Fresh bruises that haven’t had a chance to darken. Sort of in a fingerprint pattern.”
I swallowed another one of Freni’s dumplings. “She might have had those marks before she even checked in,” I pointed out hastily. “She might have been covering them up with makeup, and then taken it off when she went to bed. Most women take off their makeup at night, you know.” At least I assumed they did. I never wore any makeup, and as for Susannah, if she took off her makeup at this point, her face might shatter.
“Maybe, maybe, maybe,” said the Chief. He yawned again, in spite of my coffee. “But whatever the reason for those marks, we’re not going to find out tonight. Nor are we going to find out why or how she fell. We’re just going to have to wait out the coroner’s report. In the meantime, I’m having that room sealed off. Might still be a clue or two in there we’ll need if this turns out to be foul play. Now, I’ve got a couple of big pike up in Canada with my name on them, so I’m outta here. Don’t worry, Mags, my Assistant Chief is as good as they come.” He stood up and stretched—a most immodest act on his part. “If there is any sort of legal trouble, you can always give Alvin a call.”
“Not as long as Chip and Dale are around,” I said. Alvin Hostetler, another distant cousin, must have attended law school somewhere on the Great Barrier Reef off Australia. His nickname around these parts is Jaws, and it was his mother who bestowed it on him after he took her to court to sue for back allowance. He was eighteen at the time. The case was thrown out of court, of course, but it gives you an idea of Alvin’s character. I would sooner dance naked on Hernia’s main street than do business with a shark like that.
Still, if it did come down to losing the PennDutch, I might have to give in to rubbing fins with Alvin.
Chief Myers bid me a sleepy good night. Before I went back to bed I searched our spidery cellar for the bottle of brandy I knew was hidden there. “For snakebite,” Papa told me once. We have very few poisonous snakes in Pennsylvania, but Papa, who was outdoors a lot, always believed in being prepared. Once or twice a month, unbeknownst to anyone but me, Papa would force himself to go down into the cellar and practice sipping that horrible-tasting brandy, so that if the time ever came when he was bitten by a snake, he’d be able to drink enough to withstand the pain. I found Papa’s bottle, or one of its descendants, and, after brushing the cobwebs off, tried a swig myself. Of course it tasted awful. But I braved it out, like Papa, and after a couple more swigs I adjusted to the taste. I felt much more inclined to sleep after that.
I am usually a light sleeper, but even I didn’t awaken when the alarm went off at five. Shnookums must have, however, because when I did awaken fifteen minutes later, there he was, lying on my chest, just inches from my face.
“Get that damned dog off me!” I yelled. I know, you probably count that as swearing, but it wasn’t. It was simply a statement of fact.
Susannah remained immobile, like a hog in a mud wallow on a hot day.
“Get it off!” I yelled again. Just so you know, I can yell at that dog all I want, and it won’t even blink a beady little rat’s eye, but if I so much as touch it with my little finger, I have Cujo to contend with.
“Susannah Elizabeth Yoder Entwhistle!”
Still no response from Susannah. The mutt, however, inched up my chest until its tiny mouth filled with little rodent teeth was close enough for me to feel its breath on my face. Except for Papa, no male had ever been so intimate. But it was one thing for Papa to kiss me on the cheek, but quite another for two pounds of hair to insinuate themselves into my space.
Recklessly I poked the critter with my right forefinger. Not viciously, you understand, but just enough to prod him off.
Instantly, all thirty-two ounces of ill-tempered shag sprang to life, and I had a snarling, scrabbling, snapping Shnookums on my hands. Literally. The mangy little mongoose managed to mangle my forefinger in his minuscule mouth, and then, just to be spiteful, piddled on my palm.
That did it! I scooped up the mutt, despite my damaged digits, and tossed him totally off the bed. I’m positive that the fling did not inflict any permanent injury, but to hear the mutt’s side of it, you would have thought I’d tried to kill him. He yipped and yapped in that pitiful way wounded canines have of expressing their pain, but in this case the dog out and out lied.
Of course the fact that her dog was only crying wolf was lost on Susannah. At the first pitiful yip she sat bolt upright in bed, like Lazarus reviving from the dead. By his second yip she was wide awake and ready to do battle to protect her offspring. “What have you done to him?” she roared at me. Then she turned to her precious pet and her voice dripped sugar, like a lollipop suspended from a heat lamp. “Oooh, is Mommy’s itsy-bitsy shnoogy Shnookums okay? Yes? Is we’ums okay?”