Maltipoos Are Murder
A scream burst from my mouth before my mind fully registered what I was seeing. There was a body floating in the water.
I ran toward the pool, slipping on the deck as I called out, “Aunt Marian!” The body in the navy wetsuit had to be her—the grey hair swishing around her head, the shape of a woman pushing seventy, albeit one who was incredibly fit.
Jumping in, I was surprised how fast my feet hit bottom. The water was only waist deep. I churned my legs with a nightmarish slowness and pulled her over onto her back. I dragged my aunt’s inert body to the side of the pool and
struggled to hoist her out of the water. But it was a useless gesture. She was cold and still, and clearly dead.
“Help!” I called out, swallowing down my horror and despair, but I didn’t know if the woman in black at the front entrance could hear me over the music playing in the background. It was piped in here, and the effect was surreal.
“Can anybody hear me?” I yelled at the closed door.
That’s when I realized I was not alone in the pool room.
A tiny dog—not more than eight pounds and soaking wet— huddled at the corner of the deck. With the usual animal’s sense, he must have known something was terribly wrong.