The Witch is Dead by Shirley Damsgaard Page A

stepping away from the tent. “Tink’s had quite a shock.”

    “That’s what I heard.” He removed his hat and mopped his head with his handkerchief. “Someone told us she made a remark about ‘being punished’? What did she mean by that?”

    I gave a nervous laugh and walked farther away from the tent. “Oh, you know how teenagers are. It’s always about them.” I shoved my hands in my pockets and turned. “I suppose she feels guilty because it was her dog that found the skull.”

    His eyes grew thoughtful as he scanned the woods beyond the playground. “Any idea where the dog found it?”

    Breathing a sigh of relief that he hadn’t pursued his line of questioning about Tink, I said, “T.P. disappeared while we were eating supper.” I gestured toward the other campsites. “The girls searched for him with no luck. Nell’s parents and I were ready to join the hunt when he came running up with the skull.”

    “From what direction?”

    “Over there,” I said, and pointed.

    He wiped his head again and shoved the handkerchief in his back pocket. “Lotta acres out there.”

    “Did you notice the way he smelled?”

    Bill grimaced. “Kinda hard to miss, Ophelia. Wherever he went, he rolled in something foul.”

    He didn’t need to spell out what “something” foul meant.

    Bill glanced over his shoulder at the dog. “The medical examiner might want to check him over and take some hair samples.” His eyes traveled back to me. “I need to talk to the girls while we’re waiting for the M.E. to show up.”

    “Right now?”

    “Yes.”

    Bill joined Nell, Chris, and Carl at the picnic table. I fetched Tink. Once we were all seated, he smiled kindly at Tink and Nell. “Did you girls go for a walk earlier?”

    Nell spoke up. “Just over to the playground.”

    “The dogs went with you?”

    “Yes,” she replied.

    “Then Lady came back to the campground, but not T.P.?”

    “I guess.” Nell lifted a shoulder. “Ophelia noticed her under the tree.”

    “But the puppy wasn’t with Lady?”

    They shook their heads.

    “Did either one of you see T.P. run off into the woods?”

    “No,” they replied in unison.

    Tink raised her head. “It’s all my fault, Sheriff Wilson…”

    “How’s that, Tink?” he asked in a soft voice.

    I held my breath waiting for her reply.

    “We were playing on the swings, and I forgot all about the dogs.” She dropped her head again, as I sighed in relief at her answer. “I didn’t think about T.P. until Ophelia said he was missing.”

    Bill’s eyes darted to me, then returned to Tink. “That’s okay,” he said. “In a way, your dog did us a favor—”

    I doubted that, but let the comment pass.

    “How?” Tink cut in.

    “We can’t have any poor souls lying around in the woods. This way, hopefully, we can find him and give him a proper burial.”

    Bill didn’t mention they might also learn if the person in question had met with foul play.

    Straightening his hat, he watched the sun sinking lower on the horizon. “It’s going to be dark soon. Too late to start a search tonight, but we will in the morning.”

    The sound of a car slowly approaching had us all turning toward the lane. We watched as it stopped and the medical examiner, carrying a bag, got out.

    Bill rose and approached the M.E. The two men talked for a few moments as Bill gestured toward the tree where T.P. was exiled.

    The puppy immediately perked up and stopped his whimpering. As the two men approached, T.P., sensing liberation at hand, began to wag his tail. He was disappointed when the M.E. opened his bag, removed four plastic sacks, and systematically scraped the dirt off each paw into a bag. T.P. was further distressed when he noticed a pair of scissors headed his way. He tried to scramble out of the M.E.’s reach, but hewas grabbed by the scruff of his neck. Snip, snip, and clippings of his black and white fur fell into the fifth evidence bag.

    Apparently