Free Murder Takes to the Hills by Jessica Thomas

mail of the leading diva, that I was at the cottage and that dinner was under control and I was headed for the deck.   I placed tea and tape recorder on the table, turned the recorder to Play and plopped into a chair, my feet propped on the deck railing…and waited…and waited.
    After a rather frightening silence, there came the sound of a sort of slurpy clicking noise, which I at last identified as Fargo chewing the final bite of his hot dog. Then a car door slammed nearby and a noisy engine started. Finally, my young couple continued their conversation.
    They had at last agreed to leave Provincetown early on Saturday morning, which would put them in Fairfield in time to pick up poor Madison, so he wouldn’t be stuck for the whole weekend in confinement—nor would they have to pay not only for Saturday, but for Sunday as well. That settled, they began to discuss how to spend the evening...she leaning heavily toward the Poly-Cotton Club, he tending toward the Atlantic House.  
    Abruptly their conversation was interrupted by the overpowering sound of large quantities of paper being forcefully crumpled, with rather flat-tuned   bells ringing in the background. What in the hell was that? I didn’t recall any nearby sounds even vaguely resembling those. I stared at the recorder, as if it could explain.
    Then Fargo came in from his swim and immediately clarified all. He shook himself, and then began to scratch his neck and collar. If he had been wearing the recorder, sounds would have been magnified by it. His nails rasping on the leather would make the paper noise, and his jingling tags provided the bells. I had a whole new frame of reference to learn.
    I smiled, amused at Fargo’s various sound effects. But they did interrupt whatever conversation I was attempting to record, and some day, some conversation might be important and need to be captured in its entirety.   Of course, the chewing noise was easily avoided, but the scratching was spontaneous.   There must be some solution. I would think of something.
    Out of the blue, a woman’s shrill voice with a strong mid-western accent resonated in my ear. I was so startled I almost turned my chair over, jumping to my feet and looking all around for the voice’s owner.
    “Well, I’ll tell you, Fred, I am not going to sit all afternoon in a stuffy bar smelling of beer and stale cigars because you didn’t have the good sense to bring comfortable shoes.”
    “Pauline, the problem is not my shoes, we must have walked five damn miles a’ready . Just one cold beer won’t hurt either of us. Might even improve your humor. Sure couldn’t hurt it.”
    “Well, I’m telling you, Fred, just one and I mean just…”
    The voice trailed off about the time I got my breath back and the lovebirds must have entered the Rat. But I am a trained investigator, and I figure out things like this. Obviously, during one of his collar scratches outside the Wharf Rat, Fargo managed to hit the Receive button and catch the touching dialogue between Fred and Pauline, doubtless two of the tourists we are annually so happy to see.
    I found myself hoping Fred indeed rested his feet all afternoon with at least three beers, while Pauline plodded ever onward, collecting plastic bag after smiley-faced plastic bag of clever souvenirs and sticky, made-right-before-your-eyes saltwater taffy for the grandkids, the next-door neighbors, Fred’s boss and Cousin Betty, who could never be pleased no matter how you tried.
    But my handsome sports watch had still more clever tricks in its plastic case. Next I heard the voice of one of the Blues Brothers—coming or going—stop to pass the time of day with Fargo.
    “Hi there, Fargo, won’t they let you in, boy? Now I call that a cryin ’ shame. You got better manners than most of the people already in there. Well, you be good, and Alex will be back soon.”   Footfalls crunched on the gravel path but I couldn’t determine the direction.
    There had been a