Murder, She Barked

The inn had been built in the 1800s by a wealthy man whose ailing wife frequented the waters for their curative powers. His son later expanded the huge six-bedroom house to eight bedrooms with an addition. Local stone covered the walls in a variety of colors that we had delighted in as children. They ran from white to deep red, and gold to brown, with plenty of pink and salmon and the occasional black stone. We used to hunt for green and blue rocks, but there weren’t any.

The building featured two main levels with a dormered third floor attic—where I was now staying. The roof had been raised in the center of the attic level to accommodate my suite. The addition of the circular balcony with a wrought iron railing on the suite added a stunning architectural element. A somewhat smaller addition had been built on the left side, presumably the cat wing.

Family lore had it that my grandfather had won the inn in a heated poker game. His family had already owned one-thousand acres of mountain property, but nothing as chic or elegant as the mansion. I’d never quite believed the story about the poker game, but that was the tale I’d always been told.

As I studied the inn, Mr. Luciano bolted out the front door and down the steps. He certainly wasn’t dressed for jogging in those laced-up leather shoes, but he sprinted away from the inn, his expression decidedly more distressed than it was last night.

Ten

He ran along the other side of the walking zone. I didn’t think he saw me. I watched him until he disappeared around a corner.

In the heavenly fall air with the sun beaming down on us, and the mountains crisply defined in the distance, the problems of the previous day evaporated. It was impossible to imagine that Sven’s death had been anything but an accident.

The joy of Wagtail was contagious. Dogs romped with puppyish exuberance. Their people smiled and laughed. With the sole exception of Mr. Luciano, no one hurried anywhere like they did in the city. People relaxed at outdoor tables, enjoying breakfast. The scent of bacon wafted to me, and to my dog, too, if her twitching nose was any indication.

Could it be because everyone had come here on vacation? Were they unwinding and letting the stress go? I strolled along, taking in the fenced dog play areas in the grassy median. The Jack Russell tugged toward them. “You can run and play with them once we get you a collar with a tag.”

An old-fashioned drugstore on the corner of a side street was already open for business. The sign above the door read HEAL! Drugs and Sundry. I held the door ajar and called out, “Hello? Is my dog allowed inside?”

“By all means.” A pharmacist in a white coat beckoned to me. In his mid-thirties, he teased an older woman who flirted with him. Either his tan hid his blush, or he was used to that sort of attention. She had the audacity to reach up and touch his neatly cropped hair, almost the same shade as my own milk chocolate brown tresses.

I wandered through the store, passing an old-fashioned penny candy display. Rows of large glass jars showed off hard candies, toffees, and gumballs as well as assorted dog treats in the shapes of bones, mailmen, and drumsticks, and dried fish treats for cats.

Next to it was a soda fountain. I had vague memories of a shabby old lunch counter in Wagtail, but this modern version was adorable. A polished wood countertop shone under the store lights. No one sat on the chrome stools with seats of bright red Naugahyde yet, but a coffeepot rested on the counter next to paper cups, sugar, cream, and a Help Yourself sign. On the wall, a chalkboard listed ice cream flavors, along with floats, banana splits, and sundaes, and an additional list of frosty treats and drinks just for dogs and cats. I looked down at the dog. “You’d like a doggy ice cream cone, wouldn’t you?”

Fascinated by a scent on the floor, she ignored me until I opened the treat jar with the drumsticks and took one.

She twirled around and pranced on her hind legs. I couldn’t resist that cute tail and those hopeful eyes. “We have to pay for this before you can eat it. Okay?”

As though she feared I might eat it myself, she kept her nose aimed at the cookie in my hand as we wandered on and found the makeup section. I didn’t need too much. I’d had a brush in my purse. Shampoo and conditioner had been provided in my bathroom at the inn. Mostly I needed eyeliner, mascara, and blush.

When I brought my purchases to the checkout counter, the pharmacist said, “Welcome to Wagtail. Are you on vacation?”

Painfully aware of my messy outfit, I explained that I was visiting my grandmother.

“Liesel! She’s crazy for our pecan praline ice cream. Not that I can blame her—I can barely control myself around pecan praline turtles made with a little bourbon and covered with chocolate. My idea of heaven!”

“Are you from Wagtail?” I asked.