Murder, She Barked

“That’s strange. If she called because of the accident, then it seems like she would have said so.” Two worry wrinkles appeared between his eyebrows. “I don’t like the sound of that. Will you let me know what you find out?”

I nodded. We strolled along Pine Street, where elegant white Victorian-style houses nestled under towering trees. Whitewashed fences surrounded cute bungalows. It seemed each house had a front porch.

“You have a meeting in Wagtail?” That was odd for someone who lived in Chicago. “Are you planning to move here?”

Holmes stopped dead in his tracks. He winced. “Not really.” He scuffed the toe of his elegant brown loafer against the sidewalk. “My fiancé would never move here. I . . . I can’t.”

It was totally inappropriate, and I never would have asked if I hadn’t known him and his family so well. “Then why the meeting?”

“My family owns a piece of property that they want to develop as rental cabins, but Jerry Pierce, the mayor, is blocking them.”

“And they brought you in to find out why?”

“We think we know why. Jerry is a real estate agent who rents out his own properties in and around Wagtail. He doesn’t want the competition.”

“So you’re supposed to be big, bad Holmes and beat him up a little bit?” I suppressed the urge to giggle. Holmes might have the physical size to appear imposing, but he didn’t have a mean or vicious bone in his body.

“Something like that. He doesn’t have a leg to stand on. He’s just being a bully and throwing his weight around by refusing to give them the permit. You know my family—they don’t want to make a fuss or go to court over it.”

I did know. My family was much the same way. And from what I’d seen of Jerry that morning, he could be obnoxious. We walked on, and Holmes stopped in front of an old white house with a turret. I couldn’t determine the style. A cross between Victorian and Italianate? Most likely the original architecture was hidden under layers of modifications, but the turret certainly made it stand out among the other more modest homes.

“Your meeting is in his house?”

“I’m told he has an office on the first floor where he entertains his subjects. Rose calls him King Jerry, but he sounds more like a dictator to me.” Holmes grinned at me when he handed over my purchases. “Wish me luck with the curmudgeon.”

With a light, agile gait, he jogged up the stairs and onto the front porch. I watched him, still engulfed in the warmth of a Holmes-induced euphoria.

I turned away. What was wrong with me? I had a perfectly nice boyfriend. Just yesterday I had been worried about Kim making moves on him. Yet it had taken me only seconds to fall back into a childish crush. I wasn’t usually so . . . fickle. That’s what I was! Fickle. And silly.

I hadn’t taken two steps when I heard a stifled yelp and the screen door slam shut. Had Jerry already thrown him out? I looked over my shoulder. Holmes stood on the porch, his back to the door, his face ashen.

“Holmes? Are you all right?”

Twelve

Holmes stepped forward, grabbed the porch railing, and gasped for breath.

I hurried up the steps. “What is it?”

He held out a long arm meant to prevent me from going inside. “Holly, don’t . . .”

I dropped my shopping bags and threw open the screen door. Jerry Pierce sprawled on his stomach near the bottom of the stairs as though he had fallen but hadn’t slid all the way down. His right arm stretched out toward me in a horrifyingly sad effort to crawl or grasp something. Blood matted his hair and stained his argyle vest. Around his neck hung the silver chain of a dog choke collar.

In spite of myself, I screamed and slapped my hand over my mouth. I trembled when I asked, “Have you checked for a pulse?”

“Not yet. See if you can find a phone to call 911.”

Holmes knelt on the floor in front of Jerry.

Gulping air through my mouth as though I couldn’t get enough oxygen, I raced into a dark room that appeared to be Jerry’s office. A dense white curtain hung over the front window, blocking light. Jerry’s massive desk with gargoyle legs dominated the room. Thankfully, a phone rested on it.

I picked it up and dialed 911, hoping the big, evil woman wouldn’t answer. This time the call was handled professionally. Assured an ambulance was on the way, I hung up and returned to what I feared was a corpse.

Holmes moved his fingers under Jerry’s jawline. “I think it’s too late for an ambulance. He’s cold.”

“Cold? You mean cold because he’s dead or that he needs a blanket?”

“Dead. I can’t feel anything but skin that’s way colder than it should be.”

“It looks like somebody bashed him over the head. I don’t think you would bleed like that from a fall.” I whispered when I asked, “Do you think someone choked him to death with the collar?”

“Gross. I hope not. It left marks on his neck, though. There’s not much blood on the stairs,” said Holmes, rising. “But there’s a lot on his hair.”

I shuddered. “Oh, Holmes! It appears as if he was running away from someone and was pushed or tripped. Look at that outstretched hand.”