Two

I hung up the phone, worried about Rose’s odd call. As luck would have it, my grandmother happened to be walking across the empty lobby, straight toward me, carrying a small basket.

I held my breath, hoping she didn’t need my immediate assistance with a project.

“Liebling,” she said, “would you mind taking our auction donation to the WAG Ladies at the hotel? I do not want it to get lost.” I hardly noticed Oma’s German accent anymore. She wished she could lose it, but most people found it charming.

“No problem. I was just on my way out.”

“Thank you.” She checked her watch. “Have you heard from Holmes today? I thought Rose would come for tea, but she canceled.”

I nearly choked. It wasn’t like Rose to keep secrets from Oma. I told her the truth, sort of. “I haven’t spoken to Holmes today.”

“I hope nothing is wrong.” She walked up to the second floor of the inn and turned right toward her quarters.

I took the basket and headed out the door before she could return to ask more questions.

My parents had sent me to stay with Oma every summer when I was a child. I had worked at the inn along with my cousin (and Rose’s grandson) Holmes. But Oma made sure we had plenty of time for playing and wandering around Wagtail. They had been lovely summers of swimming in the lake, frolicking in the woods, and drinking afternoon tea with Oma from her delicate china.

Oma had prepared an apartment for me even before I’d known I would come back to Wagtail to live. She had been convinced that I would return to help her run the inn as she aged.

My apartment was lovely, with French doors that opened to a terrace overlooking Dogwood Lake. On the other side, my bedroom overlooked a plaza in front of the inn and, beyond that, the town of Wagtail. The Sugar Maple Inn anchored one end of town, and the Wagtail Springs Hotel anchored the other end. In between was a large park, known as “the green.” On each side of the green, stores and restaurants lined the sidewalks. In the distance, I could see mountains curving gently against the sky.

Two hundred years ago, Wagtail had been a popular destination because of its underground springs. People had come to partake of the waters and to escape the brutal summer heat at lower elevations. Many wealthy families had built large homes to accommodate extended families. But as taking the waters lost popularity, Wagtail withered. Oma and other residents redefined the town by making it the premier destination for people who wanted to travel and vacation with their pets. Cats and dogs were welcome almost everywhere. Restaurants offered special menus for them, and there were animal masseuses, groomers, acupuncturists, and veterinary specialists. The stores sold everything a cat or dog could possibly want, from bowls and beds to clothing and toys. Much to everyone’s surprise, Wagtail was booming.

Trixie and I were walking through the green when a stunning husky raced toward us, his blue leash flying in the air behind him.

“Loki, come! Loki, come! Loooookiiii!” A considerable distance behind him, Louisa Twomey loped along, wailing. Her copper hair and ivory skin made her easily recognizable, even from a distance. She carried her shoes in her hands.

Clutching the basket firmly, I rushed toward one of the enclosed dog runs. Trixie sprang along beside me and eagerly entered the double-gated dog run. I quickly closed the outer gate and opened the inner one to let her in.

As I did so, a man whom I judged to be in his early thirties opened the outer gate and stood on the outside with his arms extended as though he meant to steer the husky through the gate.

His plan worked perfectly. Loki swerved and zoomed into the enclosure with the man right behind him. I slammed the outer gate shut, and the man grabbed the husky’s leash. “Gotcha, buddy,” he said kindly to the dog. He patted the husky, who acted as if he knew the man who looked up at me. “Thanks for your help. This guy might have jumped the fence after a minute or two in here. Huskies are notorious jumpers.”

Louisa caught up and let herself in, breathing heavily. “Loki,” she choked, “what am I going to do with you?” She hugged Loki, and her eyes widened. “Seth! What are you doing here?”

“Louisa! I knew this dog looked familiar,” he said. “But I thought he was—” He broke off his sentence and appeared to feel awkward.

She looked up at me. “Sorry, Holly, I didn’t mean to ignore you. Without your help I would still be running in my bare feet.”

“No problem, Louisa. I’ve had to chase Trixie more than once.”

She shifted her gaze back to Seth. “You’re quite right. Loki was Tom’s dog.” She glanced at me and explained, “My deceased husband. I love Loki to bits, but we’re still learning to get along without Tom.”

I winced. “I’m sorry, Louisa.”

She slid on her shoes and squared her shoulders. “Thank you. I don’t know if either one of us will ever recover from losing Tom. Everything has changed.” She took a deep breath. “But Loki and I will manage, won’t we, boy? We’re just on our way to a training class.”

She sounded cheery and brave, but I wondered how much of that was a front.

“Would you look at the time! I’m going to be late. Joanne will have a cow, but I have to drop off Loki at his class first. I hope he’ll behave. He was there yesterday. They have running and tugging games to help dogs burn off some energy, but apparently Loki wanted to keep going when the other dogs were worn out!”

“Where are you staying, Louisa?” asked Seth. “Maybe we can grab some lunch while we’re here?”

Louisa had a tight grip on Loki’s leash and opened the outer gate. “That would be great.” Her lips seemed tight, as though she was saying what was expected but not what she wanted. “I’m at the Sugar Maple Inn. Holly can tell you all about it.” She hurried away, but I heard her saying, “Now, Loki, you have to behave or you’ll get Mommy into trouble.”

Seth handed me a business card. “Seth Bertenshaw, pet detective.” He pulled a photograph out of a well-worn soft-sided brown leather briefcase on a shoulder strap. “I’m looking for this big fellow, Fritz.” He held out a photograph of a German shepherd.

He was black and tan with a charcoal nose and intelligent black-rimmed eyes. “Judge Barlow’s dog,” I said. I was well aware that he had gone missing. It was my job to post official announcements on the Wagtail Facebook page, and Oma had asked me to add the lost-dog announcement about Fritz.

“Great! You know him. That should make my job easier. Have you seen him around?” asked Seth.

“Not recently.”

His excitement diminished. “Let me know if you spot him. What was the name of the inn where Louisa is staying?”

“The Sugar Maple Inn. You can’t miss it. Just head in that direction. I don’t think we have any vacancies, but Zelda, our desk clerk, might know of a rental.”

He thanked me and started in that direction but quickly veered off to the west.

Trixie and I headed in the other direction. Judge Barlow was a familiar figure in Wagtail, most often seen walking with a crookneck cane covered in medallions from the places where he had hiked. I had never seen him without his loyal dog, Fritz, by his side.

The judge lived in a massive three-story home. The first floor had been painted white. A Southern-style porch sprawled along two-thirds of the front, and a picture window dominated the other third. The second story was dark wood, nicely accented with white windows. A couple of the windows had old-fashioned diamond-shaped grilles in them, giving the house a slightly Hansel and Gretel feel. The top floor was probably just an attic, but French doors with a balcony overlooked the street.

I walked up to the house and rang the doorbell.

Rose answered the door. Her warm hazel eyes squinted with worry, accentuating her crow’s feet. Rose looked a decade younger than her midseventies. She wore her blond hair short and maintained a trim figure.

I reached out for a hug, but she quickly held a finger up against her lips, indicating that I shouldn’t speak. She embraced me and then beckoned me inside. Trixie shot in before me.

The foyer was an incredible hall featuring possibly the best woodwork I had ever seen. Heavily carved arches led in different directions. In the middle stood a round table with a tall vase filled with white gladioli, vibrant blue delphiniums, and giant fuchsia zinnias. I set my basket by the door so I wouldn’t forget it when I left.

I wondered if other people were in the house and that was why I wasn’t supposed to speak. I listened, thinking they might be gathered elsewhere, but the house was eerily silent.

Rose crooked her forefinger at me. Trixie and I followed her through a huge kitchen that had no cabinets above counter height. She pulled a pitcher from the refrigerator and poured tea over ice cubes in tall glasses that waited on a tray. She added two bone-shaped dog cookies.

We still hadn’t spoken.

Rose motioned for me to follow her and led me into a remarkable conservatory that nearly burst with plants. It was like walking into a jungle. Vines grew up trellises along the walls until they met on the ceiling. Potted plants were outgrowing their pots. Blooms in every variation of pink broke the overwhelming green.

Rose closed the door.