Murder, She Barked

“You still have that lovely long hair, but I bet you don’t wear it in pigtails anymore. I’d have known you anywhere.” She gasped and stared at Twinkletoes. “Oh my word! Did you know that Twinkletoes has adopted you? She says you’re the one.”

Huh? I shifted my focus from the kitten to the woman in the doorway. She’d spoken as though she thought she had said something very normal.

“I had such a hard time getting a reading on her. She was very protective. Perhaps now I can find out why. She’s a real sweetheart. You’re very lucky.” The woman turned around and helped someone at the front desk.

I gathered the stack of fliers and ran my hand over Twinkletoes’s silken fur. Whispering, I said, “I think someone might have a screw loose.”

The woman popped back into the doorway. “I should have introduced myself. I’m Zelda. Well, really Jane, but Zelda sounds so much more exotic, don’t you think? I’m the sevento-three shift, except on Fridays and Saturdays because I’m really a pet psychic and those are my busiest days. Well, not really a psychic because that would mean communicating with the dead, which I don’t do. More like an animal whisperer, really, but that confuses people, and they think I’m going to train their animals, so I just say I’m a psychic.”

She didn’t stop talking to take a breath but I felt like I needed one.

“I have some whopping bills to pay off thanks to marrying a boozer who laid around on my sofa and ran up my credit cards, so I’m working here to get back on my feet.”

She stopped her rapid-fire chattiness and gazed upward rotating her hand just below her chin. “I’m getting something . . . A white dog is looking for you. Do you have a white dog?”

Teeny hairs on the back of my neck pricked up. For a moment, I gaped at her in shock. How was that possible? How could she have known? Then I realized that Oma or Casey had probably told her about the dog. Or Shelley or Rose. A dozen people had seen me with her. “She’s lost.” I handed Zelda a flier. “If you see her, please let me know.”

“Of course.” She drew her hand in a circle again. “She’s trying to find you.”

I didn’t believe that Zelda could really read animals’ minds, but I had to ask, even if I felt stupid doing it. “Can you see where she is?”

“Stairs. She’s sniffing around stairs. That’s all I’m getting. Not very helpful, is it? Maybe if you had something that belonged to her? A ball or a stuffed toy?”

“I didn’t have her long enough to give her any toys.”

“Oh!” She tucked in her chin, as though that was the oddest thing she’d ever heard.

I got the feeling she disapproved. “If she comes back, she can have all the toys she wants.”

“I’ll let her know! And when she comes home, we’ll schedule her for a massage. All the dogs love massages. And maybe a nice hike? We have some openings over the next few days. Or you could take her swimming. Does she like to swim?”

“I have no idea. Dog massages?”

She nodded eagerly. “We don’t do everything in-house, but I can book anything you like from right here. The masseuse usually comes to the inn, and the acupuncturist will, too.”

I thanked her politely. The whole town had turned into a resort for pampered pets! I collected supplies to post fliers, picked up Twinkletoes, and hustled for the main part of the inn.

Twinkletoes purred, soft yet steady. She didn’t squirm or try to jump from my arms. Soft as cashmere, her fur brushed my chin. “You’d better adopt Oma if you want to live in the inn. Not that I would blame you. What cat or dog wouldn’t want to live in a town that caters to your every whim? My place in Washington is small, and there’s no masseuse or acupuncturist or pet psychic, but there’s a greenhouse window over the kitchen sink.” Why did that window sound so insignificant in comparison? “Assuming I get another job and can pay the mortgage, that is.”

If she had a response, unlike Zelda, I couldn’t detect it. I scurried into the Dogwood Room, the grand sitting room where guests gathered, and tried not to be too obvious as I looked out the glass wall onto the terrace. Mugs on the table in front of them, Oma and Rose conferred with Mr. Luciano, who tugged at the short sleeve of his casual golf shirt as though he wasn’t used to it. He wore his dark hair swept straight back off his broad face. A white bandage covered his injury.

At least a dozen guests relaxed in the gentle fall sunshine at other tables, and Shelley, the waitress at breakfast, still worked, serving everyone. It all seemed peaceful enough for me to dash through the walking area to post fliers.

I set Twinkletoes down. Without a care in the world, she jumped onto a sofa, strolled to a sunbeam, and curled up in a ball for a nap.

Armed with two rolls of tape, thumbtacks, and a sheath of fliers, I walked the quaint streets of Wagtail tacking fliers to telephone poles. The town bustled with tourists and their dogs. An occasional person carried a cat or walked one on a leash. If word of Jerry’s demise had swept through Wagtail, the tourists didn’t know about it yet.