Twenty-six

Their agitated voices floated down to me. Celeste must be one of the girls staying there. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but their motions and faces left no doubt in my mind that they were steaming mad with each other. I thought I heard one of them say Hank, but wasn’t sure.

“Trixie, Gingersnap!” I hissed their names under my breath and ducked behind shrubs and into the dense pine trees that separated the lots. Thankfully, Trixie and Gingersnap seemed to think the trees were more interesting than the lawn and gladly bounded in behind me.

I forged through the trees, the branches slapping at me. On the other side, I could see the scene of the crime. Not a soul was in Zelda’s backyard. Crime scene tape ran around the other side of the grass, but no one had bothered to mark off the back, where I stood.

It wasn’t a problem, though. I had no intention of stepping into the crime scene and messing anything up. Zelda had neighbors to the left and to the right. They could have seen me, too. Or thought they had.

I didn’t want to emerge in the backyard, where Nessie and Celeste might see me. What with John claiming I was stalking him, I didn’t want them thinking I was spying on them, too. I made my way through the trees to the east side of Zelda’s place. I could see the bungalow next to her house very well.

My blood ran cold when I realized that someone in that house was watching me with binoculars. I turned quickly and thrashed my way through the brush into the yard of the house next to the one where Celeste must have been staying.

I ran through the side yard to the street as fast as I could. Trixie and Gingersnap must have thought it was a game, because they passed me and reached the street before I did.

Aunt Birdie watched as I bent over to catch my breath. “Is someone chasing you?”

“No,” I muttered. “Aunt Birdie, did you tell Officer Dave about Hank staying at Randolph Hall?”

“I did not.” She said it crisply, as though she took some satisfaction in not having told him.

“Why not?”

Her attitude softened. “To be perfectly frank, I was more than a little discombobulated from having Hank’s blood on my hands this morning. It didn’t occur to me when Dave was here. Besides, Hank is dead now. What difference would it make that he broke into Randolph Hall and trespassed? It’s not like Dave can arrest him.”

I didn’t bother pointing out that the site might contain clues to the identity of his killer. “Thank you, Aunt Birdie. Do you know anything else about Hank or Randall?”

“Holly?”

“Yes, Aunt Birdie?”

“Brush your hair. You look a mess. Do I have to make you an appointment at the beauty parlor myself?”

I reached up and felt a twig clutching my hair. I walked away, trying to dislodge it. Gingersnap and Trixie probably thought we were having a grand day of exploring, because we crossed the green again and headed for Randolph Hall.

The gigantic house had gone on the market half a year ago, when the owner was widowed. It was set up perfectly for a bed-and-breakfast and was remarkably lovely inside. I broke a large oak leaf off a tree as I walked up to the door. Using the leaf to avoid marring fingerprints, I pressed down on the door handle and the door swung open. I didn’t dare step inside lest I mess up evidence of some kind. What if someone had been sleeping there with Hank? Could he have brought a woman to town with him? Surely not. But that con man Mick might be staying there. I’d better tell Dave about it. But I planned to use that little bit of information to my advantage.

I closed the door and walked around back. Sure enough, someone had broken the window in the back door. I didn’t even have to open the door to the screened porch to see that. Hank had probably gotten in that way.

The for sale sign must have tipped Hank off that the house might not be occupied. No one had ever said he wasn’t clever.

I trudged back to the inn. I had so many questions. Things that Dave probably knew but wouldn’t share with me.

It seemed to me that whoever killed Hank had planned to murder him. Aunt Birdie’s hoe hadn’t walked over to Zelda’s yard on its own. Someone had snooped around for a weapon. That meant the killer either knew that Hank was hanging around Zelda’s house, or had arranged to meet him there. I didn’t want to consider the former, because that limited the suspects considerably and pointed a finger at Zelda.

Zelda was one of my best friends. I loved her spirit and enthusiasm for life. I continued to be somewhat doubtful about her alleged ability to communicate with animals, but who was I to make that kind of determination? Just because I couldn’t read their minds didn’t mean that no one could.

Hank had been the worst thing that ever happened to her. She had thrown him out of the house and divorced him before I ever moved to Wagtail. If anyone had reason to murder him, it was undoubtedly Zelda. But Zelda wasn’t stupid enough to kill him in her own backyard. She was bright enough to borrow a hoe from Aunt Birdie if she was going to knock him off, but I couldn’t imagine that was the case.

She’d said she had walked her date to the Wagtail Springs Hotel and then went home. If she had seen Hank lurking around her house, she might have had an argument with him. But if that was what happened, she wouldn’t have run over to Aunt Birdie’s to find a weapon. Unless she was afraid and running away from Hank. But if he was chasing her, wouldn’t Zelda have killed him in Aunt Birdie’s yard and then called the police? That would have been self-defense.

Was it just wishful thinking on my part to imagine Zelda hadn’t done anything so heinous? I didn’t think so.

As I walked toward the reception entrance of the inn, I realized that I was surrounded by budding romances. Couples walked hand in hand down to the lake. Randall might have made fun of Macon, but something was happening. I supposed Randall would say that if you got enough singles together, some relationships were bound to result. Maybe so. But I had been to plenty of singles bars with girlfriends in the past, and none of us had met anyone we wanted to date.

The sliding glass doors opened for Gingersnap. The dogs rushed to the office. I could hear Oma cooing to them.

I peeked in at her. She appeared to be working. “Where’s Gustav?”

She flipped her hand through the air. “He went to take a nap. I never met such a tired man. Maybe he doesn’t eat properly.”

“Maybe he’s still recovering from being attacked.”

“Or maybe he is always this way. No matter, liebchen.”

“That’s too bad. Any news on Hank?”

“Yes. I believe Dave is torn between keeping me apprised in my position as mayor and telling me things he does not wish you to know. But I am certain that deep in his heart, he realizes you are not Hank’s killer.”

“Gee, thanks. So what did he say?” I asked.

“That Randall Donovan’s wallet was in Hank’s back pocket.”