Murder, She Barked

Somehow, that little nightmare reset my mood. Trixie clearly thought she lived at the inn. As long as no one stole her and locked her up, she appeared to be inclined to come home. That took a heavy weight off of me. It didn’t erase the fact that someone had taken her the night before, but she knew we were a team.

I decided I should be grateful for having an aunt who cared about me, even if she went about it all wrong.

Philip might be a little too eager for my taste. Perhaps I’d been too quick to resent his jumping in to help, but wasn’t that actually a good trait in a person? It would have been far worse if he’d expected to be waited on hand and foot.

I returned to the third floor briefly to check on the housekeeper. She insisted she was fine. It turned out that she hadn’t known Sven, since Oma had only hired her recently.

Filled with my new feeling of generosity toward all, even Aunt Birdie, I returned to the dining area, where I poured myself a mug of hot cider, filled a plate with a cucumber sandwich, an egg-salad sandwich, a piece of cherry strudel, and a twice-baked crunchy dog cookie for Trixie, and joined Aunt Birdie and Philip for tea.

Philip gushed about my beautiful suite until Aunt Birdie insisted they have a tour. I indulged them because it was gorgeous. Oma deserved enormous credit for it.

When we came downstairs, it seemed like an opportune time to thank them for coming. Philip probably had entirely the wrong idea, but I would cure him of that as soon as I could out of Aunt Birdie’s range of hearing.

Philip handed me another business card. “I jotted my new phone number on here.”

Aunt Birdie raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t shared it with me, yet, Philip.”

“Just got it, Aunt Birdie. I must have dropped my other phone somewhere. Maybe it was fate. They offered me this new easy-to-remember number for the bed-and-breakfasts—1864Bed. How cool is that?”

He took Aunt Birdie’s arm and walked her down the stairs. She departed, pleased as punch with herself. I knew she’d complain nonstop once I made it clear that I had no interest in Philip.

Oma and Rose returned soon thereafter. I listened politely to how guilty Oma felt about Sven’s death. I understood completely. It never should have happened.

I confessed the story about the rat, telling it as humorously as I possibly could.

Oma did not find it remotely funny. “We have no rats in the Sugar Maple Inn. We never have. Is impossible.”

Okay. Maybe it would be a good time to buy a replacement collar for the one that mysteriously went missing the night before. I mentioned that I needed to do that.

“Holly,” said Oma, placing her hand on my shoulder. “Do not run back here in a rush. I am fine. No one here will hurt me. Yes?” She chucked me under the chin and winked, like I was a two-year-old.

I hooked the unfamiliar leash onto the strange brown collar and headed out. Trixie pranced along, stopping now and then to sniff some invisible scent on the ground. I didn’t mind. The afternoon sun shone on us with unusual warmth for the time of year. I window-shopped as we strolled, admiring fancy dog beds with canopies. A shop called For the Birds carried everything a bird lover could possibly want, from bird-themed jewelry for people to amazing cages. An African gray parrot climbed a ladder in the store window. She stopped to look at us and shrieked at Trixie, who nearly bolted. Thankfully, I had a good grip on the leash.

For the first time this visit, I walked all the way to the other end of the shopping area. The old Wagtail Springs Hotel still stood, though clearly empty. Porches ran across the front of the two-story building on both floors. It had been creepy when I was a kid. We used to dare each other to run inside, and it was even more sinister now.

“Have you ever seen a ghost in the window?”

I looked around. Mr. Luciano studied the building. His hands rested on the handle of an odd stroller. But the child appeared to be encased behind mesh.

I peered at it.

Trixie sniffed and tentatively wagged her tail.

“This is my Gina.” He walked to the front and opened the mesh so we could see her. A darling white bulldog with a brown spot over one eye looked back at us.

“She can’t walk?” I asked, wondering where she’d come from.

“Not yet. I brought her here for surgery. She had an elongated soft palate, which made it difficult for her to breathe. They let her come home to the inn today. She’s not supposed to run around yet, but it’s such a lovely day that I thought she would enjoy getting out a little.”

“She’s a beautiful dog.”

“Thank you. Gina is my joy. They say she will be fine.”

“I’m sure she will. And she has that fabulous fur bed to lounge on in your room.”

“A most thoughtful gift from your grandmother.” He gazed up at the empty, lifeless windows of the building again. “A lot of people in Wagtail think this place is haunted. No one wants to buy it and renovate it.”

“That’s silly. Ghosts don’t exist. Besides, I heard Philip might be interested in acquiring it.”