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

by Davis, Krista

  The conversation veered to my missing dog and the notion of a community website for local announcements and news. The existing Wagtail website only offered information of interest to visitors and those planning vacations.

  Holmes and Rose were enthralled with the idea, and before I knew it, we had polished off heavenly, creamy, decadent chocolate mousse. Gingersnap didn’t have to feel left out. The waiter brought her a special doggy dessert made with pumpkin.

  The grandmothers began to eye empty rocking chairs on the inn porch.

  “Hair of the Dog?” asked Holmes.

  “Sure, but I’m pretty beat. I might not stay long.”

  With our grandmothers comfortably ensconced on the porch, and Gingersnap back to kissing all the Sugar Maple Inn guests, Holmes and I strolled down to Hair of the Dog. We passed Jerry’s house on the way. A yellow police tape hung across the front door.

  “Is it just me, or does it seem like it was a long time ago that we found Jerry’s body?” asked Holmes.

  “So much has happened since I arrived that it feels like time is flying by.”

  The pub turned out to be on the same street, but at the very end, next to the road that cars could use. The front yard had been turned into a sprawling patio with tables and umbrellas. It was packed with people and their dogs.

  “Where did all these people come from?”

  “You’d be surprised how many houses are tucked away in the woods around here. There’s a lot of new construction going on. Plus—” he pointed across the street “—there are new developments. Everyone calls that one Hobbitville.”

  Someone had built cute cottages reminiscent of hobbit houses with eyebrow arches over doors, round windows, and little peaked roofs. They were set back off the road a good distance. But not too far to comfortably walk to Hair of the Dog or the pedestrian mall.

  Hair of the Dog was located in a bungalow-style house that had been painted cream. Brown beams had been added to give it a quaint and inviting Tudor look reminiscent of English and Irish pubs. Huge windows fronted the street. Lights glowed with warmth inside, reminding me that the days had already grown shorter.

  Men greeted Holmes heartily when we entered. The shadows of flames from a large fireplace flickered across the burnished red fur of an Irish setter, who raised his head to observe us. We snagged a table not too far from the bar. The setter strolled over to check us out, carrying a sock in his mouth.

  Holmes strode up to the bar to place our order while I played tug with the Irish setter and took in my surroundings. Brewster leaned against the bar listening to a group of animated guys who clustered before him. Tiny sat on a bar stool and engaged Holmes.

  And everywhere, under barstools and next to tables, dogs lounged near their people.

  “You must be new to Wagtail.”

  I changed my focus to a man who had approached our table. He wore snug-fitting jeans with a navy turtleneck and a blue plaid flannel shirt. All very tidy and tucked in. His mustache reminded me of Tom Selleck’s, lush and full but neatly trimmed. His hair had receded just enough to give him a prominent forehead, but he made a very good impression. This was a man who was in control. I bet his house and car sparkled.

  “May I?” He gestured to a chair.

  “Sure.” What else could I say? Besides Holmes would be back any minute.

  He sat down, and crossed an ankle over his knee, evidently comfortable with himself. “Are you staying at the inn?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “Mmm.” He handed me a business card. “Philip.”

  “Holly.” I shook his hand.

  “What do you think of Wagtail?” He glanced around the table. “No dog?”

  “She’s lost,” I said.

  “Oh. Those must be your fliers around town. I’ll be on the lookout for her.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You came in with Holmes, but I don’t think I’m going out on a limb here—you’re not his fiancé?”

  “Right again. We’re just friends.”

  “You’re from Chicago?”

  “Washington, D.C. You sound like you’re from—North Carolina?”

  “Good ear!” His hand rested on the table and it curled into a ball, squeezing his thumb. “It was my wife’s dream to have a bed-and-breakfast. It was all she talked about. She pored over photos, planned breakfast menus . . .” He bowed his head. “It was an obsession. We went skiing over at Snowball, and the B and B owner told us about Wagtail. We bought a B and B here, and all was well until my wife realized that she liked staying at B and Bs better than she liked having to work at them. Now I’m single again, with two B and Bs.”

  “That’s terrible. What’s your ex-wife doing now?”

  “She’s a travel writer.” He glanced at the ceiling, sighed, and shook his head. “You should stay at my place on your next visit.”

  “You didn’t go with her.” I observed.

  “I made that mistake once. How could I know if she would be any happier with the next thing? I didn’t want to tear up roots and start over again. I’ve done pretty well for myself, and I’m not done yet. Being a hotelier suits me. One of these days, I’ll own a big place like Old Lady Miller.” He flashed a coy look at me. “Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

  I hadn’t seen that coming. “That sounds really nice, but I’m afraid I’m seeing someone.”

  He reached for my left hand. “No ring. Maybe there’s still hope for me?”

  I disengaged my hand as politely as I knew how. “If the situation changes, I’ll let you know.”

  Holmes brought over an Irish coffee for me. Fluffy cream filled the top of the slender glass mug. He plunked down an amber draft beer for himself.

  Tiny ambled over with a bottle of beer in hand.

  Perfunctory greetings flew around the table.

  Holmes pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “All anybody can talk about is Jerry and Sven. Did you know Sven, Philip?”

  Philip ran a hand down his mustache. “Great guy. I took some skiing lessons from him. He used to hang here at Hair of the Dog in the summertime on his days off. Tragic, just tragic. Did you meet him?” He looked at me when he asked.

  “No. I didn’t get to town until after his death.”

  “Holly saw his killer when she drove up the mountain,” said Holmes.

  Philip and Tiny stared at me like I had grown an extra nose.

  “It wasn’t like—”

  “You? You’re the one who saw the ghost?” asked Tiny.

  “No! It wasn’t a ghost. Why does everyone think it was a ghost?”

  Philip made a funny face that I couldn’t quite read. “That’s what everyone is saying, but a person must have pushed the car off the cliff.”

  Tiny leaned toward me. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. I’ve seen that ghost out on the highway myself.”

  Seventeen

  “It wasn’t a ghost!” For heaven’s sake, what was wrong with these people? It was one thing to tell a fun ghost story, but they were adults. “I’m the one who was there. Come on, you guys don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

  Silence. Once again I’d put my foot in my mouth and chomped down hard.

  Philip flicked a finger on the table. “I didn’t believe in them until I moved to Wagtail.” He leaned in toward us and whispered, “There’s one in Brewster’s house. I’ve seen her at night in the tiny window upstairs.”

  Tiny nodded vigorously. “Wagtail is loaded with them. You should know that, Holly.”

  “Come on! You’re all big boys. You can’t be serious. I never believed in ghosts.” I looked to Holmes for help.

  “Haven’t you ever experienced something that couldn’t be explained?” he asked.

  He was on their side! Oh no. Not Holmes! “Everything has a rational explanation,” I said calmly.

  The three of them smiled like Mona Lisa. Like they thought they knew something I didn’t. I sipped my Irish coffee, tasted the cream, and felt
the warmth as it went down.

  Philip looked at Tiny and asked, “So what’s the scuttlebutt on Jerry’s killer? Do the cops have any leads?”

  Tiny slugged back his beer and wiped his mouth with his wrist. “Not that I know about.”

  “Really? You’re usually on top of local gossip,” said Philip.

  “I get around and keep an ear to the ground.” Tiny grinned, evidently pleased to be acknowledged as an expert on local matters. “Ole Jerry liked to act above his raisin’ and pretend he was better’n the rest of us. There’s more’n one person had an axe to grind with him.”

  “How about Sven?” I asked.

  Tiny clutched his beer bottle between his fleshy hands. “They’re sayin’ it was somebody from Snowball. Probably kids that got drunk.”

  That didn’t seem right. Kids who got drunk, killed someone, and then threw the car off the mountain? Now that I considered it, maybe it did make sense. They probably panicked. Was it a kid that I saw that night? I thought better of mentioning it again, given their belief that it had been a ghost.

  Philip raised an eyebrow. “I heard from a very reliable source that Old Lady Miller knows who the killer is. They’re keeping it quiet so the killer won’t find out.”

  I nearly blurted out that Oma most certainly did not know the identity of the killer but stopped myself and drank my Irish coffee. Was that why she had been acting so odd? Did she know who killed Sven?

  “Gentlemen, I hate to break up this party, but I rolled into town pretty late last night.” I dug some bills out of my purse and shoved them toward Holmes. “If any of you see my little white dog, you’ll call me at the inn?”

  They assured me they would. I rose to leave, and Holmes stood up as well.

  “I’ll walk you back.”

  I debated briefly. I was in the pedestrian zone, and it wasn’t terribly late, so there should be plenty of people milling around. “You stay and have a good time. I’ll be fine.”

  He tilted his head. “With everything that has happened—”

  Tiny looked up at us. “She’ll be okay. Ain’t nobody got a beef with her.”

  I didn’t think anyone had issues with Sven, either. Nevertheless, I pulled out my cell phone and said, “No problem. I can call for help in a snap.”

  That set the three of them into hysterics.

  “What did I miss?” I asked.

  Philip grinned. “Cell phones get very spotty reception up here in the mountains. There’s only one carrier that works with any regularity. It drives my guests crazy. Their cell phones never receive a signal inside my B and Bs. But my cell phone is like a beacon in the tower room of my house. I get five bars every time.”

  “I guess I have the right carrier then. I called 911 last night out on the road,” I said smugly.

  “A lucky break. Sometimes when I can’t get a signal, I walk twenty feet away, and suddenly my cell phone works fine. You’ll do best close to some of the cafés that offer free Wi-Fi.”

  “With that reassuring news, I bid you all a good night.” I slid the phone into my purse and left.

  The outdoor tables still teemed with people having a great time. The walk became darker as I headed toward the main part of the car-free zone, but I didn’t feel in the least bit afraid. Lights shone in the windows of lovely homes, and I encountered several people out walking their dogs.

  I turned onto the shopping area, surprised to find that it still buzzed with business. Stores were open and chatter came from restaurants.

  The night had grown too chilly for my sleeveless dress, though. I hurried back to the inn, gorgeous and romantic at the end of the plaza, its lights glowing a warm welcome.

  Twinkletoes sat on the front stairs of the porch. She mewed and mewed like she was crying and ran to me.

  I swept her up and nuzzled her. But instead of purring, she fidgeted and mewed complaints.

  When I set her on the ground, she circled my ankles, winding in and out, making it nearly impossible to walk.

  “What is with you?” I lifted her again and trotted up the steps.

  When I opened the front door, she leaped from my arms and hissed at the man sitting on the grand staircase. She danced backward like a Halloween cat, then turned and ran so fast she was gone in the blink of an eye.

  “Crazy cat,” said Dave.

  He looked worse than ever. He blinked at me wearily as though he could barely keep his eyes open.

  “You need some sleep.”

  “I’d like some sleep. If you’d come clean and give me some answers, maybe I could go home to bed.”

  “Aha. So whatever brought you here is my fault?”

  “Who is Ben Hathaway?”

  Ben? He couldn’t have startled me more. “My boyfriend.”

  “Uh-huh.” He consulted his notebook. “And he just happens to work for Mortie Foster’s law firm. Is that right?”

  “Yes.” I wasn’t following him at all.

  Dave rested his elbows on his knees, letting his hands hang down between his legs. He stared at me as though he was annoyed.

  “Am I supposed to think it’s only coincidence that the car you pushed over the cliff belonged to one Mortie Foster?”

  “Mortie? Are you kidding?” I leaned against the banister and tried to piece together any likely scenario but had no success. How could it have been Mortie’s car?

  His tricky little mention of me pushing the car over the mountainside hadn’t escaped me though.

  “In the first place, I didn’t push anything over the cliff. And in the second place, how would I know anything about that car at all? I never saw it. All I saw were flames.”

  I glared at him, irritated by the very notion that I might have staged the car situation myself. “And what does Ben have to do with any of this?”

  “Good question. Thank you. That’s what I’d like to know.” Dave snorted a derisive little laugh. “Most people drive their own cars to Wagtail, yet you are in possession of Ben Hathaway’s car. I presume you know Mortie Foster?”

  “We’ve met. And you know perfectly well that I left so fast that I didn’t even bring a change of clothes with me.” I whispered so Oma wouldn’t overhear if she happened to be somewhere close by. “I thought Oma was dying.”

  Dave hung on like a dog on a meaty bone. “That car was stolen a few weeks ago. So I’ve got a stolen hybrid SUV that belonged to your boyfriend’s boss and mysteriously turned up in a blaze on the very night that you arrived in your boyfriend’s car.”

  I shrugged. “So?”

  “So? Are you kidding me? There has to be a connection to you.”

  “Oh, gosh, you’re right. You figured it out. I stole the car and hid it, then returned to push it over the cliff.”

  Dave shot a look of daggers at me.

  “How do you know all about Ben, anyway?”

  “I’m a cop. Not that many people around here respect that. I go where leads take me, Holly. I don’t much like that they keep bringing me back to you.”

  Our conversation came to an abrupt halt. Upstairs, something knocked lightly. Thud-dump. Thud-dump. It grew closer. Thud-dump. Thud-dump. Thud-dump.

  Dave sprang to a standing position and rushed next to me. “What the devil is that?”

  Eighteen

  Thud-dump. Thud-dump.

  “It’s coming from up there,” Dave said.

  We craned our necks to look upward but nothing seemed amiss.

  We backed away from the stairs, and Dave actually moved a shoulder in front of me as though he meant to protect me. I couldn’t help feeling a teensy bit satisfied. If he really thought I was guilty of something, he wouldn’t have tried to be protective.

  And suddenly it appeared.

  Twinkletoes jumped down one stair as a time. She carried a puffy cat toy in her mouth that was attached to a stick that dragged behind her. She made the thud noise on each step and the stick followed with dump as it hit the step.

  “What’s she doing?” asked Dave.

&nbs
p; “I have no idea.” She reached the main floor and walked off, her head held very high to drag the stick between her legs.

  We both laughed, breaking the somber mood.

  “Look, Dave, I’d be happy to help you in any way that I can. But I didn’t have anything to do with the weird stuff that’s going on. Not that it’s my place, but wouldn’t it be more important to figure out who killed Jerry and Sven anyway? Is it true that you think Sven was killed by some kids from Snowball?”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Hair of the Dog.”

  “Figures. Don’t believe everything you hear.” He rubbed his head with both hands and yawned. “Mortie’s car has to be the car that killed Sven. It defies logic that it would have gone over the cliff the same night as Sven’s death by coincidence. If I can figure out who stole the car, I’ll have Sven’s killer. We’re not going to get much evidence off that car. It’s a burned-out hulk. You sure you don’t remember anything about the guy you saw?”

  He believed me now? “On TV they get all kinds of evidence from burned vehicles.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “What do you call those people—crime scene investigators? Haven’t they been here?”

  “I call that fiction. We don’t have CSIs. That’s only in big cities.”

  “So who investigates?”

  “I do.”

  “Who takes the pictures?”

  “Me.”

  “Who secures the crime scene?”

  “Again—me. I call the guys over on Snowball for help when I need it, but it all boils down to me. I’m responsible for Wagtail.”

  “You collected evidence, right?”

  “Not that there was much to collect. More at the scene of Jerry’s murder.”

  “He was fleeing someone, wasn’t he?” The image of his outstretched hand had burned itself onto my brain.

  Dave’s mouth bunched up. “I really can’t talk about it.”