1 Lost Under a Ladder

by Linda O. Johnston

  “It was an awful experience.” I described it, moving my glance from her to Arlen and back to watch their reactions, especially when I mentioned having had to walk under a ladder to save Pluckie. Twice. But their only reactions seemed to be sympathy for me. They were both either innocent or good actors—or maybe both. Or one of each, if only Arlen was involved.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay,” Martha said when I’d finished my story. She walked unsteadily toward me and gave me a hug. When she stepped back, her sympathetic expression filled her face with even more wrinkles. I just couldn’t believe she was involved at all in what had been done to Pluckie and me, let alone that she’d murdered Tarzal.

  Of course that could still be wishful thinking.

  And the sooner she took back full control of her shop, the sooner Pluckie and I could flee this town.

  At the moment, that thought was more than welcome, even though before Pluckie had been dognapped I’d almost felt like I was settling in here for the long haul.

  For the rest of the day, I kept Pluckie close as I helped at the shop, especially after Millie left for the day. Though Martha remained downstairs, she was clearly tired so Jeri and I ran things. Arlen tried to help at first but Martha seemed to resent that. He didn’t stay much longer. His goodbye gaze at his aunt wasn’t exactly warm and loving. But frame her for murder? Well, I still didn’t know.

  I was glad that we stayed busy. As long as Pluckie remained close to me, I didn’t dwell—much—on what had happened. But when late afternoon arrived and things started to slow down, I forced myself to go into the back room and review our inventory. By then, I’d helped Martha back upstairs. And I preferred concentrating on how many stuffed black cats and toy rabbits’ feet and bags and cans of Lucky Dog Food or Lucky Cat Food we had in stock than what my mind kept gravitating toward: Pluckie’s ordeal, as well as Justin’s and mine … and Tarzal’s murder.

  I got an idea then. A smart one? No. I was certain Justin wouldn’t think so. But maybe it would result in bringing everything to a conclusion.

  To be fair—and maybe because I was a little scared by my own idea—I called Justin. I planned to invite him to meet me for dinner, and I’d tell him what I was about to do. Give him the opportunity to try to talk me out of it. And if he wasn’t successful in that, maybe he could help figure out the best way for me to provide myself and Pluckie with protection.

  But when I called his cell phone, it immediately went into voice mail. I left a message, then hung up. Maybe he’d gone home to rest after his injuries and turned it off. When I tried calling him at the police station I was told he wasn’t there, with no details about where he had gone, but I believed I’d figured that out.

  Well, that was fine. And I didn’t have to do what I’d intended immediately. I could ponder it overnight.

  Only, it didn’t work out that way. After Jeri left and I’d called Martha to let her know I was locking up for the night, I went outside with Pluckie to follow through—and saw Celia Vardox hurrying toward me from down Destiny Boulevard.

  “Hey, Rory,” she said. “I just heard about what happened to your dog and all. I’d like to interview you about it for the Star.”

  I stood there for a moment, staring at her. And then, as she reached Pluckie and me, I said, “Well … let’s talk about that.”

  “Over drinks?” she asked. “I’ll buy.”

  “All right,” I agreed, and the three of us started back down Destiny Boulevard. On the way, I refused to answer Celia’s questions but just talked about how busy the streets were, as usual, and how great it was that Destiny was such a busy tourist town.

  But my mind was reeling.

  Coincidence, or fate, or some superstition I didn’t know about coming true? Was there one that said that if you ponder something for a while and it’s something that should be done, it’ll come true whether or not you intentionally follow through?

  Or was it the opposite—if it was something that shouldn’t be done, it will come up anyway and bite you in the backside?

  For the idea I’d been pondering was to follow up on that op-ed piece in the Destiny Star by writing my own response letter that, yes, I was acknowledging that the subject of that story was me. And that, if the dognapping of Pluckie was the result—the attempted revenge of whoever was worried that my snooping would reveal they’d murdered Tarzal—then they’d be sorry. I might have stopped looking if they hadn’t threatened my dog, but now I was determined to get my own revenge.

  And, yes, I realized on some level that a challenge like that could push all the wrong buttons of the killer. That was why I’d thought about telling Justin first.

  But I’d talk to him tomorrow.

  And I’d be cautious.

  At the moment, though, I was choosing to look at Celia’s request as some big, fat, superstitious omen that my idea had to come true.

  twenty-eight

  Celia suggested that we head for the Clinking Glass Saloon. I’d noticed the place when I’d visited the Star, since the bar was nearly across Destiny Boulevard from the newspaper’s offices.

  “Sounds fine to me,” I said. “As long as they don’t mind that I’ve got my dog with me.” I’d enjoy a drink or two, but for now—and undoubtedly for a very long time—I didn’t want to let Pluckie out of my sight.

  “They’ve got an outside patio like a lot of dog-friendly places in town,” Celia assured me. “It’ll be fine.”

  A slight breeze was blowing and it ruffled my companion’s wavy brown hair as well as my own longer blond locks. I’d mostly seen Celia before in sweaters and nice slacks, but tonight she had on a short black skirt and lacy gray blouse. One thing that was still the same about her attire was its accessories. She had a large Destiny Star tote bag over her shoulder, and I figured it must contain her tablet computer, notepad, pen, and whatever else she needed to take notes. Which had seemed a bit strange to me before.

  I wondered if I’d feel a little underdressed in my Lucky Dog T-shirt and slacks, although I’d never been to the bar and didn’t know how dressy its patrons got.

  On the way, rather than talk about her article or what she wanted to include in it, I asked if she knew what superstition was related to clinking glasses.

  “The touching of glasses and the sound that it makes is supposed to ward off evil spirits that a person might swallow along with her drink,” she said authoritatively.

  Then I would definitely clink glasses with my companion this night. No sense tempting demons or fate, just in case that superstition happened to be true. And, yes, I still hadn’t made up my mind about any of them.

  Especially the one about walking under a ladder, now that I’d done it myself but with differences from how Warren had. Were they like the differences between tripping while walking downstairs versus upstairs?

  The outside of the saloon was unobtrusive, except for its neon sign that showed two large wine glasses touching one another, with stems crossed. The windows were darkened, and even outside I could hear loud music. I didn’t see a patio from here but followed Celia to the door with Pluckie still leashed beside me.

  “Hello, ladies,” said a tall man dressed all in black. “You can come through here with your dog, and I’ll show you the way to our outside area.”

  The bar, nearly as dark inside as our host’s clothes, was crowded and noisy, with conversation even louder than the music blaring in the background. That was another reason to be on the patio, even if Pluckie weren’t with us—assuming it was quieter.

  The air here seemed warmer than on our walk. Maybe it was because of the number of people who also occupied the patio. There weren’t any heaters around, which was good.

  We were shown to a table for two near the outside rail. The table was of polished wood, and the chairs matched it. Menus stood up from a stand in the table’s middle, and the guy seating us grabbed them and handed
us each one.

  Pluckie sat on the concrete floor beside me, looking up as if she wanted me to order her a drink, too. Which of course I would—one appropriate for her.

  “Happy drinking,” our host wished us. “And don’t forget to do what our name says and clink glasses for good luck.”

  We examined the selections, and when our female server, also dressed in black, took our orders, we each asked for a glass of wine—mine Cabernet and Celia’s Chablis. And, for Pluckie, a bowl of water.

  Celia reached into the tote bag whose strap she had hung over the back of her chair and pulled out her tablet computer.

  “Okay,” she said, loud enough to be heard over nearby conversations, “this’ll both record you and let me write my own comments. I don’t want you to speak too loud so you’ll be overheard by other people, but I’ll still need to be able to understand you when I download this.”

  That made me nervous. Yes, this was my choice, yet the idea of my every word being recorded and analyzed and, perhaps, quoted, nearly caused me to shudder. But, gamely, I said, “Okay.”

  Our wine was served before we began. We both grinned as we clinked glasses. “To learning truths,” Celia said.

  “And staying safe doing it,” I added while scratching gently behind Pluckie’s long black ears.

  Then, knowing I was on camera and being recorded, I responded to Celia’s questions. I described, while trying not to shudder, how I’d realized that Pluckie was missing, looked for her, and found instead that terrible correspondence on the computer. How I’d followed the instructions to visit the area at the end of the town fathers’ second rainbow, way up in the mountains. Saw Pluckie beyond the ladder I’d have to walk under to get to her. The falling rocks that hit the police chief. My brazen move beneath the ladder, getting hit with rocks myself, then, at last, rescuing my dog.

  And then I scowled so harshly that I knew my face would be filled with creases on camera, but I didn’t give a damn. “Whoever did this should know I won’t forget—and I will find them.”

  I almost smiled at Celia’s horrified expression. She reached over and turned off the equipment. “You realize that you might only be angering whoever it is even more. Or at least presenting enough of a challenge that they might come after you again.”

  “They have to pay,” I said simply—although I did reach into the neck of my T-shirt and pull out my amulet, which was now part of my standard wardrobe no matter what I was wearing. I stroked it with my fingers for luck. Could it also have ramped up my luck in saving Pluckie? “And if I just act scared—which I am, of course—they may just come after us again.”

  “Maybe not, if you stop chasing Tarzal’s murderer,” Celia reminded me. Her words and apparent concern made me cross her off my mental suspect list—even though she could just be a good actor like others I’d considered. And were her words a warning instead of an observation?

  “Whoever it is probably wouldn’t believe it even if you start filming me again and I act all scared and contrite and promise not to do it. So … maybe I’m tempting fate and luck and doing all the stuff you’re supposed to not do, especially in Destiny, but go ahead with your interview.”

  Which she did. I admitted I was the person featured in the Star’s op-ed piece, and that although I recognized it wasn’t my business I was trying to help a new friend, Martha, by figuring out what legitimate suspects there were besides her for the killing of her business neighbor Kenneth Tarzal.

  “My intent is to let the authorities know whatever I find,” I said. “Especially if I learn who endangered my dog.” I bent down and hugged Pluckie on camera. Then I sat up again. “I don’t like doing this. Not at all. I’d prefer just putting it all behind me. But I don’t see that happening till the killer—and dognapper—is caught. So, please, whoever you are, why don’t you just turn yourself in—for your own sake, not just mine. I’m a small cog in all this, but the police are after you. You’re going to get caught, probably not by me but by the authorities.”

  Yet I knew the damage had been done, and I’d remain in danger. Would whoever it was come after Pluckie or me again? I would remain vigilant.

  And I’d also talk to Justin about it as soon as I could.

  _____

  Which turned out to be faster than I’d imagined. No, Celia didn’t post my interview on the Destiny Star website as we spoke, but I knew she would soon.

  She insisted on paying for our drinks, which was okay with me since we nursed those couple of glasses of wine—and the bill amounted to thirteen dollars plus a few cents. The number thirteen and I had always gotten along well before, but I knew it had unlucky connotations so I was just as glad not to mess with it that night.

  Celia was nice enough to walk me back to the Rainbow B&B so Pluckie and I wouldn’t be alone even now, before my challenge went public. And I wouldn’t have to take Pluckie outside again that night, not after our pleasant walk back. Celia left as I unlocked the front door.

  Serina was in the lobby. Even though I didn’t completely trust her, since she’d been Tarzal’s girlfriend, I did give her a quick recap of what I’d done. I watched her reaction: horrified. “Are you asking for more trouble for both you and Pluckie?” she demanded.

  I picked up my dog and hugged her. “No, what I want is for all this ugliness to be over.”

  “It will if both of you get killed,” she reminded me, but then she came over and joined our hug-fest. “I’ll double check that all the outside doors are locked tonight, but I don’t know if all the guests are in. Just make sure your own room is locked, okay? And I still have no idea who stole Pluckie from your room or how they did it, so we have to be careful.”

  Another person I now believed to be innocent. Not that I’d let down my guard around Celia or her.

  I did double check to make sure my room door was locked behind Pluckie and me. I even moved a small chair from the desk area in front of it so I’d at least get some warning noise if someone entered.

  “I know you’ll bark, too, Pluckie,” I said, patting my dog.

  I’d keep my cell phone close in case I had to call for help. And was startled when, a little later, that phone rang as I got ready for bed. I checked the number. Justin’s.

  “Hi,” I said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, but I was going to ask you the same thing. Getting slugged by rocks tired me out, so I just went home early. I slept all this time so I just got your message. I know it’s late and I apologize, but after all that went on today …”

  “I’m glad you did.” I planted my butt, now clad in pajama bottoms, on the coverlet on top of the bed. “You’re not going to like what I just did, but I couldn’t just sit back and wait to see if Pluckie was stolen again, or I was attacked, or whatever.”

  The friendliness in his tone turned cop-professional icy. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I just issued a challenge to the killer and dognapper. And I think they’ve got to be the same person.”

  “What did you do, Rory?”

  I told him.

  “Damn it!” His words were punctuated with a crash that suggested he’d punched something that fell over. “Don’t you realize that someone who killed at least once won’t have any compunction about doing it again to save himself—or herself ?”

  “Of course I realize it,” I said. “That’s one reason I called you. I don’t really have a lot of money to spare but I want to know of a good security company around here that I could hire for a short while till we see what happens.”

  “The hell with a security company. The Destiny police force is going to be sitting on your back, Rory. Especially me.”

  I didn’t argue, even though a part of me sizzled with resentment. I didn’t like being watched or told what to do.

  But I did like the idea of being protected. By the cops. And, yes, by the chief of police in particular.
r />   Sure, I’d considered him a possible suspect—but not seriously. And certainly not after what he’d suffered to help save Pluckie.

  Justin said he would pick me up after breakfast the next morning. He’d be sending extra patrols to the area even tonight, before the Star interview was likely to be made public. I was to be careful. I was to call him as soon as I woke up. I had the sense that he didn’t want me to be alone except for bathroom visits—but fortunately that wasn’t among his edicts.

  “Isn’t all of this bad luck?” I demanded.

  “You’ve made your own bad luck,” he said, then amended more softly, “or at least you’re adding to whatever the killer may already have sent your way.”

  “Yes, but it’s good luck for me that you now know about it. I’ll play by the rules somewhat now, Justin, and at least keep you informed if I hear or learn anything, okay?”

  “Of course that’s okay,” he exploded again. Then, “of course,” he repeated more softly. “What’s not okay is that you’ve upped the ante and made yourself more vulnerable. But now we’ll just deal with it. And keep you, despite yourself, out of harm’s way.”

  “Thank you, Justin,” I said.

  I only hoped he was right.

  I hoped so even more later. In the middle of the night.

  Pluckie woke me by stirring beside me—similarly to the way she had on the night Tarzal was murdered.

  “What’s wrong, girl?” I asked, feeling myself start to shake. Had Celia posted the interview already?

  Was someone about to burst into the room and kill me? Did my dog hear or smell someone approaching?

  And then I heard it—as I had before.

  A dog howled in the distance.

  This time, did it also mean death?

  twenty-nine

  Like last time, many of the guests at the B&B mentioned hearing the dog’s howl the next morning downstairs in the crowded breakfast room. They spoke largely in hushed tones, asking Serina, who was in charge as always, if it truly meant someone was going to die, as the superstition said.