Murder, She Barked

Someone had built cute cottages reminiscent of hobbit houses with eyebrow arches over doors, round windows, and little peaked roofs. They were set back off the road a good distance. But not too far to comfortably walk to Hair of the Dog or the pedestrian mall.

Hair of the Dog was located in a bungalow-style house that had been painted cream. Brown beams had been added to give it a quaint and inviting Tudor look reminiscent of English and Irish pubs. Huge windows fronted the street. Lights glowed with warmth inside, reminding me that the days had already grown shorter.

Men greeted Holmes heartily when we entered. The shadows of flames from a large fireplace flickered across the burnished red fur of an Irish setter, who raised his head to observe us. We snagged a table not too far from the bar. The setter strolled over to check us out, carrying a sock in his mouth.

Holmes strode up to the bar to place our order while I played tug with the Irish setter and took in my surroundings. Brewster leaned against the bar listening to a group of animated guys who clustered before him. Tiny sat on a bar stool and engaged Holmes.

And everywhere, under barstools and next to tables, dogs lounged near their people.

“You must be new to Wagtail.”

I changed my focus to a man who had approached our table. He wore snug-fitting jeans with a navy turtleneck and a blue plaid flannel shirt. All very tidy and tucked in. His mustache reminded me of Tom Selleck’s, lush and full but neatly trimmed. His hair had receded just enough to give him a prominent forehead, but he made a very good impression. This was a man who was in control. I bet his house and car sparkled.

“May I?” He gestured to a chair.

“Sure.” What else could I say? Besides Holmes would be back any minute.

He sat down, and crossed an ankle over his knee, evidently comfortable with himself. “Are you staying at the inn?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Mmm.” He handed me a business card. “Philip.”

“Holly.” I shook his hand.

“What do you think of Wagtail?” He glanced around the table. “No dog?”

“She’s lost,” I said.

“Oh. Those must be your fliers around town. I’ll be on the lookout for her.”

“Thanks.”

“You came in with Holmes, but I don’t think I’m going out on a limb here—you’re not his fiancé?”

“Right again. We’re just friends.”

“You’re from Chicago?”

“Washington, D.C. You sound like you’re from—North Carolina?”

“Good ear!” His hand rested on the table and it curled into a ball, squeezing his thumb. “It was my wife’s dream to have a bed-and-breakfast. It was all she talked about. She pored over photos, planned breakfast menus . . .” He bowed his head. “It was an obsession. We went skiing over at Snowball, and the B and B owner told us about Wagtail. We bought a B and B here, and all was well until my wife realized that she liked staying at B and Bs better than she liked having to work at them. Now I’m single again, with two B and Bs.”

“That’s terrible. What’s your ex-wife doing now?”

“She’s a travel writer.” He glanced at the ceiling, sighed, and shook his head. “You should stay at my place on your next visit.”

“You didn’t go with her.” I observed.

“I made that mistake once. How could I know if she would be any happier with the next thing? I didn’t want to tear up roots and start over again. I’ve done pretty well for myself, and I’m not done yet. Being a hotelier suits me. One of these days, I’ll own a big place like Old Lady Miller.” He flashed a coy look at me. “Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

I hadn’t seen that coming. “That sounds really nice, but I’m afraid I’m seeing someone.”

He reached for my left hand. “No ring. Maybe there’s still hope for me?”

I disengaged my hand as politely as I knew how. “If the situation changes, I’ll let you know.”

Holmes brought over an Irish coffee for me. Fluffy cream filled the top of the slender glass mug. He plunked down an amber draft beer for himself.

Tiny ambled over with a bottle of beer in hand.

Perfunctory greetings flew around the table.

Holmes pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “All anybody can talk about is Jerry and Sven. Did you know Sven, Philip?”

Philip ran a hand down his mustache. “Great guy. I took some skiing lessons from him. He used to hang here at Hair of the Dog in the summertime on his days off. Tragic, just tragic. Did you meet him?” He looked at me when he asked.

“No. I didn’t get to town until after his death.”

“Holly saw his killer when she drove up the mountain,” said Holmes.

Philip and Tiny stared at me like I had grown an extra nose.

“It wasn’t like—”

“You? You’re the one who saw the ghost?” asked Tiny.

“No! It wasn’t a ghost. Why does everyone think it was a ghost?”

Philip made a funny face that I couldn’t quite read. “That’s what everyone is saying, but a person must have pushed the car off the cliff.”

Tiny leaned toward me. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. I’ve seen that ghost out on the highway myself.”

Seventeen