“Did you hear what he called me? He never calls me Dotty, never!”
Vera overheard this and spoke to the distraught rat. “What do you mean he never calls you Dotty?” she asked in a soothing tone, not wanting to upset the rat further.
Dot stopped whispering and stared at Vera.
“Why, Edward never called me Dotty,” she said, as if surprised that this was not common knowledge. “He always called me Doro. It was his pet name for me.”
Vera took this in and pondered what it could mean. Was it possible that Edward was so distraught over losing his mother and fighting with his wife that he simply forgot to use the special name that he had used every day of their married life? An idea began to form in her brain, and she wanted to be alone to examine it further. Once she got Dot comfortably settled at the bed-and-breakfast, she would head home and let her little grey cells do some work.
Ben opened the gate to the yard of the inn, and Vera put a paw on Dot’s shoulder to guide her down the gravel path. “Just a few more steps now, Dot,” she said, keeping her tone low.
Then Dot’s eyes widened, and she squeaked in fear. “What…what’s that?”
Vera looked to where the rat was pointing. A huge shadow loomed against the wall of the inn! Before she could determine any more about it, the shadow suddenly moved, and a dark shape emerged into the fading light of the day. Black fabric fluttered around the shape, and something concealed the features of the face, hooding it in mystery.
Vera felt the deep instinct to flee, an emotion so primal that all the civilization in the world couldn’t eradicate it from a creature’s psyche. It was fear, raw fear. The fear that prey feels when confronted by a predator. What horrible being had come to haunt Dorothy Springfield on the very day of the funeral to lay Adora to rest?
Then the shape spoke. “Hello, friends.”
The figure raised an arm and lifted the wide brim of a fedora up to reveal a wolfish countenance and sharp, flashing white teeth. He then allowed the trench coat he wore to flap open in the breeze. Underneath, he wore a well-tailored maroon suit. “I do hope this is the right place.”
“Mr. Marvel, I presume,” Geoffrey Eastwood said, all at once recovering from his own fright. He was once again the friendly innkeeper, ready to receive a guest. “Come inside, sir, and I’ll get you registered and settled. Ben will grab your bags in a moment. He and Vera are just helping our other guest up to her room.”
Vera glanced at Bradley Marvel as she passed by him on the porch. He was a handsome creature, no doubt. He flashed a grin at Vera and said, “This town looks better every moment.”
After seeing that Dot was settled into her room, and that no unwanted visitors would enter, Vera returned to the porch. She stood in silence for a moment, thinking that she ought to head to her den to prepare for the next event. Most folks would be heading for the wake shortly after darkness fell (longstanding woodland etiquette dictated that while burials ought to take place before sundown, wakes ought not to start until after sundown).
Before Vera could step off the porch, she heard a voice say, “I seem to have arrived at an inopportune time.”
There was Bradley Marvel himself. He looked quite comfortable sitting on one of the brightly painted rocking chairs.
“Yes, we had a funeral today,” Vera explained.
“So sorry,” he said in a tone that did not seem very sorry. “I don’t suppose you might show me around town? What’s your name?”
“Vera Vixen. I’m a reporter with the Shady Hollow Herald.”
“A reporter! Well, well. You must know your way around. Where’s this Nevertheless Books?”
“It’s called Nevermore Books, and I’ll be happy to show you the way,” she said, even though it would make her late for the wake. “Lenore is so excited to hold the event tomorrow night. We expect a big crowd for it.”
Bradley stood up and adjusted his fedora to a more rakish angle. “Let us advance! Always ready to meet the little folks who make my career possible.”
Vera let that remark pass by without comment, instead asking about his trip. “Didn’t run into any problems, I hope. The boat service is reliable, except for winter.”
“Ha! Nothing like the wild river of Amazonia, where I went to research my third book. Now that’s a river journey to remember. Deadly whirlpools and poisonous plants and thunderstorms morning and evening. But I’m more interested in this ‘not quite a murder’ thing I just heard about. Can it really be that the poor lady thinks that her husband is dead, in spite of him walking around and talking to her?”
“Dorothy Springfield is quite certain that her husband is dead, and that the rat everyone sees is some sort of…imposter, I suppose. It’s quite distressing.” She didn’t add that she was investigating the case. Bradley Marvel sounded interested, but he was a stranger in town. Huh, she thought, look at me, thinking like a born-and-bred local after just a few years.
“The fact is that Dot made her accusation the day after her mother-in-law died and she had to travel all the way back home. That would put anyone out of sorts.”
“Out of sorts means you snap at the neighbors and skip weeding the flower bed for a few days. Telling your husband he’s dead is something else entirely. And no one’s been able to convince her that she’s wrong?” Marvel pressed.
“Not yet. If you’ve got any tips, I’d be glad to hear them.”
“Well, I’m not a psychologist, but I picked up a thing or two,” he replied. “Sounds
