Murder Most Howl: A Paws & Claws Mystery (10 page)

I was about to agree with him when we heard thumping noises on the front porch. But no one entered.

Eight

Mr. Huckle and I exchanged a glance and hurried to the door. We found Shadow Hobbs cleaning snow that had blown onto the porch.

“Come on in and have a cup of hot coffee. You’ve been out in the snow for hours,” I said.

“Thanks, but I don’t want to track snow inside. I shoveled the walk between the inn and The Blue Boar, and sprinkled nontoxic ice melt on it. I hope that’s okay. I also cleaned up the doggy potty area. It looked like it needed it. You know, it shows more in snow than in the grass. And the snow had gotten too high for little dogs.”

He was a gem! I looked at those sweet brown eyes and felt as though I’d discovered a gold mine. He hadn’t been told to do those things. He simply took it upon himself because they needed to be done. I had stumbled upon the perfect handyman! He was clearly a self-starter who didn’t need to be told every little thing. Oma would be thrilled that I had hired him.

Brown curls peeked out from under his knit hat. He wasn’t as tall as I’d thought. Probably five inches short of six feet.
His face was adorably earnest but someone really ought to tell him that the fuzzy triangle of beard just under his lower lip was not that attractive.

“This is wonderful!” I exclaimed.

A smile lit his face. “Yeah? I, uh, need to take a quick break. Something, um, came up, but if you’ve got anything else for me to do, I can come back in an hour or so.”

“That would be terrific. We need someone to bring firewood in from the woodpile in back.”

“Sure. I can do that. I can even split it for you if you want.”

I loved him more every time he opened his mouth. “We’ll see you later then?”

He nodded. “You bet.”

I closed the door and said to Mr. Huckle, “I think I’ve found our new handyman.”

Mr. Huckle raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be hasty about this.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Is there something wrong with Shadow?”

Mr. Huckle paused. “I believe hiring a new employee is something your grandmother would rather do herself.”

I was a little put out with Mr. Huckle. Maybe that was true, but Oma wasn’t here, and I
was
co-owner of the inn.

Breakfast on my mind, I returned to the dining area but Myrtle rushed at me like a tank. I could tell from the determined look on her face that I wouldn’t get a bite of breakfast anytime soon.

“No one believes that we have a weapon. We’re losing precious time here. Where’s the substitute poison bottle?”

Oy. I had forgotten all about it. “I’ll work on that right now!”

I whipped into the kitchen to swipe anything I could. The muffins looked good. “Hey, Shelley, I need an empty bottle as a replacement weapon. Do you know where Oma might keep something like that?”

Shelley loaded a tray with dishes full of French toast. The scent made me want to stay put and eat. “Have you
checked your grandmother’s stash in the attic? She saves all kinds of things. This isn’t the first murder mystery weekend. I bet she has some props up there somewhere.”

“Why didn’t I think of that? Of course!” I dashed out of the kitchen and across the dining area. Trixie and Gingersnap ran with me, their noses turned up in the direction of the muffins I had grabbed.

As soon as we were in the private kitchen, out of Myrtle’s sight, I paused and shared a muffin with the dogs. “Here’s the deal,” I told them. “We’re looking for a bottle. The sooner we find one, the sooner we can stop and eat a real breakfast.” They listened intently, their bright eyes focused on me—or the other muffin.

“If we don’t find one, we may not eat more until lunchtime.”

They snarfed their share of the second muffin, and as if they had understood every word, they shot through the doggy door and started up the hidden staircase, leaving me behind.

I dashed after them. We climbed the stairs to our apartment, walked through it, and stopped at the door to the storage attic. Twinkletoes magically appeared as if she had a notion something exciting would happen there. I unlocked the door, and the three of them launched into the attic with enthusiasm.

While they sniffed around, I scanned the large attic room hoping to see a stash of old bottles or boxes labeled
Mystery Weekend
or something along those lines.

Across the room, a box crashed. Trixie and Gingersnap ran to their safety zone—me. Twinkletoes stalked away with her head and tail held high, pretending she had nothing to do with the loud noise.

The box that had tumbled was labeled with my father’s name. Curious, I opened it. The dogs, feeling safer now, sniffed it eagerly. Twinkletoes jumped inside, purring. She investigated each corner and pawed at some old books. Apparently deciding it wasn’t worth her interest after all, she vaulted out of the box, leaped onto a table, and washed her fur.

The contents were a fascinating look at my dad’s childhood. He read Tom Swift, the Hardy Boys, and
Treasure Island
. Nestled beside the books were a well-worn stuffed bunny, old 45 records, a stack of his report cards tied with a ribbon, and a host of other things. All interesting and worth a look at another time, but right now, I needed a bottle. I jammed everything back into the box and was stashing it near the wall when I hit pay dirt.

An ornate display cabinet with gilding along the curving lines was almost hidden behind taller furniture. Through the glass doors I could see a collection of knickknacks and what appeared to be an old tea service. I wedged between a bookcase and an armoire to reach it. In a back corner was an old green bottle. Not too big, it looked like something that might have contained medicine at one time. Perfect.

I called Trixie, Gingersnap, and Twinkletoes, locked the door, and pressed the button for the elevator. The second I did that, Trixie backed away in fear and shot toward the stairs. I was beginning to think she might never get over her fear of confined spaces. Gingersnap, older and wiser, stepped into the elevator as though it was perfectly normal. Even Twinkletoes pranced into the elevator without hesitation.

Trixie was faster than the elevator, and the smart little girl was waiting for us when we stepped off. How could she have known on which floor we would exit?

Gingersnap and Twinkletoes turned right toward the murmuring voices of diners. Trixie and I hustled in the other direction, to the office.

Luck was with me. In less than a minute I found printable skull and crossbones poison labels on the Internet. I was even able to add the words
Official Murder Most Howl Poison Bottle
to the image. I printed it on a large address label and stuck it on the bottle. Voilà! “Trixie,” I said, “prepare to finally eat breakfast.” Coffee, I needed coffee in the worst way. I sped back to the dining tables, knowing I would finally be able to sit down and catch my breath.

Myrtle, Weegie, and Sylvie sat at a large table with the rest of their book club.

Trixie had the audacity to lick Puddin’s breakfast bowl in case she had left a morsel.

I proudly announced, “Myrtle, this is the official replacement bottle. I apologize for the delay.”

Sylvie reached for it.

Myrtle clutched the green bottle to her chest. “Oh no you don’t. I see that I shall have to guard this with my life.”

I hoped not!

Sylvie scoffed at her. “Do you really think I’m going to run off with it?”

“Yes,” said Myrtle. “That’s exactly what I think you’re going to do. If you had gotten up early like Weegie and me, instead of lounging until daylight, you might be entitled to the benefits. Now then, perhaps you could disclose your relationship with the Baron von Rottweiler?”

“I just wanted to have a closer look at it.”

Holding it firmly between her hands, Myrtle raised it in the air slightly. “You may admire it from afar. And now I’d like to know your connection to the baron, please.”

The corners of Sylvie’s mouth turned down. “Very well. I’m not ashamed. I was his first wife. Apparently, he left me for some much younger trollop.”

Weegie scribbled furiously in a notebook. “Well! I call that motivation for murder.”

Myrtle eyed her friend. “I don’t believe you’ve told me your connection to the baron, Weegie.”

Weegie pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m his third and current wife.”

“Reaaaly,” drawled Myrtle.

“You can’t think I killed him. I loved him!”

She put on a good act, making me grin.

Sylvie laughed. “We have a lot in common, apparently.”

But Myrtle didn’t appear to be amused. Her eyes narrowed. “Have you obtained any other clues?”

“You’re a pest, Myrtle.” She pulled a clue from her pocket. “I don’t think it means much.”

The Baron von Rottweiler’s third wife has a brother, who recently made dinner for his mother and sister at their mother’s house.

“There was another clue about his third wife,” said Myrtle. “I’ll have to check my notes.”

It was an innocent comment, but Myrtle said it as though she thought Weegie might have really killed someone.

Myrtle scanned the rest of the members of her group. They jumped up simultaneously, scrambling to depart.

“Not so fast,” said Myrtle. “You don’t get to run away. I would like to know your secrets, please.”

Some of them looked defeated but I noticed that a couple of them seemed pleased. Were they planning to lie to her?

I spotted Mr. Huckle finishing his breakfast at a table near the window. I strolled over to join him, ready for my much-deserved coffee. “I think we have everything under control now.”

“I hope so, Miss Holly,” he said.

Across the room, Charlotte Tredwell watched Puddin’ and Trixie play with Ella Mae. Puddin’ and Trixie each outweighed little Ella Mae but there was no question that the tiny ten-pound dog thought she was bigger than either of them.

Charlotte’s husband, Geof, chowed down on French toast, pausing only when Robin Jarvis made an appearance. Geof jumped up and pulled out a chair for her. Charlotte looked on, evidently used to such gentlemanly behavior.

Robin and Charlotte launched into a conversation, leading me to believe they knew each other. Robin’s pale complexion contrasted with her dark hair. Bags under her eyes made her look tired and as if she had just rolled out of bed. But she had taken the time to accentuate her almond-shaped
eyes with eyeliner, and despite her exhaustion, she drew admiring glances from a couple of men in the room.

I took a deep breath and gazed around. People were laughing and lingering over coffee. I could hear them accusing one another of murdering the baron.

Finally, everything was going fine. Myrtle had her faux bottle of poison, the Sugar Maple Inn had electricity, and it appeared that Shadow would make a pretty good handyman for the inn. At that moment, the sun even made an appearance in a chunk of clear blue sky. The air might be chilly and the ground might be covered with snow, but it was going to be a beautiful day.

And then Dave walked in the front door with Holmes on his heels. They shed their coats and boots and headed toward us.

Dave wore colorful woolly socks that couldn’t possibly have been part of his uniform. They showed a fun side of him that I rarely saw.

The two of them greeted Mr. Huckle, and Dave asked, “Could we speak privately? In your grandmother’s kitchen, maybe?”

Uh-oh. That couldn’t be good. “Sure.”

Shelley arrived with a pot of steaming coffee and a basket of breakfast breads.

“We’re moving to Oma’s kitchen,” I muttered, picking up my mug and taking the basket of rolls from her. “I’ll help you serve.”

Shelley didn’t miss a beat. She snatched up two mugs and followed us. She leaned toward me and whispered, “Don’t you dare help me serve. I need an excuse to come to the kitchen and hear what’s going on!”

Holmes grabbed cutlery on his way. When we were in the private kitchen, Holmes asked Shelley, “Any chance you’ve got some grits cooking in the back?”

Shelley was circling the table, pouring coffee for everyone. “How about cheddar cheese grits with eggs and smoked sausages?”

“Be still, my heart. Bring it on, Shelley. I never get grits in Chicago.” Holmes struck a match and poked the fire into a warm, comforting blaze.

If Dave hadn’t insinuated that something was awry, I’d have gladly spent the entire day lounging by the fire in my Oma’s cozy kitchen.

Dave ordered the same thing as Holmes but I asked for French toast. “How about grits, eggs, and dog sausage for Trixie and Gingersnap, please?” After the time I spent outdoors in the chilly morning before dawn, I figured I deserved French toast with butter and maple syrup. But the dogs should probably have a more fortifying meal.

Dave seemed distracted. He sat at the farmhouse table, stared at his coffee, and appeared to be deep in thought.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Dave looked around the table at us. Taking a deep breath, he spoke in a soft tone. “Norm was murdered.”

Nine