Murder, She Barked

“Lord a’mercy! I’ve a mind to call your mother about this. She would be plumb ashamed of you. Imagine coming over here and insinuating I’ve been running around killing people. Now you get on out of my house and don’t you come back until you’re ready to mind your manners. You used to be such a nice boy!”

Dave exited, murmuring something I couldn’t hear. Apologies, perhaps?

I timed my walking speed to accidentally intersect with him at her gate. “Dave!” I lowered my voice. “What was that all about?”

Rose shook her finger at him. “And don’t you go mixing Holly or Holmes into this mess. Do you understand me, young man?”

His cheeks and ears blazed plum red. He shook his head and fell in step with me. “How am I supposed to investigate a murder if everyone treats me like a fourteen-year-old Boy Scout? Your grandmother won’t tell me anything, and Rose is offended that I dare ask her questions.”

“Maybe one of the cops from Snowball should take over the investigation.”

He gasped. “No! This is the biggest break I’ve ever had.” He clapped a hand to his forehead. “Will you listen to me? That’s not what I meant. Not at all. You must think I’m a terrible person.”

“I know what you mean. After years of returning lost purses and giving directions, there’s finally a big case in Wagtail.”

“That’s it exactly. This is my town. These are my people. It’s my jurisdiction, and by George, I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Thanks for understanding, Holly. I didn’t intend to sound happy about the deaths of two terrific people. Did you get anything out of your grandmother?”

“Nothing helpful. Unless you think . . .” I stopped midsentence. I couldn’t offend Prissy Clodfelter again if he was interested in her.

He stopped walking. “What? What did she say?”

“It’s just that stupid old animosity between the Clodfelters and the Millers. But Oma said it’s been going on so long she hardly thinks they’d have waited this long to do something rash.”

“What’s the deal there? Why don’t the Clodfelters like your family?”

“I honestly don’t know. Must have happened ages ago. I’m sorry I said something awful about Prissy yesterday. I didn’t know you two were an item.”

“That’s nice of you to say. I appreciate it, Holly.”

“Hey, I’ve been wondering—did you track down the source of the phone call to the inn that night? Wouldn’t that lead us straight to the killer?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” He clammed up. His mouth pulled into a taut line, and he looked me straight in the eyes, assessing me. “It came from the public phone at Hair of the Dog.”

Surprised that he’d shared confidential information, I said, “Thanks.”

“Don’t go thinking I’m telling you anything secret. I’ve been asking questions about who was there around that time. Half the town was watching when that phone was fingerprinted.”

“Was Jerry there?” I held my breath.

“You’re not the first person to suggest that Jerry drove the car that hit Sven.”

“Dave, do you think Oma was the intended victim that night?”

Dave shuffled his feet, then scratched the side of his face, clearly uncomfortable. “You figured that out, huh?” He sucked in a deep breath of air. “I can’t imagine Jerry killing Liesel. I always thought they managed their opposing views well and that they shared a mutual respect. But maybe something pushed him over the edge. Only Liesel could tell us that, but she takes great pride in keeping her secrets. To answer your question, nobody has mentioned seeing Jerry at Hair of the Dog that day.”

“So it’s possible that Jerry killed Sven but meant to murder Oma. If that’s the case, he certainly was a cool customer the next day at breakfast.”

Dave rubbed his ear. “I’m not supposed to be talking to you about this.”

He needed all the help he could get, but I understood his concern. “Okay. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“You’re the only person in town who’s being nice to me. Everybody else expects me to spill everything I know. If you ask me, there are too many secrets in this town. A lot of people are hiding something.”

Twenty-seven

I watched Dave hurry away, winding through the crowds in the shopping area. He was right about Oma having secrets. When I was nine, I’d accidentally caught a guest, Mr. Winestock, exiting the room of another guest, a Mrs. Garland, at six in the morning. They’d engaged in a lingering kiss at her door, and Mr. Winestock had carried his trousers over his arm.

The thought of his expression when he turned and saw me still made me giggle. Poor man. He’d called Oma immediately, not to apologize but to demand that I keep my little mouth shut around his wife, who would be arriving in a few hours and, naturally, was not Mrs. Garland.

Oma had sat me down and explained that innkeepers owed a special duty to their guests not to divulge their secrets. That it wasn’t really any of our business if they didn’t sleep in their own beds or eat their vegetables.