by Krista Davis
Standing not ten feet away from me was the Runemaster. I hadn’t seen him in years. In fact, I had forgotten all about him. He stood quietly, his weathered face not reacting to my scream. He clutched a gnarled walking stick in his hand, just as he had the only other time I had seen him. The top of his dark green shirt was loosely closed with rawhide lacing. In spite of the warm day, he wore a brown vest over it, long enough to reach the tops of his knees, and rustic, as though he might have sewn it himself.
“Hello, Miss Trixie,” he said. “This little girl gets you in a heap of trouble. Do you think she really belonged to that man once?”
Twinkletoes wound around his ankles as though they were old buddies. He bent to tickle her cheek. “You’re looking very pretty, Miss Twinkletoes.”
I was surprised that he knew her name. “I don’t think so,” I replied. “It scares me that he wants to take her away from me.” I walked toward him and held out my hand. “Holly Miller.”
He took my hand into his. It was as weathered and rough as the stick he carried. “LaRue.”
It did not escape my attention that he omitted telling me his full name. “Is that your first or last name?”
He shrugged. “Whatever you like.”
“I don’t see you often. Do you live in Wagtail?”
A sly grin crept over his lips. “I live on Wagtail. You’d best keep little Trixie close by you. I don’t like the looks of that character. He’s likely to dognap her when you’re not looking.”
I gazed down at my sweet little girl. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of letting him take her. Speaking of dognapping, would you know anything about the two dogs missing from Wagtail?”
When I looked up, LaRue had disappeared. I turned in a complete circle, feeling a fool. How could he vanish like that? It dawned on me that while he hadn’t worn camouflage, the greens and browns of his clothing probably helped him blend with the forest.
Trixie was gazing up at me. “You stick close to me, okay? No running off. And you bite that man who called you Dummy if he tries to come near you.” The word dognap stuck in my head. Could that creepy guy have stolen the two missing dogs?
“Let’s get out of here.” I hurried down the path with Gingersnap, Twinkletoes, and Trixie leaping ahead of me.
I didn’t stop until we were back at the banner announcing Pippin’s Treasure Hunt. A few people still worked on setting up booths and tents, which gave me a degree of comfort. All three of my four-legged companions were already acting as if nothing untoward had happened.
I waved at some people as we passed them but headed straight back to the inn. We entered through the sliding glass doors in the reception lobby. When they closed behind me, I let out a huge sigh of relief. We were home and safe.
Zelda emerged from Oma’s office. She stopped short. Cocking her head, not unlike a confused dog, she asked, “What happened to Trixie?”
Okay, now that was weird. I was probably disheveled, which might have tipped her off, but how could she know something had happened that involved Trixie?
Zelda stared at Trixie. She finally looked at me and said, “Trixie wants to stay here with you.”
Chill bumps rose on my arms. I picked up Trixie and held her tight, stroking her round tummy. “Some guy says she belongs to him.”
“She doesn’t like him.”
“Neither do I.”
The sliding doors hummed as they swished open and Sergeant Dave Quinlan walked in. Affectionately known as Officer Dave, in spite of his promotion, he worked for the Snowball Police Department but lived in Wagtail and was our primary law enforcement officer. He nodded a greeting at us. “Is Liesel in?”
Zelda nodded. “I think she’s in the main lobby.”
“Any news on the missing dogs?” I asked.
Dave sighed. “We tracked the GPS collar the Scottie was wearing and found it in the lake.”
I held my breath. “I hope it wasn’t on the dog.”
“Nope. Just the collar. That’s why I’m here. I think we can eliminate coyotes as suspects. I’ve never met a coyote who could throw a collar into a lake. If it had been near the shore, then maybe.”
“We have a dog thief in Wagtail,” I uttered under my breath.
“Or a ring of them. Both the dogs that went missing were pricey purebreds. You better keep an eye on Trixie. That magazine story about her is pasted in windows all over town.”
“Odd you should say that. Some guy showed up and claimed that she belongs to him.”
Dave scowled at me. “I don’t like the sound of that. Have you got a noseprint for her?”
“A what?”
“Noseprint. It’s like a fingerprint for people. No dog nose is exactly like another. They all have little lines on them that can be used to identify a dog.”
I must have looked doubtful, because he continued.
“This is nothing new. The Canadian Kennel Club has been using them since the 1930s to identify dogs. Shutter Dogs sells kits to make noseprints. Bring one to me and I’ll put it on file.”
“I will! I had no idea.”
“Yeah, well, most of the time there’s no dispute over ownership of a dog. But in a case like this, it’s best to have a way to identify her.” Dave crouched to pet Trixie and Gingersnap.
When he left to speak to Oma, Trixie and I hustled over to the hardware store, Shutter Dogs, for a noseprint kit. Just like most businesses in Wagtail, the store was named for an important segment of our population. In reality, shutter dogs were clips that held shutters open, but many of the stores had fun with creative names that involved cats and dogs.
Formerly a resort for people who sought the natural spring waters for their health, Wagtail suffered a decline when such places were no longer popular. The little town in the mountains of Virginia had been visited by famous people in its heyday, many of whom built magnificent homes and considered Wagtail their summer vacation spot. In an effort to revive the economy, Wagtail had gone to the dogs and cats. It was now the premier destination for those who longed to travel with pets. Dogs and cats were welcome everywhere in Wagtail. The restaurants offered special menus just for them. The stores carried everything a dog or cat could wish for, from collars and coats, to beds and cat trees. While they had hoped to turn things around, no one had anticipated the steady stream of new residents and visitors.
We walked across the green, the sun still high in the early evening. The grassy park in the center of Wagtail teemed with people and their dogs and cats. There was nothing to fear.
Trixie nosed around, probably following the scent of a squirrel.
To my surprise, people pointed at Trixie and called her by her name. Even the tourists! I thought about what Dave had said. Maybe he was right. The man probably saw the article about Trixie.
A lady stopped and cooed over her. But if Trixie knew she was featured in Dog Life magazine, she showed no sign of a swelled head.
As we approached the sidewalk, I saw that Dave had not exaggerated. The magazine was prominently posted in shop and restaurant windows. It seemed that everyone knew Trixie. She wriggled with joy, stopping for the occasional pat or to greet another dog, but mostly continued on her way, more interested in the scents on the ground than in the people admiring her.
Applause broke out when Trixie trotted inside Shutter Dogs. The owner, Grady Biffle, brought her a cookie in the shape of a Jack Russell terrier.
“We had these made in honor of you. We never had such a famous canine resident before,” exclaimed the owner.
Trixie wagged her tail and happily munched on the little cookie that looked remarkably like her, right down to the spot on her rump. But one treat wasn’t enough for our new starlet. Trixie sped straight to the dog biscuit section of the store. I kept an eye on her, but she was behaving and hadn’t helped herself—yet.
Trixie lifted her nose into the a
ir. I could see her nostrils flaring as she picked up the scent of something.
I realized that someone was watching her. Was that how it felt to be a star? Even when you were sniffing out your favorite cookies, people were observing you?
A flash of blue caught my eye. I swept Trixie up in my arms out of an abundance of caution. I didn’t see the man who claimed Trixie was his. She wriggled and kissed my nose. I was overreacting. I set her down and selected a dog noseprint kit.
Diane Blushner, whom we guessed to be in her fifties but didn’t look a day over forty, sidled up to me. “Noseprinting Trixie?” asked Diane. “That’s a good idea. Especially after what happened to the Hoovers’ dog, Dolly, and Clara’s Scottie.”
Diane was a natural beauty. She didn’t wear a drop of makeup. Her high cheekbones and symmetrical features didn’t need any assistance. The tiniest hint of crow’s-feet and laugh lines had begun to take shape, and she had a small beauty mark just below the outer edge of her right eyebrow.
A boxer breeder, Diane had the distinction of owning Stella, reportedly the top boxer in the east in her younger years. Stella nuzzled my hand. She had a stunning fawn coat with a black mask on her muzzle, which had begun to gray. A spot of white on her chest looked like she’d been splashed with milk. She had a disposition as sweet as her expression. She was Diane’s baby, and she knew it.
“Did you noseprint Stella?”
“You bet. I noseprint all my dogs, including the puppies. In my sales contract there’s a provision that if a buyer can’t keep one of my dogs, it’s to be returned to me. I try my best to make sure the buyers are good people, but some of the dogs I’ve sold have turned up in shelters. A noseprint comes in handy to prove that they’re one of mine.”
“You’ve actually had to use a noseprint before?”
“A few years back, some sickly dogs started turning up. Some of the other breeders and I tracked them down to the most awful man. A noseprint confirmed that he was using one of my dogs for breeding. Heaven only knows how she fell into his hands, but I got her out of there and helped shut him down.”
“Was he local? Do you think he could be stealing dogs around here?”
Five
She grinned. “Not a chance. He’s doing time in prison for credit card fraud. At least that scumbag is locked up!” She looked at me sadly. “But there are so many more like him. It breaks my heart.”
She knelt on one knee and held out her hand to Trixie. “Congratulations on that cool article.”
“Thanks. Trixie seems to be taking it in stride.”
Diane accepted a nose kiss from Trixie. “That’s the great thing about dogs. People get swelled heads. Dogs are proud, but they never brag.”
Diane glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to run, but I’ll see you tomorrow at the treasure hunt. They’ve roped me into blowing the starting whistle.”
I wandered on, eyeing a dog surveillance video camera. Trixie was with me all the time, so I certainly didn’t need one, but it was amazing.
And then I saw Glenda Hoover of Pierce Real Estate making keys. I had to say something. Ordinarily, her little Yorkie, Dolly, would have been with her.
Glenda and Augie were a good match. In Wagtail, when someone was in need, they were often the first in line with a homemade casserole or a Bundt cake.
“Glenda! I’m so sorry about Dolly. Have you gotten any leads yet?”
Glenda looked worn-out. Like she hadn’t been sleeping. She’d told me once she never met a doughnut that she didn’t like, and her figure reflected her fondness for them. “Nothing. Not a word. It’s just horrible. The rental office sent me over to make some keys. You must have the same problem at the inn. Do people walk away with the keys to their rooms?”
“All the time.”
“They’re supposed to swing by with the keys to the rental houses on their way out of town, but they always forget.”
“Oma and I have discussed some of the fancy systems available, but they’re all very pricey. And we both think there’s something kind of quaint about having a real key instead of a piece of plastic that looks like a credit card.”
“I totally agree. Anyway, I thought I’d buy some thumbtacks to put up pictures of Dolly around town. She’s such a little barker that I can’t imagine why no one has heard her!”
“If there’s anything I can do to help you find her, please let me know.”
“Thanks, Holly.”
Trixie followed me to the cash register.
The owner of Shutter Dogs asked, “Would Trixie give us a pawtograph?”
“How do we do that?”
He pulled out the magazine page with Trixie’s photograph on it and a small container of ink. “This ink is just for making pawtographs,” he explained. “It’s not toxic to dogs or cats.”
“No kidding? I’ll take one. We could start a pawtograph wall at the inn!”
Trixie cooperated patiently as he dipped her paw into the ink and then onto the page.
“That’s perfect! Come back soon, little Trixie!”
We left the store and headed for home, keeping to the sidewalk, where we could always dodge into a store or restaurant if need be, though I had no real reason to fear the peculiar man when I was in Wagtail. I doubted that he would be as bold about confronting me when lots of people were around. Luckily, there was no sign of him. He was probably just a visitor to Wagtail who had seen Trixie’s picture all over town, I assured myself. Of course, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t steal her if he got the chance.
As soon as we got back to the inn, I made noseprints for Trixie and Gingersnap. They weren’t crazy about having me press against their noses, but the little chunks of cheese they received as a reward seemed to make up for it. Twinkletoes watched in fascination, but when I walked toward her, she made a mad dash for the hidden dog door in my dining room and disappeared to the private inn kitchen below.
When I lived in Arlington, Virginia, and worked as a fund-raiser in Washington, D.C., Oma had hoped I would come to help her at the inn as she grew older. Unbeknownst to me, when she added the reception lobby and a new apartment for herself, she carved another apartment out of half of the attic on the third floor of the main building for me, complete with a balcony to the front and a larger terrace to the south, overlooking Dogwood Lake and the mountains in the distance. She also built two hidden stairways. One led from the private inn kitchen to my dining room, in which there was a dog door so my cats and dogs could roam the inn as they pleased. The other led from Oma’s apartment down to the inn office. They were nice shortcuts for the two of us, and sometimes came in handy when we didn’t want to walk through the main lobby.
I wrote the names of the dogs on their noseprints, as well as the phone number for the Sugar Maple Inn. I added my name to Trixie’s noseprint sheet and Oma’s name to Gingersnap’s sheet. That done, I went in search of Oma. I found her with Dave and Twinkletoes in the private kitchen that was off-limits to guests.
It was a large but homey room with a giant turquoise island in the middle. In the winter, we gathered there around the fireplace, and sometimes enjoyed cozy dinners with friends.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” I said.
Dave swallowed a bite of what appeared to be a turkey sandwich. “Not at all.”
“We are discussing the problem of the missing dogs.” Oma’s sandwich lay untouched on her plate. She sipped from a mug.
Unless I missed my guess, she was drinking tea to calm her nerves.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Holly, it could ruin Wagtail if a dog theft ring is operating here. Tourism is the heart of our existence.”
I sat down opposite her and reached for her hand. “Dave will get to the bottom of this. Don’t worry. Wagtail will be fine.” At least I hoped it would be. I loved the little town where we lived in concert with other residents who adored th
eir cats and dogs.
“You will help Dave.” Oma looked straight at me. “I am too old to chase dogs. You do it for me, please.”
I gazed at Dave, who was probably offended by her implication that he couldn’t find the dogs on his own.
Dave wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I can use all the help I can get, Holly. Frankly, I’d be pleased if you pitched in. You and Trixie have a knack for sleuthing.”
“A dog theft ring? Doesn’t that sound dangerous?” I asked.
“I suppose they can be. I’ll handle the police work. You and Trixie just keep your noses to the ground and pass along any information to me. Don’t do anything risky.”
I wasn’t about to do anything dangerous. But I could make some inquiries and see what I could find out. I handed Oma Gingersnap’s noseprint and explained what it was. “You should probably sign it.”
Oma studied it for a moment. She gazed at Dave. “This is true? A dog’s nose can be used to identify him?”
His mouth full, Dave nodded at her.
“Why did I not know this? We should have a noseprinting event in Wagtail. The sooner the better!”
Dave picked up his mug. “Liesel, that’s brilliant. We’ll know most of the people who come, and if any more dogs are stolen in Wagtail, it will be easier to prove it.”
“Where did you buy this?” asked Oma.
When I told her, she picked up the phone and made a call to Grady at Shutter Dogs. She was smiling when she hung up. “He has a whole case of them and can get another case by tomorrow evening. Wagtail will pick up the tab for residents who attend. Tourists can pay a token fee if they want to join in. How about Sunday at one in the afternoon on the plaza in front of the inn?”
Dave reached across the table and high-fived her. “Holly, can you put it out on social media and send a blast to Wagtail residents?”
Over the winter I had finally set up an e-mail list and emergency notification system for residents of Wagtail. It was a small community, but the time had come for us to rely less on gossip and word of mouth, which weren’t always accurate.
