Murder, She Barked

Somehow I didn’t think allowing her to steal was sending the right message. There must be a better way. Leaving the ballet slippers on their doorstep during the night? But what did I know?

When I left the store, I watched Hazel Mae amble along, window-shopping. Carrying my bag from the drugstore, I ventured back to Oak Street, hoping against all reason or logic that the dog might show up. She didn’t. The rabbit had left, too.

I whistled and called until every dog in the neighborhood barked. Did I hear high-pitched yapping? Somewhere, one howled, long and sad.

I listened, not daring to breathe. Dogs barked all around me. It was probably wishful thinking to imagine I had heard my dog. I had to pull myself together. Okay, so I didn’t have a photo of her. I could still put up lost fliers. Maybe Wagtail had a community website or a little newspaper where I could place an ad.

My teeth clenched, I tried to focus. Buy clothes, work up fliers, find out about newspapers and web communications, and, in between all that, trick Oma into revealing what was wrong with her.

Relieved to have a plan, I returned to the walking zone and found a store called Houndstooth. My temporarily unemployed budget weighed on me, but I found some summer items that had been marked way down. Three cotton tops, a pair of jeans, khakis, and two summery dresses that I couldn’t pass up at the drastically reduced prices. Remembering my mom’s travel advice, one to wash, one to wear, and one to spare, I added two lacy bras and a couple pair of panties and was set.

I’d just stepped out of the store, bags in hand, when I heard my name. My heart thudded like a drum in my chest at that voice—deep and masculine, yet as soft and comforting as a cuddle.

Holmes Richardson loped in my direction. All I could think was why hadn’t I worn one of the new outfits out of the store?

I hadn’t seen Holmes in ages. Not since he went to college. Summers at Wagtail hadn’t been the same after Holmes and my cousin, Josh, graduated from high school and pursued other interests. Although I was a couple of years younger, the three of us had spent countless hours together working at the Sugar Maple Inn.

Oma had always hired Holmes, Rose’s grandson, to work with Josh and me. She hadn’t differentiated between sexes, either. We all did the same tasks, whether it was carrying luggage to rooms, washing dishes, weeding, clearing trails, or doing laundry and making up the beds. We’d had a lot of fun, though. Taller than Josh, sandy-haired Holmes had always pulled the role of Han Solo to espresso-haired Josh’s Luke Skywalker. As Princess Leia, I had wielded my share of fallen branches as light sabers.

At the end of each summer, Josh and I had been shipped back to our parents, while Holmes remained in Wagtail and rode the bus down the mountain to school. But I never forgot about the first boy I had ever kissed. I’d written Mrs. Holmes Richardson in my grade-school notebooks over and over again.

I straightened my blouse, painfully self-conscious.

An ever-so-slightly-crooked smile spread across his face. “Holly?”

A good foot taller than me, he had no problem literally sweeping me off my feet in a bear hug.

He set me down, beaming at me. “What are you doing here? I can’t believe it’s really you.”

“I came to check on Oma.” He looked great. A little bit older and more polished, but the smiling blue eyes and genuinely happy grin were as inviting as ever.

“I heard what happened to her. How’s she doing?”

“Stubbornly pretends nothing is wrong.”

Holmes laughed. “That’s probably a good sign. I’d like to stop by to see her while I’m here.” He glanced around. “Is Josh here, too?”

That sucked the wind out of my sails. For a few seconds, romantic notions had danced in my head. With a huge sigh, my lofty visions crashed back down to earth. Holmes lived in Chicago, and he was engaged to be married. We weren’t in grade school anymore. I consoled myself with the fact that my cousin Josh had been Holmes’s best friend growing up, so it was only natural that Holmes would ask about him. “No. Just me.”

Holmes glanced at a gold watch on his wrist that exposed the works underneath the crystal. “I’m on my way to a meeting. Walk with me so we can catch up?”

“Pretty snazzy watch, sir,” I teased.

“A gift from my fiancé. My folks warned me that some chump is stealing gold over at Snowball and thought I should leave it at their place. But I feel naked without a watch and this is Wagtail, you know? That incident with Oma last night has to be a fluke.”

He held his hands out for my bags. “They don’t have stores in Washington?”

I explained my haste to come to Wagtail while we walked. “And now I don’t know if Oma is sick or not. I asked your grandmother this morning, but she wouldn’t tell me.”