Murder, She Barked: A Paws & Claws Mystery (A Paws and Claws Mystery)

by Davis, Krista

  “You staying at your grandmother’s?” asked Dave.

  I nodded.

  “Go on then. I know where to find you.”

  I headed for Ben’s car.

  “Hey, Holly.”

  I turned around.

  “I’m sorry about your grandmother.”

  “What?” But he’d already disappeared into the fog. My heart heavy with worry, I slid into the car and locked the doors.

  It was nearing three in the morning when I passed the line of firefighters’ cars and drove toward Wagtail. In an odd way, I felt guilty for leaving. But there wasn’t a thing I could do to help. I could only hope no one was in the car that was burning. Besides, I had to see Oma. A tiny part of me wanted to drive slower, to make the trip last longer. As long as I didn’t know anything for certain, she was still okay.

  The rain had finally stopped, but the road no longer seemed familiar. In the past, the road had led directly to the inn, but now a huge parking lot with a guardhouse blocked my way. “What in the world?” I muttered.

  This wasn’t right. Could I have taken a wrong turn in the mist?

  A new sign for the Sugar Maple Inn pointed to the right. I had to turn left or right, so I went with right and hoped the sign was correct. The road later turned left and led me along the edge of town, with houses to one side and forest on the other. It ended abruptly at the inn, but not where I had expected.

  Golden lights burned through the fog as we drove up. I pulled into a small, new porte cochere, with stone pillars supporting the roof. A warm glow shone through large windows, a welcome haven in the night.

  I rolled the windows down a crack. “Stay here while I figure out how to smuggle you inside, where it’s warm.”

  Disoriented, as though I’d driven into some kind of time portal, I ventured inside unfamiliar doors, which slid open on their own. Oma had built an addition that moved the registration desk from the lobby to the side of the inn. The new addition must be the surprise Oma had mentioned. A large antler chandelier hung in the middle of an intimate and charming reception area. Overhead, a European-style wrought iron railing on a balcony smacked of my grandmother’s taste. I spied a small store, the windows dark.

  A young man, not much more than a boy, snoozed fitfully on a loveseat. His legs stuck up in the air over the armrest. One of his arms had fallen off the sofa. A shock of straight chestnut hair hid his forehead, touching the tops of wire-rimmed glasses that had gone askew.

  “Hello?” I spoke gently.

  He jerked into a sitting position, sending his glasses flying to the floor. He raised his hands, palms outward. “Don’t hurt me!”

  “I promise not to.” What a skittish fellow. I picked up his glasses and handed them to him. “That must have been some dream.”

  “Oh, gosh. I’m sorry.” He jumped to his feet. “Welcome to the Sugar Maple Inn.” He slid the glasses on, pushing them onto the bridge of his nose with his middle finger.

  “Thank you. I’m here to see Liesel Miller.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “You’re Holly?”

  “Yes.”

  He appraised me, his mouth twisting. “We’ve . . . been . . . expecting you.” He extended his hand. “Casey. Your grandmother talks about you all the time.” He gripped my hand and pumped it earnestly.

  “Is she”—I paused, afraid of the answer—“okay?”

  Four

  “I think so,” said Casey. “She’s a strong woman, but it shook all of us. Everyone is nervous.”

  My knees nearly buckled with relief. “I’ll just peek in on her.” I headed toward the store.

  “Um, that’s the wrong way.” Handing me a key, he pointed upward at the elegant rounded balcony. “The last door. I’ll get your luggage.”

  He would see the dog! I held up my hand like I was stopping traffic. “No need. I don’t have any.”

  He raised an eyebrow, and muttered, “Okay, that’s weird.”

  Paying him no heed, I trotted up a short flight of stairs, turned right and walked up more stairs to the balcony, eager to see my grandmother. I knocked on her door and unlocked it. “Oma?” I called.

  Her apartment wasn’t like I remembered it, but that made sense since it was clearly part of a new addition. Undoubtedly part of the surprise she had mentioned.

  I felt more at home when I recognized an inlaid table and her collection of Hummel figurines in a lighted curio. The drapes hung closed at the far end of the living room. I tiptoed toward what I hoped might be the bedroom. A golden retriever greeted me at the door, wagging her tail. I scratched behind her ears. “Oma?”

  “Holly! You came.”

  I looked for a light switch.

  “No light, please. It’s too hard on my old eyes.”

  She sounded terrible. I rushed to the side of her bed and kissed her forehead.

  She clasped me with cold hands. “Ach! You’re damp. And in this chilly weather, too. You must take a hot shower or you will catch cold.”

  It was just like her to be worried about me when she was the one with a problem. I held her hands, gently rubbing them between mine to warm them. “How do you feel?”

  “Much better now that you are here.”

  “Are you in pain?”

  “Not so much. I took an aspirin.”

  “Your hands are getting warmer. Do you need another blanket? Maybe I should turn up the heat.”

  “No, no. Don’t trouble yourself. I prefer to sleep in a cold room—you know that.”

  “But not when you’re ill.”

  “The mountain air is good for my lungs.”

  Did she have a respiratory problem? “What’s wrong with you, Oma?”

  “We will talk about that in the morning. You need to get out of those clothes. Have Casey warm some goulash. It was always your favorite.”

  I didn’t want to press her about her illness if she was tired. “Okay, you get some rest. After I park the car, I’ll come back up and sleep on your sofa. Just call out if you need anything.”

  “No, no! I have a special room waiting for you. I’ll see you in the morning.” She patted my hand. “Don’t worry. Now that you are here, I will be fine.”

  I resisted. After all, what was the point of coming if I couldn’t help her? “You’re so thoughtful. But I would feel better if I slept nearby.”

  A dog yipped outside. I hoped it wasn’t the one in Ben’s car. Oma didn’t seem to notice.

  “No! I won’t sleep if I know you’re suffering on the sofa. You go to the room we prepared.”

  She might be sick, but she was clearly still as stubborn as ever. I took that as a good sign.

  “Okay. Good night.” I kissed her soft cheek. “Call my room if you need me.”

  I was already in her living room when she called, “Holly?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be sure you lock my door, liebling.”

  When I tiptoed out, the golden retriever stayed with Oma. As I locked the door behind me, a calico kitten wound around my legs.

  Large green eyes assessed me from a mostly white face. The markings on top of her head reminded me of sunglasses with one lens butterscotch and the other dark chocolate. I bent to stroke her.

  “Hello, Kitten.” The sweet girl rubbed her little head under my hand, wanting attention. Oma had always kept a cat or two in the inn.

  I returned to the registration area.

  Casey waved a hand at me. “Ms. Miller! I have your key.”

  How could I sneak the dog past this guy? He didn’t seem to miss much. Would I have to linger outside until he fell asleep again? I took a deep breath and walked to the registration desk. What kind of excuse could I make? He must leave the desk sometime. “I’ll sign in first. I suppose it’s too late to grab a bite to eat in town?”

  “Mrs. Miller’s granddaughter doesn’t need to sign in, and she asked me to bring a meal up to your room on the third floor.”

  I heard the doors behind me slide open, but I didn’t think anything of it until
I saw the horror on Casey’s face.

  When I turned around, a stocky man staggered in. A rivulet of blood marred his broad forehead. He hunched slightly to his right, rubbing the knuckles on his right hand.

  “Mr. Luciano!” Casey scurried to him and helped him to the loveseat.

  Mr. Luciano pressed his fingers against his head and saw the blood when he pulled them away. “Could I trouble you for a tissue?” His deep rumbling voice and accent came straight from The Godfather.

  I grabbed a box of tissues from the desk and handed them to him. “Casey, bring Mr. Luciano a wet washcloth. Do you need a doctor, Mr. Luciano?”

  He eyed me briefly. “No. I’ll be okay. You must be Liesel’s granddaughter. I see her confidence in you is not misplaced.”

  His comment surprised me. Did Oma talk about me with everyone? “Thank you.”

  “Should I wake Mrs. Miller?” asked Casey.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. Where is Oma’s office? She always had rubbing alcohol and a first-aid kit.”

  “She keeps them behind the desk.” Casey disappeared to look for them. “They’re here somewhere,” he said. “I see them all the time. Where did they go?”

  I excused myself and took a deep breath as I walked toward the desk. One glance and I had everything in my hands. Casey was clearly distraught.

  “The washcloth?” I reminded him.

  Casey hurried to a restroom, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process.

  Pouring a bit of rubbing alcohol on a piece of gauze, I said, “Hold your breath. This will sting.”

  Mr. Luciano smiled. “I can take it.”

  I dabbed the wound on his head. He wore his hair slicked straight back. The laceration wasn’t large. More of a significant gouge on the left side of his head, where his hairline had receded.

  “How about your hand?” I asked.

  He held it out to me. A ginormous nasty bruise had begun to take shape. His knuckles appeared bruised and swollen.

  I wiped them with the alcohol anyway, just in case the skin was broken.

  “You have your grandmother’s delicate touch.”

  Oh? Just how well did Mr. Luciano know Oma? “What happened?”

  Casey returned with a hot washcloth and handed it to Mr. Luciano.

  “I was restless and couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk in town. The front door was locked when I returned. I came around to this entrance—and some guy jumped me! In Wagtail! I never expected that.”

  “Whoooooa!” Casey turned as pale as a ghost.

  “We’d better call Dave.” If I dialed 911, I would get the sassy woman again. “Casey, would you make the call?”

  He nodded. “First I’m locking the doors.”

  But just as he reached under the desk for the switch, the doors whooshed open.

  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.” A
s 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.