Davis, Krista - Murder, She Barked - A Paws & Claws Mystery (A Paws and Claws Mystery)

Heavenly aromas wafted to me when I opened the door to the official kitchen.

A guy wearing a white chef’s coat pulled a roast turkey from the oven. I introduced myself to him. “Are we serving dinners at the inn now?”

He laughed. “Only small fare. Goulash, chili, sandwiches, cheese and fruit platters, that sort of thing.”

“Then what’s all this?”

“Dog and cat food. We use only the best people-grade ingredients.” He pointed to pots as he spoke. “Barley, lentils, brown rice, green beans, carrots. We have a whole menu, and we make custom meals for dogs with special needs.”

I looked at the chart in my hand. “But I’m supposed to be checking for commercial food.”

He gestured toward a large pantry. “A lot of people like to keep their dogs and cats on the food they eat at home. We stock it on request so they don’t have to worry about packing it or finding it locally.”

I admit that I was a little bit blown away. “Everything is geared toward the pets.”

He laughed. “Not everything. We want to indulge our human guests, too.”

He took the green beans off the stove, poured off the hot water and blanched them with ice water to prevent them from overcooking.

I ambled into the pantry. Checking my list, I confirmed that every cat and dog food that had been specially requested was indeed on hand.

I waved to the chef and made my way back to the registration desk, pleased to assure Oma that everything was ready.

At four o’clock a line of golf carts trundled up to the registration area. People piled out of them, some with pet carriers, and others with cats and dogs on leashes.

I showed Mr. Gary Parson and his Russian Blue cat, Tabushkin, to their room. From his perch on Mr. Parson’s shoulder, Tabushkin took in his surroundings with great interest.

An amiable guy with a head of curly almost-black hair, Mr. Parson had come for a week of rest and relaxation. “I hear they have a cat aviary where Tabushkin can play.”

I apologized for my lack of knowledge. “Let me know, okay? That sounds like fun for cats.” On my way back to the registration desk, I wondered how much fun it was for the birds that lived there.

Time flew by as we settled the new visitors in their rooms. Each dog guest was issued a Sugar Maple Inn collar with GPS for the duration of the stay.

Oma vanished for a few minutes and returned dressed in an equestrian-motif silk blouse, pearls and a gold chain, and a mid-calf length camel skirt that buttoned down the side.

“You’re so chic,” I said.

She tapped her watch. “Better hurry. It’s almost time for Yappy Hour.”

I couldn’t match Oma’s elegance, but I did twist my hair up with a clip that I found in my purse, and I changed into one of the new dresses. It was pink cotton and very 1960s, with a dipping round neckline, tight bodice, and big skirt. It would have to do.

I trotted down the grand staircase into a cluster of guests and dogs. Oma spied me and waved me out to the porch, where Rose and Holmes waited for us. It seemed the whole town had turned out for Yappy Hour.

The tables outside of restaurants had filled up, as had our porch, a wonderful vantage point from which to watch the parade of proud people and well-heeled dogs. The smaller dogs and many of those with shorter fur wore coats. And what coats! Embellished with their names, glittering with sequins, elegant with pearls, sparkling with crystals. The dogs didn’t seem to care. Hunting breeds happily mingled with uptown dogs. No one was a snob in Wagtail.

“We’ve started serving drinks, too?” I asked Oma.

“Not at Yappy Hour. That’s to get everyone out and mingling at the restaurants. But some people take their drinks and rock on our porch.” She winked at me. “No one notices or minds. Kids,” I assumed that meant Holmes and me, “there’s been a slight change in plans.” She draped a deep ruby-red shawl over her shoulders.

Rose patted Gingersnap, Oma’s golden retriever. “Would you mind if we skipped Yappy Hour today? We’d like to visit Ellie. She must be reeling from Jerry’s death.”

“We’ll be back to join you for dinner,” said Oma, handing me Gingersnap’s leash. “Maybe we can talk Ellie into coming.”

I glanced at Holmes.

“We’ll go with you.” He said it fast, as though it was all decided.

“Terrific,” said Rose. “You can carry my pimento-cheese tea sandwiches and Liesel’s German potato salad.”

Did Holmes know that a neighbor had reported seeing him at Jerry’s house that morning? How could I ask him about it? Holmes carried the food and I set out with Gingersnap. Her tail wagged like crazy, and she tugged me in all directions as she tried to greet each dog and person who walked by. She kissed everyone within reach. Gingersnap took her job as the Sugar Maple Inn’s canine ambassador very seriously. There wasn’t a soul she didn’t like.

We walked slowly, to accommodate Oma’s injury.

As we strolled by the shops, I realized that my fliers about my Jack Russell were missing from many of them. “Where did my fliers go?”

We came to a halt.

“If I didn’t know he was dead, I’d be blaming it on Jerry,” said Rose. “He never liked fliers around town.”

“This is so disappointing. Is there a local newsfeed or website where I can post about my dog?” I asked.

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Oma. “We have a website about the town, but nothing that shares news or alerts.”

We turned and walked along a thoroughly charming tree-lined street.

“Is this where Sven was killed?” asked Holmes.

Fifteen

Oma winced. Holding her head high, she sucked in a deep breath. “The car came from that direction. We were crossing the road right here when it hit him.”

“There’s something I don’t understand,” I said. “When I arrived, I had no trouble driving straight to the inn but it sounds as though no cars are allowed.”

Holmes nodded. “There are two roads that run parallel to the pedestrian zone, six blocks over on each side. The speed limit is twenty-five miles per hour. Most vehicles, like tour buses, stop at the parking lot outside of town. The person who hit Sven must have turned down this road in the dark, parked, and waited.”

“Then it really couldn’t have been an accident. No wonder Dave thought it was intentional.”

We stood there for a moment in silence. “Well,” I said brightly, “I can’t wait to see this beauty—Dolce.”

Holmes clapped me on the shoulder, and the four of us crossed the street.

“Why aren’t there barriers so cars can’t drive down these side streets?” I asked.

Rose sighed. “Residents have an exemption to park in their garages, but there’s almost no traffic anymore. Besides, no one anticipated anything like this. We thought we could save the cost because they wouldn’t be necessary. Most visitors park at the far end and take a Wagtail taxi into town.”

Holmes opened the gate and held it for us. The front door of the white bungalow hung open. Inside, people milled about, murmuring respectfully. Holmes opened the screen door without ringing the bell. Chief and a Great Dane greeted us. He had a fawn coat, golden in color, with a dark muzzle. Triangular ears hung down on the sides of his enormous head.

Gingersnap kissed him, while Oma and Rose made a big fuss over all the dogs.

A tall man, whose reddish-blond hair billowed in waves so high above his head that he seemed even larger, nodded at us and said, “Holmes.”

Holmes introduced us. “Brewster owns Hair of the Dog, the local watering hole.”

I shook his fleshy hand. Freckles dotted ruddy skin on his face and hands. Prominent cheekbones bore a rosy glow that reminded me vaguely of Santa Claus. Flushed and round, they perched over a nicely trimmed mustache and beard that were morphing from strawberry blond to white. His rectangular wire-rimmed glasses only served to enhance the Santa image.