Murder, She Barked

I hoped Oma hadn’t updated the wonderful old kitchen that she maintained for her personal use. I had spent countless hours in its warmth and hated to imagine it gone. But before I reached it, my grandmother called to me from a table overlooking the lake in the dining area on the other side of the grand staircase. She had removed the narrow old windows in favor of a breathtaking window wall where guests could enjoy the panorama of the lake and the mountains. A few brave guests sat outside at tables on the stone terrace.

The relief I felt at seeing Oma reminded me how much I loved her. I didn’t like the looks of her elevated leg, though.

I rushed over to her and planted a kiss on her cheek.

Officer Dave sat at the table with her. Heavy bags sagged under his eyes. He probably hadn’t gotten any sleep at all. He clutched a mug of coffee in his hands.

A crisp white square topper covered a rose tablecloth. Dave’s breakfast—a waffle covered with blackberries—made my mouth water. The delicious scent of sage wafted from sausages on a side dish. A basket of croissants and hearty breakfast breads looked so incredible that I wanted to select one, slather butter on it, and sink my teeth into it.

A vase of sunflowers graced each of the dozen round tables. I reveled in my surroundings. Oma seemed fine, the sun glittered on the lake below, and it felt great to be back at the inn.

Oma grasped my hand and didn’t let go until she noticed the dog. “Ja, who is this? Casey mentioned that you brought a dog.”

Oma hated that she still had a German accent after fifty years in America, but it sounded charming to most people, including me.

“She doesn’t have a name yet. I found her yesterday when I drove up here.”

Dave murmured, “Morning,” before digging into his breakfast.

The dog placed her front paws against the seat of Oma’s chair and wagged her tail with delight. Oma reached down to pet her. There was a little spark between them. Maybe Oma would keep the dog after all.

“When I was a child, this kind of dog often performed in the circus.” Oma reached for a little glass canister on the table and pulled out a tiny cookie in the shape of a bone. She held it over the dog’s head and asked, “Do you know any tricks?”

The dog’s ears perked up, and she pranced on her hind legs briefly, her nose uplifted for the treat. Oma chuckled and fed her the bone.

“What happened to your leg?” If it hadn’t been for the elevated foot, Oma would have looked perfectly normal. She wore her silvery hair in a short, sassy cut. For a woman just over seventy, her skin showed remarkably few wrinkles. She’d never been fond of makeup and didn’t really need it. She wore a white turtleneck, brown trousers, and a hand-knitted red vest embroidered with tiny white hearts. I assumed she had knitted the vest herself.

“You didn’t tell her?” asked Oma of Dave.

“There was a fire, Liesel.”

“Yesterday evening,” said Oma, “someone murdered Sven, one of my employees.”

Eight

“Murdered? Are you sure?” In my astonishment, I spoke much louder than I’d have liked. A couple of guests who were eating breakfast looked in our direction.

“He was a ski instructor at Snowball Mountain in the winter but worked as night auditor for me in the summer months.” Oma heaved a sad sigh and dabbed a tissue at her eyes.

An attractive waitress arrived at our table, unintentionally interrupting the conversation. A few streaks of blond in her wavy, light brown tresses suggested she might have been blond as a child. She had pulled her hair back into a loose bun but had skipped makeup altogether. Not that she needed any, with those startling blue eyes. I guessed she was in her thirties, close to my age. There was a calmness about her. I couldn’t tell whether she was simply a serene person or exhausted. She wore a white Sugar Maple Inn golf shirt with a khaki skirt. “You must be Holly. Your grandmother never stops stalking about you.”

“I’m so sorry! That must be boring.” I sent a little glare of disapproval to Oma. “A pot of hot tea, please.” I paused, finding it hard to shift my thoughts to food. Should I stay on my diet or dive into a waffle? The mere thought of blackberry syrup almost had me drooling. How could I pass it up? I sighed. “Two soft-boiled eggs, please. No sausage or bacon.” I would have to resist the breads and pastries.

“That’s all?” asked Oma. “You should eat something you wouldn’t make for yourself. A little indulgence while you’re here. Wouldn’t you rather have the blackberry French toast? And perhaps a small Liver It Up breakfast for the little one?”

I’d have been thoroughly upset if my mother changed my order, especially when I was younger. But grandmothers fell into an entirely different category. I smiled and accepted it. Oma merely wanted to spoil me a bit. Besides, she was right. I could return to eating my two bare eggs when I was home again. “And sausages, please?” No point in doing it halfway.

After the waitress left, I said in a hushed voice, “Casey said something about a car accident.”