always was a smart little fellow.”

  I glanced at Dave. Doc was talking about him like he was twelve. I felt for him. People like Doc still saw him as a little boy.

  “Gotta say I’m right proud of him. But this time,” said Doc, “I’m afraid it’s just a very sad accident. I’ve seen a lot of drownings in my time. There’s no evidence of foul play. No sign of a struggle. Mallory has a hematoma on the back of her head. There are particles of bark in her wig, so it appears that she fell and hit her head before she made it into the gazebo. It all fits together. She was drunk, which caused her to fall, then she became disoriented or confused, and that accounts for her being in the gazebo and unable to save herself when she hit the water. We’re sending her to Roanoke to the medical examiner’s office, so we won’t know anything more for a few days. I expect they’ll find water in her lungs and evidence of intoxication.”

  In spite of my own doubts, Doc’s position on the matter came as a relief. He made it sound so simple. Maybe it was.

  “Shameful!” Birdie spouted. “It’s simply shameful that we have young women carousing about at night in Wagtail.”