Tippy Toe Murder

The day she disappeared, Caroline Hutton
took her dog for a walk around Blueberry Pond, just as she always did.

Although she was worried and distracted,
she managed to control her wayward thoughts by concentrating on the here and
now.

She followed the flight of a herring gull
soaring high above her. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, she thought, to fly on strong
white wings?

She took deep breaths of the clean air, and
soaked up the warm sunshine. In her memory she stored the image of the pine
trees surrounding the pond, dark-green spikes against the brilliant blue sky.

She enjoyed the exuberance and energy of
her golden retriever, George, named after the famous choreographer George
Balanchine. She smiled when he leaped into the pond, landing with an enormous
splash, and paddled around for his morning swim. When he clambered out and
braced himself for a good shake, she took a few steps backward. She laughed as
he came toward her, spraying water every which way. When he loped off down the
dirt road with his nose to the ground sniffing out adventure, she followed him.

Although she was well over seventy, she
walked easily, with the grace of a dancer. Years of discipline and training had
given Caroline Hutton, Caro to her friends, strength and an extremely straight
back.

Spying them from her kitchen window, Lucy
Stone smiled to herself. A glance at the clock confirmed what she already knew;
it was twenty past eight. Caro walked her dog along the old logging trail
behind her house at this time every morning; only blizzards and hurricanes
deterred her.

Lucy paused a moment, taking a break from
her chores, and watched as the old woman and the dog walked down the sunny
road, golden with fallen pine needles, and came to the edge of the woods. Later
she would remember that one moment they were there together in the sunshine,
and then they stepped into the dark shadows and disappeared.

Instructions for Ballet Performance Friday
,
June 14, Tinker’s Cove Academy of the Dance (otherwise
known as the pink sheet)

Where’s Caro? That’s what Caro’s oldest and
dearest friend, Julia Ward Howe Tilley, was asking herself later that morning.
She turned off the flame under the shrieking kettle and peered out the kitchen
window, looking for Caro’s little blue Honda. Caro stopped by every morning
after exercising George to share a cup of tea and a chat.

Perhaps something was wrong, she fretted.
The car might have a dead battery, or Caro might have a touch of the flu. In
either case, however, she would have expected her to call.

Miss Tilley (only her very closest friends
dared to call her Julia) reached for the phone and dialed Caro’s number.
Although she let the phone ring ten times, and then hung up and dialed again,
letting it ring ten more times, there was no answer.

Where was Miss Hutton? Gerald Asquith,
president of Winchester College, pressed the button on his intercom and asked
his secretary if there had been any message from her.

“No, sir, none at all,” she answered.

“Well, that’s rather unusual,” said
Asquith. “Isn’t she scheduled for a two o’clock meeting?”

“Yes, she is,” agreed the secretary. “Do
you want me to call her?”

“No, that’s all right,” he said. The
purpose of the meeting was to discuss a rather large bequest Miss Hutton was
planning to make to the college, and Asquith didn’t want to appear too eager.
On the other hand, it was very unlike Miss Hutton to be late.

Maybe she’d had trouble with her car; maybe
she’d had a flat tire en route. That was the most likely explanation, he
decided, making a note to call her the next day. That would send just the right
message; he would appear concerned but not anxious.

Kitty Slack, Caro’s neighbor, was surprised
on Tuesday morning when George appeared at her kitchen door looking for a
breakfast handout.

“Go home,” she told him.

The dog cocked his head and scratched the
screen door, adding a whine for emphasis. But when Kitty opened the door to let
him in, he refused to enter. Instead, he turned right around and headed home.

Kitty followed him across the driveway that
separated the two properties and knocked at Caro’s kitchen door. The door was
unlocked, so she went in, calling her neighbor’s name. There was no answer as
she went from room to room. She even checked the cellar and garage.

Everything was just as it ought to be. The
car was in the garage, the clean dishes stood in the dish drainer, the towels
were neatly folded in the bathroom. It seemed that Caro must have stepped out
just for a minute. But if that was the case, why was George whining so?

Kitty picked up the phone and rang the
police station. “Tinker’s Cove Police,” recited the bored young dispatcher.
When she took the job she thought it would be exciting, but she soon discovered
nothing much ever happened in Tinker’s Cove.

“This is Mrs. Slack,” said the old woman,
hesitating. “I don’t really know if this is a matter for the police.”

“Why don’t you talk to Officer Culpepper?”
suggested the dispatcher, transferring the call. Barney Culpepper was good with
old ladies and children.

“Well, good morning, Mrs. Slack,” said
Culpepper, his voice booming through the telephone line. “What can I do for
you?” “I don’t know if I should be bothering you with this, but I do think
something is wrong.”

“It’s no bother. What’s the problem?”

“I’m afraid something has happened to
Caroline Hutton. Her dog George came over to my house a little bit ago, and I
can’t find any sign of her. Something must have happened to her. She wouldn’t
go off and leave George, would she?”

“Are you at her place?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Stay there and I’ll be right over to take
a look around.” “Well, all right,” she agreed, “But I really ought to go home.
Morrill will be wanting his dinner.”

“I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s
tail, Mrs. Slack.” Kitty replaced the receiver and stood awkwardly in the
kitchen. She didn’t know what to do with herself in another woman’s house, so
she finally went over to the window to watch for Officer Culpepper.

When the phone rang, a few minutes later,
she picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” she said stiffly, uncomfortable
about answering someone else’s phone.

“Miss Hutton? Gerald Asquith here.”

“I’m not Miss Hutton. I’m her neighbor,
Kitty Slack.”

“Oh. Can you put her on?”