Murder On a Bad Hair Day
“You’ve got to see this.” Fred shook my shoulder.“Did it snow deep?” I asked, turning over and awakening immediately. “Are we snowed in?”“No. The sun’s shining. But come here. There’s something I want you to see.”“What?” I asked, reaching for my robe, but he had already gone down the hall. I padded barefooted behind him.“Look,” he said. He was standing at the bay window in the kitchen pointing at the deck.“What?” I asked again.“The footprints.”“I made those when I went out to see why Woofer was ...barking.”“You made these.” He pointed to the left side of the deck, where three short steps led to the dog pen. “Somebody else made those.” He pointed to the steeper steps that led to our driveway, the steps where Claire had sat waiting for me. Through the light dusting of snow was a perfect path of footprints that came up to the den and then over to the bay window. A second path led back down the steps, sometimes becoming one big or misshapen foot as the intruder stepped on his own tracks.“That’s why Woofer was barking,”MoreLess
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