Murder, She Barked

Dave locked his eyes on mine. “I would have said that about everyone in this town. But somebody killed Jerry, and very possibly Sven, too.” Dave rubbed his face with both of his hands. “I don’t know what’s going on. I thought I had a handle on it. Seemed logical that the person who killed Sven threw the car he used over the cliff to get rid of the evidence.”

That did make sense. A chill shook through me. “You mean I saw Sven’s killer out on the road?”

“Hmm? Yeah, maybe.” He seemed distracted. “But the attack on Mr. Luciano and now Jerry’s death don’t fit into that equation at all. If you pick up on anything, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

“Dave, I was wondering if Sven’s death could be connected to the gold coin he won.”

Dave’s lips pulled tight. “I thought about that, too. But it hasn’t led anywhere. The men involved in that poker game weren’t here, and they all appear to have alibis. Besides, he won it fair and square. There wasn’t any animosity about it.”

“I’ll let you know if I hear anything. Right away. I promise.”

“Thanks, Holly.” Dave took off in a hurry. From the bay window, I watched him race along Wagtail’s pedestrian zone. I understood where he was coming from. In a small town, you think you know everyone. But he couldn’t afford to make assumptions about any of us. Still, I knew he was wrong about Holmes.

The guest across the room looked up from his book. I smiled at him in what I hoped was a reassuring manner, tapped the clipboard, and ventured into a short corridor that led to The Cat’s Pajamas wing. I inserted a master key in a door labeled Purr.

It opened to a cat paradise. A foot-wide catwalk circled the walls near the ceiling. Stairs and landings offered ease in springing up to it. A tunnel and assorted wider areas provided spaces for lounging.

Sliding doors led to a screened porch. A cat door in the wall allowed access that could be closed to keep the cat inside the room.

I stepped out on the porch and ran my hand over a tree to see if it was real. It was! Very clever. It was installed at a slant, and I couldn’t imagine any cat not wanting to climb it. Their inner tigers could come out.

A bird and squirrel feeding station had been erected in a private clearing just outside the porches. The feeders buzzed with activity, providing live theater for cats. I wondered if Twinkletoes knew what she was missing.

I returned to the room. People comforts hadn’t been overlooked. Two cozy chairs nestled by the fireplace. The bed had been made with a fluffy feather comforter, and over the headboard, written in a beautiful golden script and framed, What greater gift than the love of a cat? ~Charles Dickens.

That reminded me to check the gift basket. Locally crafted cat toys and treats filled a cat bed, which bore the name Sugar Maple Inn. A catnip mouse, three cute, trial-sized containers of different cat snacks, and a ball that crackled accompanied the treats—a bottle of Cat’s Meow cabernet sauvignon and a chocolate mouse—were undoubtedly meant for the person footing the bill. I peered at the name on the list, Mr. Gary Parson, who would be arriving with Tabushkin.

I tore myself away from the amazing cat room to peer at the bathroom. Spotless. The new housekeeper was doing a great job. A disposable eco-friendly litter box was ready for the lucky feline guest, Tabushkin.

The remaining rooms on the list were located in the main section of the inn. I took the grand staircase up to the second floor.

Oma had renamed all the rooms after dog activities. The shabby chic white room with a tall four-poster bed, sparkling chandelier, and whitewashed floors had become Play. Next door, Sniff reflected Oma’s European roots, with painted furniture that looked like it belonged in an Alpine bedroom. The adjoining room, Wag, featured two beds painted blue and nestled in a cozy nook under a semicircular wood ceiling. I recalled sleeping there one summer and pretending I was a princess.

Like the cat baskets, the dog baskets featured toys and treats made in Wagtail. But the cobalt blue bottle of white wine bore the Our Dog Blue label from a Virginia winery. I sniffed the air. Very subtle lavender. No musty dog odors, but my inferior nose couldn’t begin to pick up what a dog could smell. The gleaming hardwood floors left little chance for scents to linger. Not that people would notice anyway, only their dogs, whose powerful olfactory capabilities would make a person a superhero.

I checked off rooms on the clipboard as I visited them. Everything was in order. Only a double-check of the cat and dog food on hand was left to be done.

Heavenly aromas wafted to me when I opened the door to the official kitchen.

A guy wearing a white chef’s coat pulled a roast turkey from the oven. I introduced myself to him. “Are we serving dinners at the inn now?”

He laughed. “Only small fare. Goulash, chili, sandwiches, cheese and fruit platters, that sort of thing.”