Murder, She Barked

But when I looked up, a movement in the window upstairs caught my eye. Someone else was in Brewster’s house. She leaned over to close the window. There was no doubt about it. Prissy Clodfelter wore a scant nightie in the middle of the night upstairs in Brewster’s house. Well, well, well. I wouldn’t have expected that matchup. Poor Dave! Did he know about Brewster and Prissy? Probably not.

I shifted my focus back to Brewster. He seemed calm. He even laughed. Was Kim pulling some kind of stunt on Ben? I might have suspected hanky-panky if I hadn’t spotted Prissy upstairs.

I watched their expressions, trying to read them. Kim did not appear happy. Was she fearful? More like worried, I decided.

She left the house, and the door banged shut behind her. I grabbed Trixie and covered her with the black jacket. We huddled in the back corner of the yard, my main concern that Trixie might bark. My heart pounded. And then she yelped, high and shrill.

I cringed and glanced at the window.

Brewster peered out, his neck craned. He switched off the light, but the dim glow coming from another room allowed me to see him press his face against the window, his hands cupped around his temples.

I turned my head so he wouldn’t see my face, and covered Trixie with my body. When I looked back, the downstairs lights had been doused.

I wasn’t taking any chances. We scurried across the back of Jerry’s yard and around the other side to the street. I hurried Trixie along the sidewalk away from Brewster’s house, just in case he looked out a front window.

When we reached the shopping area, a bright streetlight revealed that Trixie carried something in her mouth. “Ugh.” I grabbed it from her. A dirty little bag. It had some heft to it. At least it wasn’t a rat this time.

That had been a strange encounter. Aside from the surprising relationship between Prissy and Brewster, which I didn’t think Dave knew about, two things stood out in my mind. First, Kim felt the need to keep her visit to Brewster secret. She could have simply phoned him or paid him a visit at Hair of the Dog during the day. That meant they didn’t want anyone to know they had a connection, especially Ben. Or they didn’t want anyone to overhear their conversation.

Second, the only obvious connection between Kim and the murders was her father’s car. It was remotely possible that her midnight visit to Brewster arose out of some other reason, but it seemed more likely that it involved the car. What was it about that car that was so important?

Trixie raised her head, and her ears pricked. She backed up quickly when two intoxicated men stumbled by, laughing and talking far too loud. We cut across the green and passed the stores on the other side. Just in case Kim was still around, we cut down the next street and walked by Aunt Birdie’s house—a typical white Victorian with a turret and a front porch. I could tell it was immaculate, even in the dark of night. A porch light illuminated wicker chairs and a table that evoked thoughts of lazy summer days. Never at Birdie’s, though. I doubted that anyone had ever dared sit in one of her chairs. Her house was for show-and-tell. My mother had always hurried me out lest I touch a wall or one of the dolls Aunt Birdie collected.

Sparkling lights next door caused me to stop on the sidewalk in awe. The tree house that caused Birdie such pain was a fanciful masterpiece. Why on earth did she complain about it? Fairy lights outlined windows and doors with eyebrow arches. An electric candle glowed in one small round window. Sparse fairy lights wound in and out of a railing. The broad pickets had been laboriously cut to resemble the silhouette of a cat. Enchanted, I itched to be invited inside. Tiny’s house, on the other hand, lay dark in the night. Not a single light glimmered anywhere.

We walked on. In spite of the recent murders, the sleepy streets of Wagtail embraced us with their charm. We arrived at the golf cart all too soon.

Back at the inn, I didn’t hesitate to enter through the reception area. Now that we were back, mission accomplished, it didn’t matter whether Casey saw us.

“Where have you been?” he demanded.

“Out for a walk. I saw Tiny’s tree house. It’s amazing.”

“He built it with stuff they threw out when they were building Hobbitville. It’s all cast-off stuff.”

“Then it’s even more incredible. I hope his kids appreciate it.” I gazed up at Oma’s apartment. “Everything okay here?”

“Very quiet tonight.”

“Want me to stick around?”

“Gosh, no!” He puffed out his chest. “I’ve got everything under control.”

Trixie and I walked past the dark gift shop to the lobby. I double-checked to be sure Casey had remembered to lock the front door. He had.

Dog-tired, I schlepped up the stairs. Off her leash, Trixie darted around, smelling the floor and, undoubtedly the lingering scents of the other dogs who had walked there during the day. She raced up to the third floor ahead of me.