Murder, She Barked

“Yes. Twinkletoes knocked it on the floor. I picked it up.”

He sagged. Zeroing in on Zelda, he said, “Not a word about this. Do you understand? If you breathe even a hint, you’ll mess up my best opportunity to nab Sven’s killer.”

“What?” Zelda appeared confused.

“Show me!” Dave demanded.

I nabbed the key ring off Oma’s desk.

Acting a lot like Jerry had, Dave shook a finger at Zelda as we headed for the elevator. “Not a word!”

I scooped up Trixie and stepped inside. “So Holmes is off the hook, then? You let him go?”

“No.”

“Dave! You can’t have it both ways.”

“I’ve got two murders. Doesn’t mean it’s the same killer.”

I shut up. We stepped off the elevator, and I unlocked the door. Trixie bounded in and jumped on the bed again.

Dave didn’t touch a thing. “Get the dog out.”

I picked her up off the bed and held her.

Dave studied the items next to the bed, licked his lips, and locked his lower lip over the top one. He scanned the room, taking everything in, then focused on the key ring again. After a moment, he said, “It’s him.”

Forty

“The killer?” I whispered. “How can you tell?”

“These are Mortie’s keys,” said Dave. “They match the description given when he reported the car stolen. The odds of them being someone else’s on this kind of circular golf club key ring are crazy slim. Possible, but unlikely.”

“Think I ruined fingerprints when I picked them up?”

“Probably. But it would take longer to get the prints back than to wait for this creep to return tonight.”

I could hardly breathe. The killer had been right under our noses, sleeping in the inn!

Dave swallowed hard. “You and Liesel have to act completely normal. You understand? You cannot let on that anything is different, or you’ll tip this person off. No talking to anyone about it. Not that boyfriend of yours or employees or guests or anyone. And especially not Holmes or anyone in his family. Got it?”

“Absolutely. Neither Oma nor I would sleep a wink if we knew a murderer lurked here among us. But, you said person. You don’t think it’s a man?”

“It would take a pretty macho guy to use a sleeping bag with kittens on it.”

• • •

Oma and I shared a quiet dinner with Rose and Holmes in the private kitchen that night. The fire crackled, and candles flickered on the table. Gingersnap, Twinkletoes, and Trixie roamed underfoot. It would have been a wonderful evening but for the nightmare that hung over us all.

The garlic fettuccine smelled divine but Rose barely touched her food.

Holmes appeared none the worse for his interrogation that afternoon. He chowed down on the pasta laden with red peppers, caramelized onions, and shrimp. “They asked me if they could take a sample of my hair.” He swept a hand over the side of his head twice.

“They must think they have a sample of the killer’s hair.” I twisted my fork in the fettuccine.

“I certainly hope you refused!” Rose clutched the base of her throat.

“Not a chance. I know I didn’t kill anybody. I wish they’d eliminate me so they could concentrate on other suspects. The hair must have been longer than mine. They kept trying to get me to admit that I had it cut recently—like yesterday!”

“I hope you gave them the name of your barber in Chicago,” murmured Rose.

“You bet I did!”

“You might have to switch barbers. Can you imagine what they’ll think?” I said it in jest, hoping to lighten the mood.

Oma and Rose didn’t seem to be amused in the slightest.

“I wouldn’t mind wearing it a little longer again.”

“So, uh, just how long did they want your hair to be?” I asked.

“They didn’t say.”

I studied his hair. More than half an inch, I decided. An inch long, maybe? That included a lot of people.

“Can they determine gender from a hair?” I asked.

“If there’s DNA on it,” said Oma.

“Then they might already know whether it was a man or a woman.”

Rose spoke in a dull tone. “It was a man.”

“How do you know that?” asked Oma.

“Oh, please. You’re the one addicted to Murder, She Wrote, Liesel Fletcher.” Rose toyed with her fork. “Jerry was neither large nor particularly strong. Whoever dropped that choke collar over his head must have overpowered him.”

“Or Jerry fell down, and the killer slid it over his head. Don’t forget that the murderer bashed him in the head, too,” said Holmes. “Maybe he stumbled and that gave the killer the opportunity to slip the collar over his head.”

“Do we know what killed him?” I asked.

Holmes winced. “Given the questions they asked, I gather they think someone had a leash connected to the choke collar. I imagine it cut off his air when he fell on the stairs. Remember that outstretched hand?”

I would never forget it.

A knock on the door stilled us, but Trixie barked like a squirrel waited on the other side.

I rose and opened it, only to find Dave. My little barker wagged her tail and waited to be petted. For the first time during my visit, Dave wasn’t wearing his uniform. I knew why he’d donned black jeans and a black sweatshirt.

Dave froze at the sight of Holmes.

Holmes sprang up from his seat. “Dave! Want some fettuccine? There’s plenty.”