by Krista Davis
“I am old. I do not remember.”
Hah! Her memory was better than mine. That little sneak!
“Did I hear you say you will walk with the dogs? Perhaps you could take Gingersnap with you? I will close up this entrance and keep an eye on the inn. Yes?”
“Sure.” I stuffed my pocket with treats and grabbed a white denim jacket from the office. Although it was summer, mountain nights could be cool. Perfect for sleeping with an open window, but cool enough to want a light jacket on nighttime strolls.
Huey probably wouldn’t be happy about being walked on a leash, but I had no choice. I couldn’t lose him, and he most likely wouldn’t come if I called him. He barely knew me.
Huey wanted to bound along with Trixie through the hallway to the main lobby but was constrained by the leash.
The inn had originally been a mansion. Various owners had built additions over the years, and Oma had expanded it to include a cats-only wing and the registration lobby. The original foyer of the home, where the grand staircase was located, was now the main lobby, where most people came and went. Open to the dining area and the Dogwood Room, our sitting room, it felt expansive and airy.
I stepped outside onto the front porch that spanned the old stone building. Even at the late hour, the rocking chairs were packed with couples getting to know each other. Dogs and cats mingled as well.
Gingersnap, Oma’s golden retriever and the canine ambassador of the inn, was busy doing her job.
I called to her. “Gingersnap! Walkies?”
She gave a handsome boxer one last glance before happily introducing herself to Huey. All tails wagging, we set off through the green on a meandering path nicely lighted by Victorian-style lampposts. I was taken aback to see a couple seated on a bench smooching. I wondered if they had just met. Did some people fall for each other that fast?
The delicious nighttime air of summer made me feel carefree, like I was on vacation. No wonder everyone around me seemed to be in an amorous mood.
I headed for one of the fenced dog runs to give Huey a chance to burn off some energy. Safely inside, I unfastened his leash, and he took off springing and playing with Trixie and Gingersnap.
While the dogs romped, I leaned against the fence and considered what Oma had said about love being elusive. Maybe she was right. Maybe I should join in the fun. What was the worst that could happen? That I would meet someone really nice? Or that I would have a fun time and not meet anyone interesting? Neither of those options was bad. And if it wasn’t any fun at all, I could just walk home at any time.
A surprised cry and the sound of rustling bushes drew my attention. I turned to look, but in the dark, I couldn’t see anything awry.
I listened for a minute and heard giggling. “Probably more romance,” I muttered to myself.
But in the darkness, I noticed a shadow scuttling by in a hurry, walking like a penguin.
Huey was having a ball. What a shame that the shelter had made such a poor match with Ben. Had Paige made that bad call? She’d seemed surprised that I had dated someone who wasn’t into dogs. Maybe she had made an incorrect assumption about Ben. Huey deserved a great home. Ben wasn’t the right person for Huey at all. Or for me either.
Ben was a decent guy, no doubt about that. Intelligent, well-read, and he had a level temperament, which I thought very important. He had a great job as a lawyer, even if it was incredibly boring. But Ben was more content in the city, while I loved Wagtail life and my sweet four-legged babies.
A wet nose pressed against my bare knee. I diverted my attention to the happy tail-wagger who wanted petting—Cooper.
“Our paths cross again,” said John.
“I’m glad about that. I have to apologize to you. I’m fairly certain that my grandmother filled out that form for me. I didn’t know anything about it.” I patted Cooper and watched as he joined the other dogs.
John laughed. “She sounds like a hoot.”
“I’m glad you think so. She’s wonderful, and I love her to death, but it’s so like her to try to help me behind my back.”
“So what you’re saying is that Live Love Bark may have actually matched me to your grandmother? How old is she?”
I laughed aloud. “In her seventies. Old enough to be your grandmother.”
“Do I dare hope the apple didn’t fall far from the grandmother tree?”
“We’re alike in many ways, but I have no idea what she put in that form. Sorry, John. Really, I am. By filling the form out for me, she took away your chance to meet someone who might be the right one for you.”
“Or maybe she did me a favor. Is that Huey running with Cooper?” John peered at me in the dim light. “Is Ben here?”
“No. He’s settling in.”
“Ben left Huey with you? What did you ever see in that guy?”
“Sometimes I wonder that myself. He’s really not a bad person. He just didn’t grow up with animals and never experienced that special bond. He doesn’t get it.”
“Meanwhile,” said John, “Cooper and your grandmother have been doing their level best to match us up.”
I knew flirting when I heard it. And the way he said it was sort of cute.
“Did you go back to Live Love Bark to be reassigned?” I asked.
“Actually, I did. I was matched to a Maddie Stevens. She doesn’t have a boyfriend.”
Ouch! I guessed I deserved that, though. “You haven’t met her yet?”
“Alas, I have. Cooper found her dog boring.”
“I’m sure Cooper could deal with a boring dog. What did you think of Maddie?”
“Er, nice kid.”
“Too young?”
“I’m afraid Macon Stotts blew it on that match. I much prefer women closer to my age, apparently with the possible exception of your grandmother,” he joked. “Maddie was very pretty and seemed nice enough, but other than our dogs, we didn’t have much in common. Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure the feeling was mutual. After all this running, don’t you think the dogs would like a drink?” asked John. “Is there another watering hole in town besides Hair of the Dog or Tequila Mockingbird?”
“The Alley Cat is over in the Shire.”
“Like in The Hobbit. I’ve heard about it but haven’t been there yet.”
“It’s across the road, so not technically in the old section of Wagtail,” I said. “The architect created amazing little cottages with beams and stone. There are round doors and windows, and some have gardens and lawns on their roofs. Some people call it Hobbitville. It’s worth seeing.”
“Let’s go! Cooper! Trixie! Huey!” He paused and looked around. “Where did the golden come from? There’s no one else here.”
While we walked along the quiet residential streets of Wagtail toward the Shire, I told him about Gingersnap being Oma’s dog and the canine ambassador at the inn.
We paused at the road, which was pitch dark in both directions, before crossing into the Shire, a large subdivision outside of historic Wagtail. There weren’t any streetlights in the Shire. At the entrance to the path that meandered through the development, oil lanterns flickered on each end of a long rustic stand of stone and wood about three feet high. It held dozens of lanterns. I slid two out and switched them on.
John took one from me. “These are just here for the taking?”
“It’s an honor system. You put them back when you leave.”
“People don’t steal them?”
“Very few of them disappear. Some people who forget to put them back leave them in their rooms at the inn. I’ve carted quite a few over here. Most people are pretty decent about it.”
We started down the path. Besides our lanterns, the moon and small lanterns hanging on shepherds’ hooks at knee height were the only sources of illumination along the paths and bridges. But the houses were at their best. At night, one
couldn’t make out all the marvelous stonework, but the lights inside glowed through curious windows. Some arched like eyebrows, many were round, and at the peaks of some roofs, tiny half-circle windows beamed.
Cooper and Huey walked on leashes, undoubtedly jealous of Trixie and Gingersnap, who bounded ahead.
“I’ve never seen anything like this.” John was agog.
“I don’t think there are many similar places. If the architect and the builder hadn’t been Hobbit fans, I don’t think it would exist today. They both live here.”
“There are no roads?”
“Mostly footpaths, which make it a popular place for walking. A few are wide enough for golf carts. I hear there was quite some discussion about that, but in the end, they had to be practical about residents who might not be able to walk, as well as everyday needs like carrying groceries and trash pickup. It just wasn’t practical to do everything by foot.”
“It’s like we stepped back in time, and we’re walking through a medieval village,” John said. “I can’t believe there aren’t streetlights. I had seen some of the houses from Hair of the Dog, but I didn’t realize that it was an entire development.”
“I didn’t live here when it was being built, but they tell me the streetlights were a big issue. In the end, they compromised with the low-hanging lanterns. Wagtail residents put a lot of stock in the moon and the stars.”
John paused and looked up. “They’re so vivid. It’s like I could reach out and touch them. I wish I had known about this. Is it part of Wagtail?”
“Technically.”
“I really like Wagtail, but I’d have loved staying here.”
“A lot of people would, but there’s no hotel and renting of houses isn’t permitted. So you would have to know a homeowner to sleep over.”
“No renting? That’s terrible.”
“It’s a tightly knit community. They want to know their neighbors and not wake up to newcomers next door every week.”
“But we can go to their bar?”
“Sure. People walk over from Wagtail all the time just for the ambiance. It’s very popular for romantic dinners, too.”
We strolled over an arched bridge. John stopped and lowered his lantern to the ground. “Is this pink stone?”
“Amazing, isn’t it? It’s completely natural and mined not too far from here. It comes out of the ground that color.”
In the distance, a dog barked. “Trixie?” I called.
“Who lives here?” John asked.
“It’s like any other place. A mishmash of artists, dog and cat breeders, accountants, veterinarians, people who own or work in Wagtail stores and restaurants.”
No sign of Trixie yet. “Trixie? Gingersnap?”
“Are the houses expensive?”
“I’ve never asked. But they don’t come up for sale often.” I pointed. “There’s Alley Cat up ahead.”
“I get it. It’s located on a narrow little alley?”
The dog barked again. This time I knew it was Trixie. Unfortunately, I also knew the tone of that bark. My heart sank. “Yeah. Something’s wrong with Trixie.” I picked up my pace.
“Is that her barking?”
I broke into a full-fledged run. I had heard that bark a few times before. There was a frantic warning edge to it. Completely different from her cheerful bark when she wanted a treat or food was being served.
John and Cooper kept up with Huey and me.
“Trixie?”
Gingersnap ran toward us.
“Where’s Trixie?”
Gingersnap turned around and raced along the alley for a bit before plunging off the path into the darkness.
We followed as fast we could. John and I raised our lanterns to see better when we left the alley. We were still on a path, narrower and less trodden, though, with no lights at all. Ankle-high grass lined the sides, showing what the trail would have looked like if dogs and people didn’t use it with some regularity. It wound back toward the river, taking us away from the Alley Cat.
I could hear Trixie barking in her agitated pitch, and I feared I knew what that meant. At last my lantern shone on her white and black fur.
And on the man sprawled facedown in the grass.
Six
I stopped so fast that John ran into me from behind.
“Oof. Sorry! Is Trixie okay?” he asked, moving to my side.
“She’s fine, but I don’t think he is.”
I heard John’s sharp intake of breath.
Trixie quit barking and nosed around the man on the ground.
He wore a short-sleeved pale blue golf shirt with pressed trousers and city-slicker leather shoes. The short sleeves revealed pale, flaccid arms. This fellow did not work out.
Without a word, John and I fell to our knees and turned him over. All four dogs sniffed him.
“Hey, buddy! Are you okay? Can you hear me?” asked John.
I started to reach for the guy’s neck to see if I could get a pulse when John moved his lantern closer to the man’s head.
I sucked in a noisy breath of air when I recognized the closely cropped beard and curly hair of the impertinent man who had spoken to Oma and me on the plaza. But there was something different about him. I peered closer.
“Look at that bruise on his face. Somebody slugged him!” John blurted.
There was no doubt about it. He was the man who had ridiculed people who love dogs and cats. His left cheek bore a whopper of a blue and red bruise.
“Do you know him?” asked John.
“Not really. Oma and I were talking to him earlier today.”
“Do you think he’s dead or unconscious? What’s his name?” John pulled out his cell phone and punched in numbers. “I’m calling nine-one-one.”
“I have no idea.”
I moved the collar of his shirt aside, trying to find a pulse.
“Look at his throat!” John rasped. His hand trembled and the lantern cast a wavering light.
A red welt encircled the man’s neck. Shivers shuttled down my arms, and I whispered the obvious. “Looks like he’s been strangled.”
The light caught on something in the grass. I moved my lantern over to see it better. The man’s rimless glasses lay there broken, like they’d been stepped on.
“Why can’t I get a signal?”
I handed him my phone. “It’s the mountains. We might be in a dead zone.”
He took my phone and tried it. “I hope that wasn’t meant as a pun.”
I wasn’t paying attention because I was desperately trying to find a pulse on his neck and wrist. “Do you think we should do CPR?”
“Still no signal. I hope the Alley Cat has a landline. I’ll start CPR if you call nine-one-one from the bar,” John offered.
“Deal.” I took Huey and a lantern and jogged toward the bar. It was farther than I had thought. Even though I could see the lights of the Alley Cat, I stopped to catch my breath and try my cell phone one more time. Still no reception. I resumed my lurching run with Huey.
The warm glow from the arched windows of the Alley Cat was welcoming. Gasping for breath, I burst through the huge double doors. The place was packed. People sang rowdy drinking songs at the bar. A crowd of people, dogs, and cats engulfed us.
Huey and I struggled through them to the bar. “Do you have a landline I can use to call nine-one-one?”
The bartender eyed me. “Nine-one-one? You got a problem?”
“There’s a guy outside near the river. It doesn’t look good.”
“He’s probably just drunk. I’ll get Sam, the owner.”
I jumped up and reached across the bar, grabbing his sleeve.
“Hey! What’s wrong with you?” The bartender smacked my hand.
“He’s not drunk. Listen to me carefully. He might be dead.” I let g
o of him and nearly fell as I scrambled to find my footing on the floor.
He stared at me for a moment. “Yeah, right. I suppose you just stumbled across him?”
“My dog found him.”
“That dog?”
“No. My Jack Russell. Why are you questioning me? This is an emergency.”
The bartender’s eyes narrowed. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“Trixie. What does that have to do with anything?”
He brought me a telephone. “You’re Holly Miller?”
I dialed 911. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you just say so? Everybody knows about Trixie.”
Oh, swell.
The dispatcher answered. I gave her a detailed explanation of where the man was and his condition as far as I could ascertain. Then I hustled outside to wait on the footpath.
Sadly, thanks to Trixie’s nose for trouble, I knew how it worked. The phone call went to a dispatcher over on Snowball Mountain, who would radio or call Wagtail’s own resident cop, Dave Quinlan—affectionately known as Officer Dave— who was undoubtedly maintaining order in Wagtail at the moment.
Dave had been a sailor in the navy. He was sharp and diligent, and living in Wagtail gave him a leg up on investigations because he knew most of the full-time residents. I heard his feet pounding along the path before I saw the beam of his flashlight jerking up and down as he ran.
I showed him the footpath that turned off toward the river, and he raced ahead of me. By the time I caught up, totally winded, Dave was radioing for an ambulance.
“Holly, would you call Trixie and Gingersnap?” he asked.
I whistled to them and stepped back a bit so we wouldn’t be in the way.
Dave swapped places with John and continued CPR. His radio squawked.
As usual, I didn’t understand a word.
But Dave looked up at me and said, “Can you go to the river and flag them down? They’re sending the team that was stationed at the lake.”
John went with me, which I thought very courteous of him. The river was only yards away.
“Is this some kind of lover’s meeting place?” John asked, looking around.
Under the light of the moon, I had to admit that it was romantic. The calm river reflected the moonlight. An owl hooted nearby. I could make out the bright orange clusters of blooming butterfly weed, and the purple blossoms of horse nettle. A large rock, no doubt worn flat over thousands of years, offered a perfect picnic spot for two.
