Free This Little Piggy Went to Murder by Ellen Hart

structure was made of brick. Somewhere along the line, someone had added a stucco addition off the rear. When it was turned into a public bar and eatery back in the late Seventies, another section was built haphazardly onto the front, with a deck encircling three sides. To complete the mishmash, two picture windows had been installed to provide a lake view. They did not match. Since it was so close to town, the weekend business was fairly brisk. White plastic tables and chairs had been set up outside for those who enjoyed sitting in the fresh air to sip their brew. And, since it was lunchtime, most of the tables were currently filled with customers eating the simple fare the bar offered.
     
    Sophie swung her car into the parking lot and pulled up next to a pine tree. As she slid out, the stiff breeze off the water kicked up a heavy cloud of dust around her boots. She liked being out in the country. The lack of tar and concrete was a welcome change. Not that downtown St. Paul, where she worked every day, wasn’t an unusually beautiful city. It was just nice to get away from it all for a while.
     
    Once inside the building, Sophie moved through the crowded room up to a long paneled counter. Since her last visit, the walls had been completely recovered in multicolored carpeting squares, with hideous plaster fish dangling from a series of nylon nets strung up behind the bar. Shuddering, she caught the eye of a young woman who was cutting up fresh pineapple near the swinging kitchen door. The woman set down the knife and wiped her hands on a damp towel, sauntering slowly over to where Sophie was standing.
     
    “Can I help you?” she asked lethargically.
     
    Sophie ran a hand through her windblown hair and attempted her most winning smile. “Yes, I hope so. I know this may sound kind of strange, but is there a regular customer who comes in here with a poodle?” She let the question hang in the air. After all, there wasn’t much else she could add.
     
    The young woman took her time answering. “You mean Dolores Benz?”
     
    “I hope so,” said Sophie. “Does she have a poodle?”
     
    The woman nodded. “A tiny one. She carries it in her purse, sometimes. It likes it here. It just sort of sits and growls to itself. Kind of antisocial, if you know what I mean. That is, unless someone offers it food. Then it’s friendly enough. If you ask me, it’s getting fat. Dolores should put it on a diet.”
     
    Sophie tried to look knowing. “I don’t suppose she’s here right now?”
     
    “Nope. Haven’t seen her today.”
     
    “By any chance, do you know where she lives?”
     
    The woman studied her for a moment, leaning over the bar and looking down at her feet. The cowboy boots seemed to turn the tide of indecision. “Sure. Why not? She lives up the road about three miles. In Knife River. You know where that is?”
     
    Sophie nodded.
     
    “She rents the small apartment above Elmer’s Market. You can’t miss it. It’s on the shore side of the highway, just as you come into town.”
     
    Sophie thanked her and headed immediately back out to her car. If this was going to be a waste of time, she might as well get it over with quickly. As she turned left onto the highway, she realized she hadn’t really rehearsed what she would say to the poodle woman — that is, if she could find her. Asking her what she saw on Thursday night seemed a bit broad.
     
    Before she knew it, Elmer’s Market appeared on her right. The young woman had been correct. You couldn’t miss it. It was as if every sign known to modern man had been affixed to the weathered, perhaps rotting, wood exterior. Some of the advertised products weren’t even sold anymore.
     
    Trudging up the side steps to the second floor, Sophie knocked softly on the door. She felt suddenly ridiculous, standing all alone, about to ask a total stranger a completely inane question. She knew she was losing her nerve.
     
    A voice from inside yelled “Hang on!”