by Krista Davis
Gingersnap trained her eyes on Ella Mae. The little dog’s coloring resembled a miniature Doberman, black with cream that started on her paws and extended to her chest.
The woman clutched Ella Mae as though she feared Gingersnap might harm her.
“Don’t worry about Gingersnap,” I said. “She’s very friendly.”
“For Pete’s sake, Charlotte, put that dog on the floor and let her play. Nothing is going to happen to her.” The man who uttered those words was attractive in a friendly way with neatly trimmed hair brushed back off his face. A glimmer of gray had crept into it. One eyebrow was up a little higher than the other, imparting a slightly impish look that I bet extended to his character. He was reasonably trim, and looked like someone who probably had a responsible kind of job.
Charlotte held on to the dog and ignored him. “Charlotte and Geoffrey Tredwell,” she said to Zelda, who glanced at me as soon as Charlotte said the name. “We’re part of the If the Dog Fits weekend.” She planted a smooch on the little dog’s head.
Her husband quickly added, “We’re also playing the Murder Most Howl game. Char, how about the big yellow dog?” He walked over to the timid dog, bent, and ruffled the dog’s fur. “How about it, big boy? Would you like to be our dog? Do you like to run? I need a running companion.”
“That’s Rooster,” said Zelda. “He doesn’t like that name, though, and won’t be upset if you change it.”
The yellow dog wagged his tail, but Geof Tredwell gave Zelda a curious look. “Char, I bet Rooster is already housebroken. Look how friendly he is.”
Char shook her head.
“Do you expect me to run with that little dog? People would laugh at me. He’s smaller than a cat.”
“Ella Mae is a girl, and she’s adorable.” Char held her up and cooed at her, which resulted in a dog kiss on Char’s nose.
The Tredwells were our first guests to participate in the If the Dog Fits program. “Congratulations! So you and Ella Mae are spending the weekend together to see if you’re a good fit?”
Geoffrey hacked and turned away coughing. When he recovered, he said, “Char. Be serious. We need a real dog, not one the size of a rat.”
“Geof, if you say one more bad thing about this dog, you better hope they have an extra room. She’s not a rat. She’s part miniature pinscher and part rat terrier. It says so right here on the papers. I don’t know anything about rat terriers, but I’m betting they hunted rats. Which is more than you can do.” She glanced past him out the window. “Will you look at that snow? Ella Mae is going to need a coat.”
Geof turned his eyes toward the ceiling. “Saints above, spare me! Now she’s going to buy the dog a wardrobe.”
Char demanded, “Which room is mine, please?”
I picked up her luggage.
Geof looked down at Rooster. “I’m sorry, fellow. Really and truly sorry.”
Rooster’s tail flicked in a sad wag. The bloodhound puppy who had been ignored by the Tredwells sat in a corner looking sad and bewildered. I wanted to adopt him!
I asked the Treadwells to follow me.
Geof trailed along behind us as we walked to the elevator.
“C’mon, Char,” he said. “You know I’m not fond of tiny dogs that can fit in a purse. We should choose a real dog like Rooster.”
“You better get another room if you don’t want to sleep in the snow, Geof. I’m not putting up with disparaging remarks all weekend. I love this little doggy!”
Ella Mae’s ears stood up straight. She turned her head, looking around and taking everything in with bright eyes. I wondered if she knew instinctively that Geof didn’t care for her. Probably. Dogs were amazingly adept at picking up on emotions. If it bothered her, she didn’t show any sign of it. Would she snap or growl if he tried to pet her?
Then again, Ella Mae had been cooped up at the shelter. She was probably thrilled to be out in the world. Maybe she would try to win him over.
I unlocked the door to Stay and swung it open. Char entered first, and I could hear her exclaiming about it.
Geof studied the word on the door. “Stay? Does that change to Leave when you’re done with us?”
I laughed at his interpretation. “All the rooms are named after dog and cat activities. Sit, Stay, Fetch, Pounce . . .”
“Swell,” he muttered unenthusiastically.
The room featured a bay window, from which we could see the snow falling. A stone fireplace in the corner was ready to be lighted. Silky curtains hung off the frame of a mahogany four-poster bed piled with inviting pillows. Their wildflower pattern matched the window seat cushions.
Two welcome baskets rested on a coffee table, one chock full of dog toys and goodies, the other loaded with wine and munchies for the Tredwells.
“Does the fireplace work?” asked Geof.
“It does. If you need help with it, just give us a shout.”
His wife shot him a glance. I expected another retort about finding a room of his own, but she released Ella Mae, who ran around sniffing every corner, her tail curled over her back.
“The initial meeting for Murder Most Howl is at Hair of the Dog at seven thirty tonight. It’s marked on the map Zelda gave you. Let me know if you need anything.”
I walked out of the room wondering about them. I hoped that Ella Mae would win over Geof during the weekend.
When I returned to the registration lobby, fifteen women who couldn’t stop talking about the murder mystery weekend crowded the registration lobby. Two had brought their dogs along and two held cat carriers. The dogs, a poodle and a basset hound, mingled with Gingersnap, Trixie, Rooster, and the poor bloodhound puppy who had been ignored by the Tredwells. All tails flew high with excitement.
From the chatter, I gathered the women were all part of the same book club, called The Thursday Night Cloak and Dagger Club. One even wore a Sherlock Holmes–type hat. Mostly in their forties and fifties, they seemed to be good-natured and spirited.
“My word, but it’s cold here. I hope there are some nice stores in town. I didn’t pack any long johns.” The speaker held the leash of a miniature poodle, whose apricot coat very nearly matched her own hair in both color and curl.
“Honestly, Weegie,” said a short woman who held herself very erect. “We’re in the mountains, what did you expect?”
Weegie’s expression showed polite disdain for her friend. “We’re from North Carolina,” she drawled to Zelda. “I can’t recall when it was this cold at home, Myrtle.”
Myrtle’s jaw tightened. I guessed she had been a dark brunette, because her hair had turned silken gray with dark streaks. The set of her jaw made me think she was a no-nonsense type. She looked at a friend who had obviously anticipated the chilly weather, because she wore a black puffer jacket. “Sylvie,” said Myrtle, “are you sure you won’t room with Weegie?”
Sylvie chuckled in a good-natured way, revealing sweet dimples on her pudgy face. Her round cheeks pushed up the oval wire-rimmed glasses she wore. Sylvie edged near the registration desk and pulled off a cap, revealing super-short two-tone blonde hair. Blondish bangs hung at the top of her face but had been trimmed a good inch above her eyebrows. Her hair grew darker in tone toward her ears and the nape of her neck.
“Honey, I’m a terrible roommate,” she said. “Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night and flick on the TV or read.”
“I should have booked a single room,” Myrtle grumbled.
Weegie didn’t bother turning around. “You know that I can hear you, right?”
Sylvie squealed when Leo jumped on the counter right next to her. She sucked in a deep breath and staggered back a step.
“I’m so sorry. Where did he come from?” I asked, lifting him off the registration desk.
Myrtle giggled at her friend’s shock. “He followed us inside.”
Leo didn’t seem perturbed. He strolled to the small landing on the stairs and watched us.
“Would you like a Sugar Maple Inn GPS collar for your
dog?” I asked Weegie.
“GPS? You mean it tracks her?”
“In case she gets lost. There’s no charge for it. You just turn it in when you leave.”
“Well sure, if it’s free.” She turned her head to face her dog. “Would you like that, Puddin’?”
Puddin’ didn’t seem to mind when I latched the collar on her.
I had just settled Myrtle, Weegie, and Puddin’ the poodle in Swim and returned to the registration desk when Zelda handed me the phone with dread in her eyes. “It’s not beginning well,” she whispered.
I took the phone from her. It was Val. Her voice sounded oddly controlled, as though she was making an effort to be calm. “We have a problem. A tree fell on electrical wires and half of Wagtail has no electricity—including Hair of the Dog.”
“That’s terrible! Do you want to sleep over here tonight? You can stay in my spare room.”
“Holly! You’re not getting what I’m saying.” Suddenly she sounded panicked. “We have to start Murder Most Howl at the Sugar Maple Inn tonight!”
Three
“No problem,” I said to Val. “We would be happy to have the initial meeting here. We’ll just have to notify everyone. Put a sign on the door of the pub, and we’ll give people an extra twenty minutes or so to walk over here. Does that sound okay?”
Zelda bit her upper lip and watched me. “This is going to be trouble,” she hissed.
“Nonsense,” I whispered. “Val, just let me know what you need.” I hung up the phone. “It will be fine. We have enough room to accommodate everyone. You start calling our participating guests to let them know. I’ll round up Mr. Huckle and Shelley, and they can help me get the Dogwood Room ready. No problem.” I’d said that twice in just a few seconds. I hoped I wasn’t saying it to convince myself.
I trudged up the stairs to Oma’s apartment. I’d been resentful when she told me that Mr. Huckle would be staying there during her absence. I loved Mr. Huckle, but having him live in the inn to watch over me was the equivalent of having a babysitter. Formerly a butler for a wealthy family in Wagtail, he was ancient and proper in a way that made me want to pull my shoulders back and stand straighter, but he was a dear man. Oma claimed he lent a dignified air to the inn, which was undoubtedly true, but the reality was that she wanted to give him a job when he found himself unexpectedly unemployed.
I knocked on the door. The moment Mr. Huckle opened it, Trixie jumped up and placed her paws on his knees. He bent to pat her. I was surprised to see the wizened little man in the formal attire he favored for work. It was almost as though he’d been waiting for me.
Mr. Huckle jumped at the opportunity to help. I wasn’t sure if it was just his nature or years of being a butler that made him eager to be of assistance. Whatever the reason, I was glad to have him around in spite of my initial resentment.
While we walked downstairs, I told Mr. Huckle about losing our handyman. “Know of anyone who might be interested in the job?” I asked.
Mr. Huckle took a beat too long to respond. “Perhaps that’s something your grandmother would prefer to take up upon her return.”
Hmmpf. I hadn’t expected that response. We needed a handyman now. Besides, this was something I could handle. I was perfectly capable of hiring someone. I let the topic slide and moved on to the project of setting up chairs.
Mr. Huckle, Shelley, and I formed an assembly line of sorts to bring extra chairs up from the basement. I refrained from mentioning to Mr. Huckle that a handyman would have been helpful. In the basement, I hauled the chairs onto the elevator and pressed the button for the main floor. Shelley took them off the elevator and carried them to Mr. Huckle, who arranged them in the Dogwood Room and the adjoining lobby.
Once a grand home, the inn had been expanded and updated over the years. It was situated in a prime location between the end of Wagtail’s pedestrian zone and Dogwood Lake. The original lobby and grand staircase faced a plaza and the green, where people strolled with their dogs and cats. Each side of the green was lined with sidewalks, where most of the stores and restaurants were located.
Oma had renovated recently, moving the official reception lobby to a new addition on the west side of the inn. We’d discovered, though, that it was wiser to keep an eye on the front door of the old lobby because that was where most people came and went.
At my insistence, we had added an elegant concierge desk, where Mr. Huckle could take a load off his feet when he wasn’t busy elsewhere. At night, we now locked the reception lobby on the side. The night manager worked at the desk in the old lobby. A buzzer at the reception door rang at the concierge desk if someone arrived after dark. So far it was working out fairly well.
I dusted off my jeans and joined Mr. Huckle, Shelley, and the cook in the Dogwood Room, which was open to the old lobby and the grand staircase. Outside the two-story windows, snow gently drifted through the air. A fire blazed and my calico kitten, Twinkletoes, who was getting bigger by the day and was more of an adolescent now, was curled up in front of it, snoozing with her black tail over her pink nose, the cat equivalent of a Do Not Disturb sign.
Trixie danced toward her carefully but had the good sense to leave the sleeping cat alone.
“Looks great!” I said.
The cook appraised our work. “I guess we’ll serve some simple appetizers and munchies? Hot chocolate, decaf coffee and tea, and a warm grog?”
I nodded. “Works for me. Thanks for staying late to help out.”
“If I may make a suggestion, Miss Holly, perhaps we should bring out some candles and candelabra, just in case we lose power as well.” Mr. Huckle bestowed a gracious smile on me when I agreed.
On my way to the third-floor attic, where most of the off-season furniture was stashed, I spied Ella Mae on the second-floor landing. She quickly turned tail and ran back. Char, bundled up for the weather, emerged from their room. She picked up Ella Mae, wrapped her in a shawl, and carried the tiny dog in her arms.
“Ella Mae and I are going shopping!” She peered out the window on the landing. “Do you think the stores will be open?”
“Probably. Most of the owners live in easy walking distance of their shops.”
Char barely listened. She was busy making cooing sounds to Ella Mae. “I fell in love with this little girl the second I saw her.”
“Has your husband warmed up to her yet?”
“Geof! Honestly, he makes me so mad. He has chosen every dog we’ve ever had. They were all huge. The bigger they are, the more he likes them. I loved them all, of course, but this time, I’m making the choice, and he’ll just have to go along with it. See you later!” She walked carefully down the stairs.
Trixie and I ventured up one more flight, where our apartment was on one end of the floor, and the storage attic was on the other. I unlocked the door, and Trixie zoomed inside as though she expected to find something fascinating. The open space was filled with out-of-season decorations and extra furniture. Oma, or maybe an employee, had been inconsistent about labeling boxes. It appeared that Oma kept everything. I guessed that was wise. One never knew what might be needed. I plowed through boxes until I found some full of candles and candleholders.
I made several trips downstairs on the elevator. Oma clearly had anticipated this kind of problem in the past. She had amassed a collection of battery-operated and regular candles. There was even a lantern for each room. Two hours later, with the assistance of Mr. Huckle, candles, lanterns, and matches waited everywhere, and I was beat. No wonder Oma needed a vacation!
Mr. Huckle, Shelley, and I warmed up leftover lasagna from the inn’s lunch menu for a quick bite before everyone arrived for the initial mystery meeting. Zelda and the cook joined us, along with Twinkletoes, Gingersnap, and Trixie.
Twinkletoes feasted on something the cook called country chicken, which looked like chopped chicken and chicken livers to me. The dogs devoured the inn’s roast turkey with gravy.
We ate by the fire in the dining area. Outside t
he huge windows, spotlights shone in the night, revealing snow that continued to float lazily down.
The Sugar Maple Inn did not serve dinner to guests. Oma felt breakfast, lunch, and afternoon tea were sufficient, plus she wanted people to go out into Wagtail to the restaurants. Some of them, like The Blue Boar, were only steps from the inn. Consequently, the inn always grew quiet around the dinner hour.
Val was the first to interrupt the tranquility. She stamped her feet outside on the porch, like an omen of what was to come, then burst through the front door, dragging a rolling cart behind her.
She spied us at our table, shed her boots, and walked toward us in pink, purple, and turquoise striped socks. Her dark brown hair flew with static when she whipped off a turquoise knit hat. “What miserable timing. The snow couldn’t wait two days? Two lousy days?”
“How are the sidewalks?” asked Shelley.
Val nodded, unzipping her ski jacket. “Not bad. They scattered that paw-friendly stuff on them so the snow is melting pretty fast. I saw one of the golf carts depositing it on the streets, too.”
“Want a bite to eat?” I asked. “We have plenty.”
“No thanks, I’m good. I spent the afternoon cooking everything in the fridge so it wouldn’t spoil. Didn’t make much money today but I ate well. Lucky I have a gas grill.”
Shelley offered to help Mr. Huckle clean up so Val, the cook, and I could focus on the mystery meeting.
There really wasn’t much to do. I placed urns of hot coffee and tea on a long buffet table next to a crockpot of hot grog. The heady scent of oranges wafted from it. Insulated pitchers of hot chocolate were lined up next to whipped cream, marshmallows, Kahlúa, and peppermint schnapps, so guests could doctor their own drinks. Bottles of water and soda stood nearby. The cook had done a remarkable job of whipping up a few snacks to nosh on. I carried out beautifully arranged platters. Fresh fruit with a chocolate dip, artichoke and mushroom bruschetta, tangy cocktail meatballs, and a giant assortment of cheeses and other lovely items to nibble on, like olives, and veggies with a spinach dip. He hadn’t forgotten the dogs and cats. A basket of round dog treats with a paw imprint sat next to a smaller basket of fishy-smelling treats in the shapes of little sardines, undoubtedly for cats.