Murder, She Barked

The morning sun kissed the treetops, and the view down the mountain was nothing short of amazing. A light smattering of yellows and oranges heralded the coming of autumn. In spite of the peaceful quiet and stunning views, my heart sank. A dog, even a white one, would be lost under the canopy of the trees.

And then, like a miracle, she appeared below me, in a trail beneath the zip line. She carried something in her mouth.

“Cookie! Cookie!” I called, hoping she remembered what that meant.

A gunshot rang out. I heard myself scream, “No!”

Nineteen

Like an apparition, my dog vanished.

I shouted, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! Cookie! Cookie!” As I scrambled down the tower praying she hadn’t been hit, I yelled the words over and over.

At the bottom, I bounded down the slope to the spot where I’d seen her.

Crouching, I spoke softly, hoping she would be brave enough to come to me.

A couple of yards away, the base of a large green fern wavered. I held my breath. Was she inching toward me?

“She’s gone.”

I looked up. A tall man with a weather-beaten face gazed at me. Wrinkles etched deep into his bronzed skin. Round glasses rested on the bridge of his nose.

I rose to my feet and staggered back a step. “What do you mean gone?” Not dead. She couldn’t be! I didn’t see her anywhere.

“I assume she’s your dog, or you wouldn’t be tromping around and shouting like a bonehead so early in the morning. You should know she can run like the wind.” He smiled and gazed away as though remembering it. “I don’t think her feet touch the ground. I never saw a dog move like that.”

“Are you the one doing the shooting?”

He raised his hand to show me that he carried a gnarled walking stick. “I don’t kill God’s creatures.” His eyebrow twitched up. “Not anymore.”

“Is hunting allowed here? So close to the zip line?”

“No. It’s not. Somebody has been tracking her. I don’t know what she did, but you better find her and take her home before she’s shot.”

I gazed around. “Tracking her? Like hunting her? Why would anyone do that?” The blood in my temples pounded. “Do you know which direction—” he had disappeared as fast as she had “—she went?”

No wonder everybody around here believed in ghosts. What was wrong with people? Shooting dogs and disappearing in the woods? What was that old guy doing out here anyway?

I scanned the base of the trees again. If she ran from the sound of gunfire, she was probably headed back toward town. With that thought in mind, I began the ascent to the tower.

And stopped within two feet. It had been simple enough to clamber down. Viewed from the other direction, the mountain posed a vertical challenge that might as well have been Kilimanjaro. I found myself leaning forward and climbing. Bracing myself with my hands, occasionally grasping briars, tree limbs, and even weeds for support.

At the top, I had to stop to catch my breath. I might not be superstitious like my grandmother, but this day wasn’t starting well at all.

Relieved to be back in the golf cart, I dusted off my jeans. My hands bled from grabbing rough plants. I puttered slowly in the direction of Wagtail’s pedestrian zone, watching the underbelly of the dense forest for any sign of the dog.

Would she return to the heart of Wagtail? I turned left into the residential area of Wagtail on the lookout for her as the town came to life. Bird feeders were being filled. An occasional whiff of coffee brewing or frying bacon floated my way. Bathrobe-clad residents stepped out to collect their newspapers from their stoops. Dogs were being walked everywhere I looked.

I recognized the Great Dane, Dolce, and Jerry’s basset hound, Chief, sitting together on the porch of Ellie’s house. Her curtains remained drawn, though. Unlike other homes, the dogs were the only sign of normalcy.

At the end of the street, where it joined the shopping area, I turned the golf cart around, and finally understood why Dave thought Sven’s death couldn’t have been an accident.

There really wasn’t a good reason to drive down this road unless you had business there. I stopped the cart and surveyed my surroundings. To my left, a large white Italianate home with fancy windows and an ornate cupola dominated the street. An equally ornate sign in the front yard identified it as the 1864 Inn. I fumbled in my purse for the business card Philip had given me the night before. Indeed, the 1864 Inn was one of his bed-and-breakfasts. Considerably smaller, a beige cape cod next door bore a plaque with the name Cheshire Cottage. Light-blue shutters and dormer windows on the second floor added to the cozy appearance.

On the opposite side of the street, I recognized Rose’s house. It hadn’t changed much. Colorful blooms spilled over a white picket fence. I had played in the rose-covered archway with seats on either side at the gate. Worn slate shingles on the steep roof of the two-story house reminded me of quaint homes in English villages.