Once we were back in the golf cart, I fed her a piece and drank some of my latte. Trixie alternately yelped like a nut and nudged my hand until all the food, hers and mine, had been consumed.
I wasn’t sure that I understood anything more about Sven’s murder. My mind raced as I tried to sort out the facts. But I did know that I had to find a way to let Trixie run off some energy. I had a feeling that she’d been fairly good in the beginning because everything was new to her, and she wasn’t sure of herself. Now all that good behavior had built up, and she was ready to run.
I drove back to the inn, pondering the new information. So Brewster had been in possession of the car. That explained why Mortie’s keys had turned up. But it didn’t explain why Tiny had them.
There weren’t too many possibilities. Tiny stole the car from Brewster. Or Brewster gave or lent Tiny the keys to the car. Or, as Tiny claimed, Brewster mailed the keys to him as a threat. If Tiny was telling the truth about that, it meant that Brewster or someone else had dumped the car. Otherwise, how would that person have the keys to send to Tiny?
None of it made sense. Unless . . . unless they were in cahoots and had turned against each other?
I parked, and we hopped out of the golf cart and returned to the reception area, where Zelda worked at the desk.
“How do people let their dogs run and get exercise around here?” I asked, removing the leash from Trixie’s collar. “The little play areas in the green?”
“You can also book one of the private runs.”
“What are those?”
“They’re trails that are entirely fenced in. Quite discreetly, of course. You can’t see the fence unless you wander off the trail.” She typed on her computer keyboard. “They’re all booked for today, though.”
“She did pretty well on the back side of the inn the other day. Maybe I’ll try that again.”
With a cat-that-caught-the-canary grin, Zelda leaned toward me and whispered, “Look what I found.” She held up a cell phone. “I think it’s the one Philip lost. It was over near the play area where I take Dolce. I’m charging it to see if it’s his.”
I shot her a scolding look. “And to see who’s calling him?” Shades of Kim! “Don’t you dare send people messages from him!”
She straightened up. “I would never do that. Maybe. It’s an interesting idea, though, now that you mention it.”
I was sorry I’d put the notion in her head. “I’ll be out back, letting Trixie run.”
Trixie bounded out the door and zoomed to the tree where she had seen a squirrel before. She raced in a zigzag, her nose to the ground, while I walked down to the dock. She barked twice gratuitously at another dog, who walked by on a leash. She lifted her head and gazed around. Had she lost me?
“Trixie!”
She flew to me, her feet barely touching the ground. She stopped abruptly, put her nose down again and followed a scent down to the lake.
Wagging her tail with pure joy, she trotted over to me on the dock and sniffed the water. I dipped my hand in it but withdrew it quickly. The lake that had been refreshing had turned far too cold for comfort.
I would have to locate some dog parks at home. She obviously needed time and room to run. I looked up at the sprawling inn, the patios on multiple levels, the huge windows overlooking the lake and the mountains, the steep roofs and quirky slopes. It dawned on me that the inn was more of a home to me than anyplace I had ever lived. I breathed in the clear, cold air, relieved that Oma had no intention of selling it.
Trixie raced across the grass, chasing a bunny. But she was almost out of view. I hurried up the steps to the inn in search of her.
I spied her digging furiously in Oma’s herb garden just outside the door to the private kitchen.
“No! Trixie, no! Get out of there!”
She paid me no mind at all. Her little rump stuck up in the air while she churned through the soil with fierce determination. Dirt flew under her and to the sides, landing on basil plants.
I ran toward her. She glanced at me, grabbed something, and sped around the side of the inn. That little scamp! I rushed after her, hoping she wouldn’t run along the green in the middle of town. She would be too fast for me.
Happily, I saw guests making way for her as she tore up the front porch stairs. A couple of guests laughed as I lumbered along behind her.
“Looking for a dog with a rat in its mouth?” They pointed inside.
It wasn’t too hard to follow her after that. Tiny flakes of dirt led me to Oma’s private kitchen. Trixie had gone home to our suite.
I took a minute to clean the lobby floor. We didn’t need everyone tracking the soil everywhere. They’d said she was carrying a rat. Ugh. Had she dug up the dead rat?
Forty-four
I trudged upstairs and unlocked the door. Trixie watched me from the hearth with guilty eyes and filthy front paws.
Where had she put the nasty thing? The tip of her tail flapped up hopefully. Once, twice.
I burst into laughter. I had almost called her a bad dog. Maybe Zelda really was a psychic and the poor thing thought her name was Bad Dog. It was a good bet that she’d heard it a lot wherever she came from.
She had returned through the cat door in the dining room. With any luck, she’d left a trail of dirt to follow. I had to remove the decaying rat before it started to stink, which would be almost immediately.
She must have left most of the dirt in the lobby. I didn’t see a speck in the dining room. I knelt to see if she hid it under the buffet again. Yup. There it was. A shudder wriggled through me.
I needed a stick, something long and relatively thin. And gloves. I certainly didn’t plan to touch it. At least I knew it was dead. It wasn’t going anywhere. A visit to the housekeeping closet on the second floor yielded a broom, a trash can with a liner in which to deposit it, and cleaning gloves.
Armed for rat patrol, I sucked up my courage and knelt on the floor by the buffet. Trixie scurried to my side.
“Oh no, you don’t. This time we’re getting rid of that disgusting thing. No more burying it in Oma’s garden.”
Using the straw end of the broom, I scooted it close. Trixie wedged her nose under the buffet as far as it could go, but I beat her to it. I grabbed the awful thing, and flung it into the trash can.
The two of us peered at it. That was no rat. I picked it up gingerly. It was hollow, like a fake pelt. One side was furry, but the other held the fur together with a fine mesh.
Trixie barked and tried to grab it.
“You’re not getting this back. It’s filthy.” She continued to yap at me, and I felt terrible. I hadn’t bought her any toys. Not one!
It didn’t really look like a toy. There weren’t any eyes or other features. It seemed more like a fur hat. A hairpiece! “This is a rug! Where did you get this?”
I might not have Zelda’s psychic powers, but everything clicked into place. Jerry’s outstretched arm, the police asking Holmes for a hair sample. Dave saying the hair was weird.
Dear heaven! Jerry had torn off his assailant’s hairpiece. Trixie must have been there and grabbed it from Jerry’s hand when he fell. That might explain why someone had been tracking Trixie.
I looked at her. “Were you at the scene of Jerry’s murder?” It was possible. It must have happened about the time she was lost. Had she picked up Chief’s scent and tracked him to his house? But how did she get in? “Does Chief have a doggy door?” I asked her. Hadn’t Ellie said something about that?
The killer must have seen Trixie nab the toupee and was afraid she would turn up with it. And now she had. I looked down at my little dog with the earnest eyes. The killer had been shooting at her! She had carried that thing around with her like a beloved toy.
I dropped the hairpiece and hugged her to me.
Even worse, it put Kim’s entire story in doubt. She had stolen Trixie.
Scooping it up and holding it over the trash can, I flicked the hair lightly with my hand to shake o
ff some of the dirt. No wonder the police hadn’t been happy with Holmes’s hair sample. This was much longer and reddish in tone.
Brewster. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind.
I phoned Dave and told him what had happened.
• • •
Half an hour later, Dave arrived very quietly to collect the hairpiece.
We spoke softly in the inn library.
“Huh. Never knew Brewster wore a rug. He’s usually at the bar where the lighting is dim. And to tell the truth, they make these things pretty well these days. You can’t always tell when a guy is wearing a hairpiece anymore. Can’t imagine who else this color would suit, though.” Dave mashed his lips together and examined the toupee. “Brewster. Who’d have thought that? He’s a pillar of the community. Makes sense in a way. Living next door, he would have been able to sneak in and out of Jerry’s house to murder him without the whole town knowing about it.”
“So Brewster murdered Jerry? But why?”
“Don’t jump to conclusions yet, Holly. We’ll know pretty soon. If this rug matches the fibers from Jerry’s hand, it’ll be solid evidence. But first I need to find out if Brewster wears a hairpiece, and if he does, we need to prove this is his.” Dave tsked and shook his head. “Maybe Jerry pushed him too hard on moving Hair of the Dog out to the highway.”
“By the way, I have some issues with the theory that Tiny probably killed Sven.”
Dave gaped at me. “Detective Miller, I presume?”
I ignored his sarcasm. “Somebody went to lengths to be sure Oma turned up on Oak Street at exactly the right time. I just have trouble imagining that Tiny wanted to kill her. What was his motive?”
“You think Brewster had a motive to kill your grandmother?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I don’t mean to sound unappreciative to you or your dog for digging up this potential evidence, but it’s my job to figure that out. It looks like we have our guys. It will probably all fall into place now. Thanks, Holly.”
Dave turned to leave but stopped at the doorway. “Not a word to anyone about this. I don’t want Brewster to take off or go into hiding.”
Dave departed. That hairpiece could nail Brewster for Jerry’s murder.
I’d have to check with Kim, but I’d bet he talked her into nabbing Trixie in exchange for payment of her debt. He must have seen Trixie seize the toupee from Jerry at the scene of the crime.
Still, something about Tiny’s side of the equation still bothered me.
I helped Oma around the inn for the next few hours. Right up until Ellie called her in hysterics about the police searching Brewster’s house.
Oma, Trixie, and I rushed over to Ellie’s home.
She met us on her porch, sobbing. “Brewster wouldn’t have killed Jerry. He brought Dolce back when he was lost. He—” she sniffled and gulped air “—came to express his condolences. I don’t understand.”
I left Oma to console her friend and hurried over to Brewster’s house, along with most of Wagtail’s residents.
Holmes was there with Rose. Mr. Wiggins stood by watching, and far away from him, Peaches and Prissy observed the goings-on. Pale and nervous, Prissy looked like she might lose her lunch. The sun glinted off her sparkling rings as she nibbled at her manicured fingernails like a frantic mouse.
I squinted at her. Did anyone else know that she and Brewster were an item? No one else in the crowd appeared to be quite as nervous. Why had they kept their relationship a secret? Maybe they thought Peaches wouldn’t approve.
Trixie and I wound our way through the crowd. Murphy, Brewster’s Irish setter, must have remembered me from the pub. He trotted over to me, carrying a sock to play tug.
I grabbed the sock, dirty from being buried, and pretended to want it. Murphy had fun, but Trixie didn’t seem to like that game and growled at him.
Murphy persisted, and I grabbed the other end of the sock. It felt unusually heavy. I wanted to think it was some kind of training toy, but I’d held something just like it all too recently.
“There he is!”
The crowd fell quiet as two officers escorted a handcuffed Brewster to the police car parked in front of his house. Dave followed behind them.
The formerly amiable face of the pub owner revealed his true colors. Angry eyes flashed. His ruddy skin flushed crimson. “I didn’t kill anyone. They have the wrong person. Jerry probably killed Sven. Let me tell you though, Jerry was a thief,” he spat. “He stole from me, little by little, thinking I wouldn’t notice. But I saw him. Like a weaselly troll, coveting my wealth. He had no right to take it from me.”
My gaze fell to the sock Murphy tugged on. I bent and asked Murphy if I could have it. I untied the knot in the end of the sock and poured the contents into my hand. Two gold coins and a watch, probably Kim’s, shimmered under the sun.
Undeterred, Murphy ran to a bush in his own front yard, dug up another sock, and returned to play tug. It too had a heavy toe. And I had a heavy heart. Had Brewster murdered Jerry for something his own dog was stealing and burying around the yard?
I took the other sock from Murphy and handed them to Dave. “I think you might have your Snowball thief.”
Dave nodded. In a hushed voice he said, “We found a bunch of socks containing gold items in a basket with laundry on top of them. I guess Brewster believed in hiding things in plain sight. It’s a good bet he’s connected to the thefts on Snowball Mountain. I don’t think he worked alone, though. I hope Brewster talks.”
“An accomplice, you mean?” I glanced toward Prissy, who’d been so snarky about my call to 911. “How about a police insider? Someone who heard about the sting and could warn him?”
Dave’s eyes snapped up to meet mine. “What do you know?”
“Remember the night I spied on Kim and she visited Brewster? I saw Prissy upstairs in Brewster’s house wearing a skimpy negligee.
Dave’s brow furrowed. “You don’t have to like Prissy but that’s really low. What a nasty accusation.”
“I’m sorry, Dave. I’m just telling you what I saw. Maybe I’m the one jumping to conclusions. Maybe she’s not involved with the thefts at all.” I had told him where my suspicions fell. Planted the seed, so to speak. “You’re in charge. I’m sure you know best. I guess the hairs of the toupee that Trixie carried around matched the ones in Jerry’s hand?”
“Perfectly. And Brewster has a couple of identical extras in the house. It’s a lucky thing Trixie grabbed the hairpiece from Jerry and ran with it.”
Holmes ambled over and slung an arm around me. We watched as the police car pulled away and the remaining cops began poking around the yard. Dave shook his head as they turned up more of the socks.
Holmes took a deep breath. “It tears me up that they arrested Tiny for murdering Sven. I’ve known him forever. I thought he was a good guy. But that means I’m free to go. I’ve got a flight out tomorrow morning. How about dinner tonight with Oma and Grandma Rose?”
It sounded like just the ticket to me.
My cell phone buzzed with a text. I pulled it out, surprised to hear anyone texting me. It had to be Ben.
I read the message and howled with glee. “I’ve got my job back! Even better, not my job, but my boss’s job. They canned him and want me to take his position. Yippee!”
Trixie danced on her hind legs. Holmes hugged me, but Rose’s face fell.
“You won’t be staying in Wagtail?” she asked.
The cruise! I’d forgotten all about it. “You and Oma book your cruise, and I’ll wangle vacation time to come take care of the inn while you’re gone. I promise.”
“Grandma,” said Holmes, “you can’t expect Holly to pack in her life and move here just to make you and Oma happy.”
She nodded, but I knew I’d broken her heart. “Dinner tonight, though. Right?”
They promised to set it up with Oma and walked away with Murphy to find him a temporary home.
There was one person in whose nose I wante
d to rub my good news. Ben. Ben who said I was persona non grata. Ben who said they wouldn’t want to hire a troublemaker. Hah! I would show him.
I called the landline at Mortie’s cabin. Busy. I tried Ben’s phone. It rolled over to voice mail. “I think this is worth a trip up there, don’t you, Trixie?”
We walked back to the inn. I shared my good news with Zelda, probably a little bit too gleeful about rubbing Ben’s nose in it. Nevertheless, I checked out the golf cart, and headed straight to Mortie’s cabin. I felt a little bit guilty for wanting to prove to Ben that he was wrong. But not guilty enough to turn around.
I thought about Brewster and Tiny as I drove. Brewster had clearly been the one who killed Jerry. The hairs on Jerry’s hand that matched Brewster’s toupee would be hard evidence to overcome.
Had Brewster also been the one who drove the car and hit Sven? Why he would have mailed the keys to Tiny was beyond me. Maybe Tiny knew what Brewster had done? That was the only thing that made sense. But why would Brewster want to kill Oma?
He had no business with her as far as I knew. His pub was far enough away that the noise didn’t disturb the inn guests. Had Oma even mentioned him? I didn’t think so. Oma didn’t have gold coins or expensive items hanging around. What would Brewster gain by knocking her off? Unless he wanted the inn.
But the only person who seemed interested in the inn—chills ran through me, and I hit the brake—was Philip.
No, I was being silly. There wasn’t a shred of anything tying Philip to the car or the murders. Still, it would explain his behavior and his interest in me. He’d swept into the inn as though he was taking over.
No, no, no. That was absurd. Days of stress trying to figure out who wanted to kill Oma had taken a toll on me. I suspected everyone.
Before we reached Mortie’s cabin, Trixie sat up and barked incessantly, like she had the night we saw the man in the road. I shushed her and held her close but half expected someone to leap out of the woods. She stopped barking but whimpered softly.
Murder, She Barked: A Paws & Claws Mystery (A Paws and Claws Mystery) Page 26