Murder, She Barked

I carried her out of the dining room, far easier than tugging her away from the dog dining bowls on the floor. She scampered along happily, though, to the registration desk. Oma gave us a questioning look when we trooped in.

“How do you track a GPS collar?” I asked.

“Aha. Very clever of you.”

I gave Shelley due credit for the idea.

Oma went to the computer and looked up the number of the collar, which made me feel very guilty because I had simply grabbed another one last night without logging it in. We corrected that immediately.

She handed us a small black box similar in size to a TV remote control. A screen filled one side, and a tiny antenna stood on the end. “This will show you the direction of the collar. This number shows how far away it is.”

As we watched, the number flickered and reduced by one, then by two.

“It’s moving,” said Holmes.

“Maybe the thief is carrying it,” I suggested. “Or put it on his own dog.”

“It’s toward the front of the inn,” said Oma.

Trixie leading the way, Holmes, Ben, and I rushed to the front porch.

“This is like a treasure hunt,” said Ben.

If I hadn’t been so upset about the theft of Trixie, I would have thought it fun, too.

I held the transmitter in my outstretched hand so they could see it. “It’s still moving, but toward our left a little.” Like a unified military unit, we all changed our position.

I looked out over the plaza in front of the inn. It could be anyone. Brewster, wearing a Hair of the Dog T-shirt, walked toward us with his Irish setter, Murphy. Philip, the B and B owner, juggled a couple of bakery boxes not too far behind him. To their left, Peaches Clodfelter argued with Tiny.

Jerry’s mother, Ellie, trained Dolce, trying to get him to sit and ignore everyone around him. Dolce didn’t show any interest in the other dogs, but Ellie struggled to keep him focused when Philip passed by them. Dolce refused to sit and tried to follow him.

My dreaded Aunt Birdie marched toward us. Even Mr. Luciano paced on the plaza, checking his watch every few seconds.

Oma hobbled up behind us and peered at the receiver in my hand. “That collar is coming back on its own. It’s only twenty-five feet away.”

I held my breath, waiting for the little signal on the gizmo to turn away. Instead the number of feet continued to decrease.

Thirty-three

A lone figure broke out of the crowd and headed straight for us. A loosely-knit sweater hung on her frail frame. The woman who had pocketed the ballet slippers at the shoe store walked up the steps. “Mrs. Miller?”

“Hazel Mae!” exclaimed Oma. “Did you walk all the way down here?”

“I’m used to it.” She held out her hands, offering Oma the GPS collar. “My kids found this collar in the woods near our house this morning. It says Sugar Maple Inn on it. I figure it belongs to you.”

Oma took the collar. “My goodness! What was it doing all the way up there? Thank you, Hazel Mae. Could I offer you some apple cider or a cup of tea?”

“Oh, no thanks! That’s not necessary.”

“Well, let me give you something for your trouble.” Oma pulled some bills from her pocket and pressed them into Hazel Mae’s hand. “Now, don’t you fight me on this. It would have cost much more to replace that collar. Take it and buy a little treat for your children.”

I thought Hazel Mae might cry. “Thank you, Mrs. Miller.” Her voice cracked with emotion when she spoke. She turned and walked away, her head high.

“I’ll reimburse you,” I whispered.

“Nonsense. I would have found a way to get some money into her hands. This provided an excellent excuse.”

Before we could scatter, Aunt Birdie was upon us. “Well, well. Wouldn’t you think a niece would bring her fiancé by and introduce him to her only aunt?”

Birdie wasn’t my only aunt, and she knew it. Seemed futile to point that out to her. Was it a slight to offend Oma by pretending her daughter wasn’t my aunt as well? I thought it better to overlook it. “Aunt Birdie, I’d like you to meet Ben Hathaway. Ben, this is my aunt, Birdie Dupuy.”

They shook hands. Birdie had the nerve to look him up and down like he was livestock for sale.

I felt obligated to clarify our relationship, especially in light of his recent I-hereby-rescind text, so I continued, “We were never engaged, Aunt Birdie. And actually, we’re now just friends.”

Holmes’s head swiveled so fast that it sent a jolt of hopefulness through me. Wrinkles creased his forehead. I wanted to think he was conveying a silent question. Maybe. But Ben shot me a curious glance, too.

“Hmmpf. Well, I’m glad to hear that—given that he’s shacking up with Mortie’s daughter.”

Ben’s face flushed. Even practicing law hadn’t prepared him for the taunts of someone like my Aunt Birdie.

“It’s not what you think!” he sputtered.

The joys of small town life! So little got by the residents. Rumors flew fast and thick. Yet no one had information about who murdered Sven and Jerry? Impossible. Someone knew something regarding the murders. But why wouldn’t that person step forward and tell Dave what he knew?