Murder Most Howl: A Paws & Claws Mystery (2 page)
Read Murder Most Howl: A Paws & Claws Mystery Online
Authors: Krista Davis
Special Excerpt from
The Diva Serves High Tea
You ask of my companions. Hills, sir, and the sundown, and a dog as large as myself that my father bought me. They are better than human beings, because they know but do not tell.
—Emily Dickinson
MURDER MYSTERY WEEKEND PARTICIPANTS
Ian Tredwell and Blanche Wimmer Tredwell
Geoffrey and Charlotte Tredwell, and Ella Mae, a miniature pinscher and rat terrier mix
Robin Jarvis
Sylvie Porter
Myrtle McGuire
Weegie Anderson and Puddin’, an apricot poodle
The Baron von Rottweiler, victim
SUGAR MAPLE INN STAFF
Holly Miller
Mr. Huckle
Shelley Dixon
Zelda York and Leo, a large tabby
Trixie, a Jack Russell terrier
Twinkletoes, a calico, feline ambassador of the inn
Gingersnap, a golden retriever, canine ambassador of the inn
RESIDENTS OF WAGTAIL AND HOLLY’S FRIENDS
Val Kowalchuk, owner of the Hair of the Dog Pub
Norm Wilson, a local businessman
Savannah Wilson, Norm’s wife, and Bingo, a Corgi
Aunt Birdie DuPuy, Holly’s aunt
Max Hemmerich, owner of Tall Tails Bookstore
Shadow Hobbs, handyman
Hollis Hobbs, Shadow’s father
Holmes Richardson, Holly’s childhood friend
Ben Hathaway, Holly’s former boyfriend
One
“These are the murder weapons.” Val Kowalchuk reached into the chestnut leather tote she had brought with her and pulled out a pearl-handled pistol.
The new owner of the popular Wagtail pub, Hair of the Dog, Val was brimming with clever ideas to bring tourists to Wagtail, our pet-themed town nestled in the mountains of western Virginia. Enthusiastic and hardworking, she was quickly becoming a good friend.
We were on our way to Café Chat for brunch to finalize some details about Murder Most Howl, Wagtail’s murder mystery weekend, when Val pulled the pistol from her purse. I stopped dead. “That looks real!”
Val twirled it on her forefinger with alarming ease. With her short, dark brown hair, sparkling brown eyes, and the pistol dangling from her finger, I was tempted to nickname her Calamity Val.
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
We walked on. “Frightening. Someone could mistake it for a real gun.”
Val snorted. “Wouldn’t do them much good. It’s made of wood.”
We reached the double arched doors of the restaurant. Over top of the entrance were the words
Café Chat
. Sleek stylized cats curved to create the capital
C
’s. The name was a bilingual double entendre, because
Chat
meant cat in French.
But when we turned to enter, Trixie, my Jack Russell terrier, took off. I no longer used a leash to walk her around town. We had been practicing coming when called and most of the time she listened to me, but she still had a mind of her own and sometimes followed her nose elsewhere. I knew where she was headed this time, though, straight to the doggy play area. “I’ll meet you inside,” I said to Val.
Trixie sped across the green, the park in the middle of Wagtail’s pedestrian zone. When I caught up to her, she was politely sniffing a corgi who ran loose.
An attractive blonde woman bundled in a puffy purple jacket and faux fur boots was talking on the phone. Although I didn’t know who she was, I’d seen her around town before and thought the corgi belonged to her.
I looked up at the silvery gray sky. Even though it was ten in the morning, and other people walked dogs, there was a silence in the air. A peaceful stillness that meant snow was on the way.
The woman on the phone whispered, but it was so quiet that she might as well have come right up to me and spoken aloud.
“Blanche is in town.” She paused. “That’s what I thought, too.” She sucked in a deep breath of the cold air. “I’m finally going to do it. I can’t go on like this.”
I gave Trixie a few minutes to run with the corgi. She would behave better at Café Chat if she burned off some energy. I felt a little bit guilty about listening to the woman’s phone call, but good grief, if she was going to have a private conversation in public, what did she expect?
“Of course I’m nervous! Why do you think I’ve put it off
for so long?” She smiled at me in spite of eyes rimmed in red from crying.
I dug in my pocket for a treat, held it out, and called to Trixie. She gave the corgi one last look and evidently decided that a cookie was more enticing. As Trixie and I walked away, I heard the woman say, “This weekend. The sooner the better.”
Trixie scampered into Café Chat, probably as relieved as I was to be out of the cold. I helped her out of her plush pink coat and hung it on the rack with my own boring winter white jacket.
Zelda York and Shelley Dixon spied me and waved their hands in the air. Val sat with them at a table next to the window.
Zelda and Shelley worked at the Sugar Maple Inn with me. In her spare time, Zelda was building a pet psychic business. I wasn’t sure that she could really read the minds of dogs and cats, but so far, she’d been fairly accurate.
Wagging her tail, Trixie darted between round-backed bistro chairs to greet half a dozen dog friends on the way to our table. My little girl with the black ears and spot on her rump had the good sense to approach Zelda’s cat, Leo, cautiously. She stopped short of him and gently extended her nose toward his.
An extraordinarily confident cat, Leo stretched his white paws forward, showing off the blaze on his chest and demonstrating his total lack of concern about Trixie’s presence. Everyone in town knew the large tiger-striped tabby with the characteristic
M
on his forehead.
I slid into the chair next to Val. White tablecloths and white toppers gave the casual bistro a slightly upscale feel.
Zelda, as full-figured as she was full of life, held a gold candlestick, turning it in her hands. She had braided strands of her long blonde hair on both sides and pulled back the braids. They hung like beautiful garlands on the sides of her head, reminding me of a Norse princess. “This is so cool. But I don’t get it. Why only four weapons? Doesn’t everyone get a weapon?”
I guessed the wicked meat cleaver Shelley held was also a
weapon. Shelley had cut her light brown hair and streaked it blonde to lighten it. It was a layered bob of large curls that I envied. My own straight brown hair would never cooperate in that kind of cut.
She wore Wagtail chic, a fisherman-style knit sweater in cream. Her bulky olive-colored jacket hung over the back of her chair. “You want me to hide this in—” Shelley tilted her head to read a note on the cleaver “—oh my word, it’s a little rhyme!”
The waitress interrupted to take my order. I was so spoiled by the terrific breakfasts at the Sugar Maple Inn that I found it difficult to eat breakfast out. “Two eggs sunny-side up with roasted potatoes, and the same for Trixie. I’ll have coffee, and she’ll have water, please.”
Zelda looked at Val with apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry I had to miss the last few meetings about the murder mystery weekend. Now I’m lost. This sounds like a scavenger hunt.”
Val placed a gorgeous bottle on the table. About four inches high, it had been a painted metallic green that made it look like glass. On one side, it bore a skull and crossbones painted in silver on a red background. “Murder Most Howl is a cross between a scavenger hunt and a murder mystery game. The participants all play themselves. But each of them will have a secret from his or her past that ties them to the victim. For instance, there’s a participant named Robin Jarvis. When she receives her secret at the initial meeting at Hair of the Dog tonight, Robin will find out that she’s the sister of the victim’s second wife. And that she came here to avenge her sister’s death. But she doesn’t have to wear a costume or be anyone but herself. Get it? She doesn’t have to pretend she’s a millionaire or a movie star. It’s up to each player to decide whether to share the secret with anyone. The goal is to solve the mystery of who killed the victim. They have to figure out who the killer is, the motive, and how he or she murdered the victim.”
“So each of the players has a reason to kill him? How do they figure out which one did it?” asked Zelda.
Val passed each of us a couple of bloodred envelopes. “These contain additional clues. The yellow sticky on each one is the rhyme they will receive to help them find it. Use that as your guide to hiding it. Where would you look if you read that rhyme?”
I started to look at mine, but she continued. “In the packets they’ll receive tonight, each player will get a list of the rhymes. Some will lead to clues and some will lead to weapons. Everyone starts with the same basic information, but obviously, not everyone will find the same clues. Some of the clues will be red herrings that take them in the wrong direction. But there is one thread of clues that fits together to provide the identity of the killer, the motive, and the means.”
Zelda waved the bottle at her. “Where do the weapons come in?”
“Three weapons will be hidden. They’re sort of a bonus. If you’re lucky enough to find one, you can use it to force competitors to share clues with you. Obviously, having a weapon is a big advantage, so they’ll be trying to steal them from each other. The merchants around town know more clues, and that will draw people into stores, restaurants, and businesses to chat.”
“You mean the merchants have more clues to hand out?” asked Shelley.
“No. They know gossip about the victim. Just like real life. Residents of Wagtail are always gossiping. This is no different.”
“That’s so clever,” said Shelley. “A really great way to get people out and about in Wagtail.”
“Each of you will hide one weapon. All the players will have the same opportunity to discover them—so make them a little bit difficult to find, okay? The first victim will be killed by poison, so I’m keeping the bottle.” Val handed me the candlestick.
“It’s so light! This could actually be used as a candlestick.”
Val grinned. “They’re hand-carved. That’s real gold leaf covering the candlestick.”
The waitress delivered our food and set two small dishes on the floor, along with water bowls for Trixie and Leo.
I glanced at Zelda. “I hope Leo is hungry. Trixie might try to eat his food.”
Zelda laughed. “Are you kidding? Look how big Leo is. It’s Trixie’s food that might be in danger.”
I kept an eye on Trixie anyway. She had been homeless and scrabbling for food before she adopted me. I assumed her insatiable hunger was a result of that terrible time.
Val was drinking coffee, staring off toward the door, when she groaned. “Not Norm Wilson, please,” she whispered. “He’s been such a pill.”
I glanced up to see him heading our way. Norm had a round face and a rounder belly. I imagined that he looked much like he had as a young man, except heavier. The buttons on his blue Oxford cloth shirt strained against the fabric, threatening to reveal all. He wore khaki pants, loafers, and no socks despite the cold weather—a Southern male affectation that I had never quite understood. His fair hair was sparse but a bit of it hung over his forehead.