Murder, She Barked

“Why didn’t you kick him out of office and elect someone else?” I asked.

The waiter removed our empty scallop dishes and replaced them with a salad. Apples and walnuts rested on a bed of red cabbage. I dug in right away. The vinaigrette had been sweetened with honey.

Oma sipped her wine. “It’s complicated. Wagtail would never have been such a success if it weren’t for Jerry. He worked hard at obtaining the grants that enabled us to spruce up the town and improve the pedestrian zone. You have to be tough when everyone in town wants something that will be solely to his or her own benefit.”

“He might be responsible for our economic success but the man was a menace. He treated us all with pompous disdain, like we were servants.” Rose broke a piece off a crusty artisanal roll and slathered it with creamy butter.

“Oma, did you have a conflict with Jerry?” I asked.

Rose nearly choked on her bread. “Do you know anyone more outspoken than Liesel? She stood up for everyone in the community.”

“Come now, Rose. Jerry and I agreed on many things, too. It won’t be easy to find a replacement for him. You have to have a thick skin to be in that sort of position.”

Thomas reappeared with a waiter in tow who set plates before us.

“This is rosemary and Parmesan-encrusted lamb with my special harvest mushrooms in wine sauce, and mashed potatoes.” He patted Oma’s upper arm. “Enjoy, my friends.”

The waiter set a small dish in front of Gingersnap, who didn’t wait for the rest of us to start eating. It appeared that she had also been served lamb and mashed potatoes, but instead of mushrooms in wine, she scarfed cubed sweet potatoes.

“Do I detect an accent when Thomas speaks?” I asked.

“He grew up in Austria and moved to the States as a young man,” said Oma. “But he returned to Switzerland for culinary training.”

Rose murmured with delight. “Mmm. Fantastic, as always.” She whispered, “I think the accent is a bit of an affectation, but he’s an incredible chef. He could work at any five-star restaurant. We’re lucky to have him here in Wagtail.”

“Holly, did you get news about your dog?” asked Holmes.

“No, I wish I had. It was a marriage proposal.”

Oma choked.

Rose dropped her fork.

Holmes raised his eyebrows. “In a text?”

I nodded in the affirmative. “Oma, are you okay?”

She waved a hand in the air and drank water, hacking. “From the Ben?”

She could not have asked with more distaste. I hated it when she called him the Ben, like he was an object.

“Why, why . . . Holmes! Don’t you ever propose that way!” Rose shook her finger at him.

“Don’t think that’s likely, Grandma. I’m already engaged.” Holmes suppressed an amused smile. “Is Ben a techie type?”

“Not techie enough for me to think it was cute or clever. He didn’t even spell it out.”

Oma fixed me in her gaze. “Have you been talking about marriage?”

“Not really. I suppose there’s been an undercurrent of thought there. Sometimes we mention things in the future, and the assumption is that we’ll be together.”

After a moment of rather painful silence, everyone began to eat again, except for Gingersnap, who had finished her dinner and decided that I was the most likely to part with some of my lamb. She focused those big brown eyes on me, and I didn’t need pet psychic Zelda to interpret what Gingersnap was thinking.

The conversation veered to my missing dog and the notion of a community website for local announcements and news. The existing Wagtail website only offered information of interest to visitors and those planning vacations.

Holmes and Rose were enthralled with the idea, and before I knew it, we had polished off heavenly, creamy, decadent chocolate mousse. Gingersnap didn’t have to feel left out. The waiter brought her a special doggy dessert made with pumpkin.

The grandmothers began to eye empty rocking chairs on the inn porch.

“Hair of the Dog?” asked Holmes.

“Sure, but I’m pretty beat. I might not stay long.”

With our grandmothers comfortably ensconced on the porch, and Gingersnap back to kissing all the Sugar Maple Inn guests, Holmes and I strolled down to Hair of the Dog. We passed Jerry’s house on the way. A yellow police tape hung across the front door.

“Is it just me, or does it seem like it was a long time ago that we found Jerry’s body?” asked Holmes.

“So much has happened since I arrived that it feels like time is flying by.”

The pub turned out to be on the same street, but at the very end, next to the road that cars could use. The front yard had been turned into a sprawling patio with tables and umbrellas. It was packed with people and their dogs.

“Where did all these people come from?”

“You’d be surprised how many houses are tucked away in the woods around here. There’s a lot of new construction going on. Plus—” he pointed across the street “—there are new developments. Everyone calls that one Hobbitville.”