Murder, She Barked

“You haven’t been here in a while, have you? They probably arrived by bus for a day of sightseeing. The buses park about two miles out and everyone is brought in by golf cart. They call them Wagtail Taxis.”

“That explains the big parking lot I encountered when I drove up. It’s a little different, but I like it! There’s something very calming about no traffic.”

“Life moves at a slower pace here. Locals take their golf carts everywhere—grocery shopping, to restaurants, to cabins up the road. Jerry’s murder is going to freak everyone out.”

“The golf carts are so quiet. They barely hum. It’s eerie! I had no idea they could be nearly soundless.”

Holmes brightened briefly. “When the town became a car-free zone, they decided to use electric golf carts to keep noise pollution to a minimum. Isn’t it incredible how quickly city noises become part of our norm, and we barely hear them? I love coming back to Wagtail. I wake to birdsong every morning. And at night, sitting on the porch and listening to the crickets is better than any medicine for calming raw nerves.”

We had reached the pedestrian zone and watched people pile out of the golf carts.

“Are you okay?” Holmes placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“What’s going on, Holmes? I like the new Wagtail. It’s so charming and peaceful, but something scary is happening. A car exploded just outside Wagtail last night. There was the strange hit-and-run that killed Sven, and now this? Poor Jerry, lying there, with his hand outstretched . . .”

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget that grisly scene. I’d better get back to the house to tell my folks what’s going on. They’ll worry about me if they hear it from someone else since I left for his place. Guess we’ll be around for a few days, huh? Maybe we can catch a drink at the bar one night.”

“Sounds good.” I trudged back to the inn feeling guilty for being glad that maybe the Sugar Maple Inn wasn’t at the core of the crimes being committed after all. Two murders and the attack on Mr. Luciano in such a short period of time—they had to be related. I didn’t know any of the people involved. I hoped that Dave knew what or who linked them together.

The front porch that ran the length of the inn’s main building had filled with chatty visitors. The smell of coffee wafted to me, and I spied croissants. All the guests had dogs with them, except for one couple that doted on a longhaired white cat that sat between them on a swing in the corner. A Persian, perhaps?

They all seemed so happy, so content, completely unaware that the mayor of Wagtail had been brutally murdered.

I raced past them and took the elevator up to my suite. Setting my bags down, I opened the door, and Twinkletoes ran to me, mewing.

“How did you get in here?”

She rubbed against my ankles, turning in tight circles. I picked her up and cuddled her. “Our dog is gone,” I whispered. “And Jerry is dead.”

She head-butted my chin, no doubt in sympathetic solidarity.

I carried the bags into the bedroom and set them on the floor. Twinkletoes wasted no time jumping into each of them in succession. While I hung up the clothes, she investigated every corner of the walk-in closet. When I closed the door, she returned to the bags, jumping in and out of them and sniffing carefully. I changed into a deep pink sleeveless top with a V-neck and the khakis. As usual, the pants needed to be shortened, but I had no time for that and rolled the bottoms up.

Twinkletoes followed me when I left the room, but she didn’t wait for the elevator. She scampered down the main staircase. I probably should have too, just for the exercise, but the elevator doors opened, and I took the easy route.

Suspecting that Oma’s office must be somewhere in the vicinity of the reception area, I headed that way. No one manned the desk, but I heard voices, so I peered into the room behind it.

Oma and Rose relaxed in cushy chairs covered in a bright floral fabric. The desk and office equipment gave it away as Oma’s office. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the wall behind her desk.

The two of them were enjoying lunch at a coffee table in front of French doors, which had been thrown open to enjoy the sunshine glittering on the lake. Twinkletoes had beaten me there and was already stretched out on a semiprivate terrace.

Oma was on the phone when I entered. Rose signaled me to keep quiet by placing a finger over her lips. Oma continued the conversation but waved me in and pointed to the food on the coffee table.

After Jerry’s horrible death, I would have thought food would be the last thing on my mind, but the glistening slices of pineapple and kiwi on the fruit platter with a selection of ripe cantaloupe and juicy watermelon enticed me. The loaf of crusty artisan bread, and the curious cheese with something red rolled into it in a swirl, simply had to be sampled. Unless I missed my guess, that was creamy chicken salad full of green grapes, crunchy celery, and almonds. I had to try it all. Just a taste, I promised myself.