For a Good Paws

by Linda O. Johnston

  “Right,” I said, shaking my head sadly. “At least it appeared the guilty man was punished for it.” I was still looking straight at Mysha, but she didn’t react, so maybe she didn’t care that the confessed killer of Henry’s wife had recently been paroled. Not that it mattered.

  What did matter right now was who’d killed Henry.

  “And now … someone … someone just murdered him.” Mysha swallowed a sob. She seemed genuine, and yet …

  “Do you think it’s because he got angry with someone, the way he did with you?” In other words, I wanted her reaction to Henry getting angry with her, in order to sense whether his anger had sparked anger—or revenge—in Mysha herself. She might just be a darned good actress … and murderer.

  “You never know, do you?” Her voice was still choked. “I always apologized to him if he got mad at me. It was usually justified, you know? I never meant to be late, but it happened, especially when I’d walked other dogs first. They sometimes took their time, and—well, you know. And the stuff I saw Henry get upset at other people for—well, they deserved it, too.”

  But did they react to it as she claimed to, and accept it? Or did they use it as an excuse to kill him?

  There had certainly been anger between Henry and Mike Holpurn—and maybe between Henry and Holpurn’s brothers, too.

  And, justified or not, he had also become angry with Dinah about her research and had spewed his venom at her.

  Dinah wouldn’t have killed him for that, or anything else.

  I hoped.

  Okay, maybe it was out of line, or too soon, or—well, inappropriate, but I decided to ask her directly. “You said Henry sometimes got mad at you, even justifiably.” I took a sip of wine as I looked Mysha in her big brown eyes. “Did you ever get mad at him?”

  Those eyes widened even more. “Did I—how did you know that? I always try to keep it to myself if I get upset with people or I’m liable to lose their business. I love their dogs most of the time, but—” She scowled suddenly, apparently recognizing what I was doing. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Carrie, like I said. You figure out who killed people. Is this how you do it, put them on the defensive until the bad guys actually confess?”

  I just raised my eyebrows and smiled without answering.

  Still holding her wine glass, Mysha continued to glare at me. “I’m not confessing, Carrie Kennersly. I really liked Mr. Schulzer, even if I sometimes got mad at him like he got mad at me. And if you think I’m going to confess to killing him—well, you’re wrong.”

  “I understand,” I said. But if Mysha didn’t confess, that wouldn’t mean she hadn’t done it.

  And in her rant against me and the way I was acting toward her, she had become defensive.

  Which might mean nothing other than that she remained emotional over Henry’s death, the loss of payment to walk his dogs, and whatever else was on her mind.

  But she hadn’t exactly denied that she was the killer.

  Good thing I’d pretty much completed what I’d wanted to ask Mysha about, since she suddenly stood up. “You know, I think it’s time for me to leave. I know you’re just trying to be helpful and all that, but I’ve told you everything I’m aware of about Henry and his dogs. If you happen to hear of anyone else needing a dog walker, please let me know.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card.

  Interesting. She was a professional of sorts.

  The card had Mysha’s phone number on it, as well as a website address, but it didn’t say where she lived. It could nevertheless be helpful if I needed to find her again … or send the cops after her.

  But I had no reason to do that, at least not now.

  “Thanks,” I told her. “And you know where to find me, at my shops, if you think of anything else that might help us figure out who killed Henry.”

  That was hopefully bland enough to indicate that I wasn’t pointing to her as the murderer. Not yet, at least.

  But if the detectives were zeroing in on Dinah, or even if they weren’t, it wouldn’t hurt to at least let them know there might be more to Henry’s relationship with Mysha than her being solely his dog walker. I still suspected this despite Mysha’s story.

  “So.” Neal slid to sit across from me once Mysha was gone. “Did the dog walker know anything helpful?”

  “If she did, she didn’t tell me,” I told my brother. “She may just be an innocent dog walker, as she said.”

  “I gather from the way you phrased it that she might not be.” Neal could always read my attitude even if I didn’t express all that was in my mind.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  Janelle had scooted over closer to Neal. “And you hope she at least knows more for Dinah’s sake,” she said.

  “You got it.”

  I glanced around and noticed that Reed and Les were standing inside near the bar, talking. I wondered if they’d rejoin us anytime soon.

  Neal, Janelle, and I talked a little more about Janelle’s interview with Detective Morana. The cops hadn’t revealed anything to her while she was at the station, but she recognized that she hadn’t been very helpful to them, either.

  “Are you going to talk to them some more?” she asked me.

  “Probably, although I’d rather they talked to me,” I said with a wry grin.

  We continued sitting there, drinking a little as Janelle described their questions in more detail than I’d heard before. Then both she and Neal looked over my shoulder, and I thought I knew why.

  I turned. I was right. Dinah had just hurried in. She sat down with us in the chair Mysha had vacated, her skin pale and her expression haunted.

  “I need a drink,” she said. “Now.”

  Eleven

  No matter what had happened at the police station, no matter how they’d treated Dinah, I was thrilled that she was there. She was still free—at least physically.

  Not under arrest.

  But I didn’t say anything to her about that. Instead, I made sure she got the glass of wine she wanted.

  Until it arrived, Dinah remained fairly quiet. She merely said she was glad it was over with.

  “Me too,” I told her sincerely. But was it really over with?

  “For now,” she added, answering that question I hadn’t asked.

  When the server brought her wine, Dinah picked up the glass and glared at it. What, it wasn’t enough? I decided to buy her another glass later if it made sense.

  She took a couple large gulps and stared into the distance. I started a conversation with Neal and Janelle about their plans for the upcoming weekend.

  “I intend to have a great weekend, too,” Dinah eventually broke in. “And not just while I’m at the shops.” She looked at me. As usual, she was scheduled to work over the weekend and get next Monday and Tuesday off.

  “Great.” Then, though I was a bit worried about what she might have in mind, I asked, “Any exciting plans?”

  “Yes, and you’ll identify with them.”

  My heart plummeted a little. I had a feeling I knew what Dinah meant. “You won’t be doing any writing, I gather.” I added a humorous tone to my voice.

  “Well, yes, but I’ll be plotting based on reality.” She stared at me, apparently waiting for my reaction.

  “That sounds interesting.” And scary, but I wanted to keep my reaction bland.

  “You could say that.” Dinah looked from me to Neal, then to Janelle. “I’m going to figure out who killed Henry Schulzer in order to get those miserable cops off my back.”

  Which was what I figured she meant.

  Should I discuss the process of solving a murder with her? Just because I’d had some luck with it didn’t mean I really knew what I was doing.

  “That would be a great plot for a book,” Janelle said. “But using your imagination is best.” I figured Janelle
knew what I was thinking—and maybe she felt the same way, too.

  Of course, Janelle had also been a murder suspect. She had also tried to figure her case out, just as I did when I’d been a suspect and not merely a nosy, detectivish civilian.

  There could be frustration involved.

  And danger.

  I figured Janelle was trying in her own way to keep Dinah safe—as safe as she could be while the cops tried to find evidence to arrest her.

  “I will use my imagination, at least to some extent.” Dinah took another big sip of wine, then leaned over the table toward Janelle. “Still, maybe it’ll be a nonfiction book, after the fact. Maybe I can write a step-by-step story of how I figured it out before the police did. You could do that too, Carrie, one of these days, with any of the murders you solved. Once I get this story done, I’ll be able to help you even more.” She’d turned toward me, and her smile was broad—and seemed challenging.

  I just hoped Dinah would stay safe—and free—while she conducted her research.

  “Maybe so,” I said noncommittally.

  Just then, Neal stood up and looked across the patio toward the door inside. I turned to see what had caught his attention

  Two people stood there, maybe in their forties. The woman held a Chihuahua close against her.

  “Hang on a minute.” Neal hurried toward them.

  “Who are they?” Dinah demanded, as if I knew the answer.

  “I think they’re hotel guests,” Janelle said. “I’ve seen him talking to them before.”

  He conversed with them briefly, and then all three came to our table and stood near us.

  “I’d like you to meet the Banners,” Neal said. “They’re—er, they were—neighbors of Henry Schulzer.”

  “We’ve only been here about a week,” the man said. “Henry was so nice, telling us lots about the town and things to do and see.”

  “We didn’t know of his background here,” said the woman, “or that he had good reason to know a lot more about Knobcone Heights than we did.”

  “Would you like to join us?” I asked. I didn’t know how much the Banners could or would tell us about Henry, but it wouldn’t hurt to find out.

  “There’s a very good reason to join us,” Dinah said. “Your little guy, there.” She pointed to the Chihuahua. “This is Carrie Kennersly.” Her finger moved from the dog to me. “She owns Barkery and Biscuits, this town’s excellent bakery of healthy dog treats. Oh, and she also owns Icing on the Cake, the people bakery next door.”

  “We’ve been to those shops,” Mrs. Banner said with a grin. She she sat down, dog on her lap, once her husband brought chairs over.

  It turned out that Kris and Paul Banner were visiting from Portland, Oregon, after some friends who’d stayed at the Knobcone Heights Resort hadn’t stopped talking about how wonderful it was.

  I couldn’t help piping in. “In case you want to see more of the area and enjoy hiking, Neal here loves to lead hikes.”

  “Really?” Kris, whose black hair was short and nose was long, sounded impressed, and my brother shot me a grateful smile as he started describing the thing he liked to do best.

  Dinah rolled her eyes. She also waved over the nearest server and asked for another glass of wine. She’d finished her first before the rest of us had.

  Dinah also changed the topic when Neal stopped to take a breath. “It must have been difficult to lose a new friend and tour guide that way,” she said. “When Henry Schulzer was killed, I mean.”

  “Yes, in many ways,” Kris said. “Our dogs loved each other and we went on some walks together. And we kept picking Henry’s brain for more to do in the area.”

  That didn’t make for a very pretty image of their friendship, I thought. And I still didn’t really know how Henry had died. Had his brain been picked?

  “And we shouldn’t complain,” Paul said, “but we had to change rooms when he was killed.” He looked older than his wife, with salt-and-pepper hair—what was left of it. “The police have been spending a lot of time on our floor, and we were right next door to Henry.”

  “At least we had some vacancies on the floor above you,” Neal said. I wondered if he had been kind enough to suggest their relocation or if the police had insisted on it.

  I also wondered how friendly Henry had really been with them. I’d seen no indication of any differences between them, but who knew? Maybe he’d insulted their little dog and they’d retaliated.

  I’d at least try to find out more about the Banners before eliminating them as possible murder suspects.

  “Did the police talk to you?” I asked. “I mean, did you ever see poor Henry arguing with anyone, or—”

  “Oh yes,” Kris responded right away. “Once, on a walk we took with him, someone must have recognized who he was and started bawling him out for something I guess his wife, the mayor, did years ago—something about signing a bill that increased some local property tax or whatever, which they claimed nearly made them lose their home.”

  Interesting. That sounded, though, as if whoever it was would be more inclined to get rid of Flora than Henry.

  Maybe.

  I asked, “Did you happen to mention that to the police?”

  “We did,” Paul said. “They seemed really grateful.”

  Which sounded strange. Maybe that was just Paul’s impression, or maybe the detectives were glad to have any additional information on possible though unlikely suspects. How would I know?

  I did get an idea, though. I thought about asking this couple, who’d been displaced from their room next to Henry’s, about it.

  But it would make more sense for me to ask my sweet, usually accommodating bro about it. And hopefully soon.

  I wanted to know exactly where the Banners’ room had been.

  I wanted to visit that floor, although I probably wouldn’t be able to get into what had been Henry’s room. Not yet, at least. But maybe something in the vicinity would give me some more ideas about what had happened to Henry.

  About who had happened to Henry.

  For now, though, I just reached into my pocket. As usual, I happened to have a dog treat there. I pulled it out and showed it to them before offering it to their pup.

  “May I?” I asked.

  “Of course!” Kris said. “Marshmallow will love it.”

  Marshmallow? The little Chihuahua was golden brown and didn’t resemble a marshmallow. But it was still a cute name.

  I noticed Dinah stir beside me and I turned to share a smile with her before handing the yam treat to Marshmallow.

  Of course, Dinah’s smile was sad. But I suspected she and I were sharing similar thoughts about the Banners. And looking for more people who’d met Henry. People who’d seen him argue with someone else, who might wind up being useful witnesses even if they weren’t obvious suspects.

  I figured their names and relationship with Henry would soon be jotted in Dinah’s new notebook.

  The Banners stayed for just a little while longer … and I tamped down my urge to follow them when they stood and began maneuvering their way around the tables on the patio, then through the door into the bar that seemed filled with even more patrons now.

  I stayed put, though. I didn’t know if the Banners were returning to their room, and even if they were, their current room wasn’t on the floor where Henry had been murdered. I wasn’t likely to learn anything more just by hanging out with them.

  But I really, really had an urge to see that floor. Better yet, the room where Henry had been killed, though I had no doubt that it was still blocked off as a crime scene.

  I wanted to get at least an idea of the layout, though. Maybe visiting the floor just above or below would give me a sense of what the area and rooms were like.

  The person who’d be able to show me at least some of these locations sat across from
me. I caught Neal’s eye as he sat beside Janelle, sipping his beer. His eyebrows raised, as if in amusement or understanding or both.

  My bro knew me very well.

  But this wasn’t a good time to even hint at what I wanted him to do. Instead, still sipping my merlot, I eavesdropped on Janelle’s conversation with Dinah. I figured Neal was, too, as well as Reed, who’d returned to our table without Les; Les had asked him to pass along his goodbyes to us. Reed also drank as he sat beside me, sometimes rubbing my hand or shoulder gently, but otherwise staying still.

  At Janelle’s encouragement, Dinah was describing her discussion with—interrogation by—Bridget Morana. Of course I wanted to hear all about it, but I hadn’t wanted to embarrass Dinah at the resort or upset her any more than she was already upset. At least not for the moment.

  Janelle apparently had no such qualms. They were, after all, friends as well as coworkers now, and Dinah could tell Janelle to back off if she didn’t want to talk.

  But Dinah was talking. And making notes on a pad of paper extracted from her purse, though it wasn’t the notebook Arvie had given her. Maybe she felt more inclined to jot drafts on this less formal pad now.

  “I saw no sense in lying to the police,” she was saying. “I admitted that my little exchange with Mr. Schulzer—Henry—hadn’t been particularly friendly. You saw that, Carrie. But he was irritated with other people as well as me. That guy Holpurn, who’d been in prison for killing Henry’s wife—well, he had the nerve to accuse Henry, right there in public, of committing that murder instead of him and framing him for it. So it wasn’t a surprise that Henry would be peeved.”

  “That’s what I figured, too,” Janelle agreed. “But—well, Henry left your party. I assume that was okay, and the end of your contact with him, but—”

  “Not exactly,” Dinah said in a low voice. “When I left, and Vicky and Frida had gone on their way, I looked around the lobby and outside in case he was still around. And he was. Walking his dogs in the parking lot. And I approached him.”

  Uh-oh. “What happened then?” I had to ask.

  “They went inside the resort building next door and I followed them. That’s when I noticed that we weren’t exactly alone. Mike Holpurn and his buddies must have been in the lobby, and now they were following me. And that reporter, Silas, followed them. Plus, there were other people around the lobby.”