Murder, She Barked

Half an hour later, Dave arrived very quietly to collect the hairpiece.

We spoke softly in the inn library.

“Huh. Never knew Brewster wore a rug. He’s usually at the bar where the lighting is dim. And to tell the truth, they make these things pretty well these days. You can’t always tell when a guy is wearing a hairpiece anymore. Can’t imagine who else this color would suit, though.” Dave mashed his lips together and examined the toupee. “Brewster. Who’d have thought that? He’s a pillar of the community. Makes sense in a way. Living next door, he would have been able to sneak in and out of Jerry’s house to murder him without the whole town knowing about it.”

“So Brewster murdered Jerry? But why?”

“Don’t jump to conclusions yet, Holly. We’ll know pretty soon. If this rug matches the fibers from Jerry’s hand, it’ll be solid evidence. But first I need to find out if Brewster wears a hairpiece, and if he does, we need to prove this is his.” Dave tsked and shook his head. “Maybe Jerry pushed him too hard on moving Hair of the Dog out to the highway.”

“By the way, I have some issues with the theory that Tiny probably killed Sven.”

Dave gaped at me. “Detective Miller, I presume?”

I ignored his sarcasm. “Somebody went to lengths to be sure Oma turned up on Oak Street at exactly the right time. I just have trouble imagining that Tiny wanted to kill her. What was his motive?”

“You think Brewster had a motive to kill your grandmother?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I don’t mean to sound unappreciative to you or your dog for digging up this potential evidence, but it’s my job to figure that out. It looks like we have our guys. It will probably all fall into place now. Thanks, Holly.”

Dave turned to leave but stopped at the doorway. “Not a word to anyone about this. I don’t want Brewster to take off or go into hiding.”

Dave departed. That hairpiece could nail Brewster for Jerry’s murder.

I’d have to check with Kim, but I’d bet he talked her into nabbing Trixie in exchange for payment of her debt. He must have seen Trixie seize the toupee from Jerry at the scene of the crime.

Still, something about Tiny’s side of the equation still bothered me.

I helped Oma around the inn for the next few hours. Right up until Ellie called her in hysterics about the police searching Brewster’s house.

Oma, Trixie, and I rushed over to Ellie’s home.

She met us on her porch, sobbing. “Brewster wouldn’t have killed Jerry. He brought Dolce back when he was lost. He—” she sniffled and gulped air “—came to express his condolences. I don’t understand.”

I left Oma to console her friend and hurried over to Brewster’s house, along with most of Wagtail’s residents.

Holmes was there with Rose. Mr. Wiggins stood by watching, and far away from him, Peaches and Prissy observed the goings-on. Pale and nervous, Prissy looked like she might lose her lunch. The sun glinted off her sparkling rings as she nibbled at her manicured fingernails like a frantic mouse.

I squinted at her. Did anyone else know that she and Brewster were an item? No one else in the crowd appeared to be quite as nervous. Why had they kept their relationship a secret? Maybe they thought Peaches wouldn’t approve.

Trixie and I wound our way through the crowd. Murphy, Brewster’s Irish setter, must have remembered me from the pub. He trotted over to me, carrying a sock to play tug.

I grabbed the sock, dirty from being buried, and pretended to want it. Murphy had fun, but Trixie didn’t seem to like that game and growled at him.

Murphy persisted, and I grabbed the other end of the sock. It felt unusually heavy. I wanted to think it was some kind of training toy, but I’d held something just like it all too recently.

“There he is!”

The crowd fell quiet as two officers escorted a handcuffed Brewster to the police car parked in front of his house. Dave followed behind them.

The formerly amiable face of the pub owner revealed his true colors. Angry eyes flashed. His ruddy skin flushed crimson. “I didn’t kill anyone. They have the wrong person. Jerry probably killed Sven. Let me tell you though, Jerry was a thief,” he spat. “He stole from me, little by little, thinking I wouldn’t notice. But I saw him. Like a weaselly troll, coveting my wealth. He had no right to take it from me.”

My gaze fell to the sock Murphy tugged on. I bent and asked Murphy if I could have it. I untied the knot in the end of the sock and poured the contents into my hand. Two gold coins and a watch, probably Kim’s, shimmered under the sun.

Undeterred, Murphy ran to a bush in his own front yard, dug up another sock, and returned to play tug. It too had a heavy toe. And I had a heavy heart. Had Brewster murdered Jerry for something his own dog was stealing and burying around the yard?

I took the other sock from Murphy and handed them to Dave. “I think you might have your Snowball thief.”