A Midwinter's Tail

by Bethany Blake

  “Haven’t you heard the talk around town?” she asked me and Piper, although we were usually out of the loop when it came to local gossip, all of which passed through Spa and Paw. Seeing that we obviously didn’t know what she was referring to, Moxie proceeded to fill us in, telling us, in dramatic fashion, “There’s no way that I, of all people, can attend a holiday dance when Celeste French is going, too!”

  Chapter 2

  “So, who in the world is Celeste French, and why does she inspire so much fear and loathing?” Gabriel Graham inquired, when we finally secured a free table at Oh, Beans, the morning after Moxie’s surprising announcement about the ball. The tiny Market Street coffee shop was crowded—and, to my dismay, currently staffed by one of my former high school teachers, Bitsy Bickelheim.

  For the last few weeks, I’d been trying to avoid Ms. Bickelheim, who was not only a barista, and slightly erratic since quitting Sylvan Creek High years ago, but also heavily involved in the Sylvan Creek Players community theater league. I’d heard she was desperate to cast the Ghost of Christmas Future for the Players’ rapidly looming production of A Christmas Carol, and I did not want to be approached about taking on the role. I had a bad habit of agreeing to things without thinking them through.

  Catching my eye, Ms. Bickelheim waved, and I waved back, then quickly averted my gaze, looking around at the café’s honey-colored, shiplap walls, which were hung with pine wreaths. Hundreds of white twinkle lights glowed like stars in the rafters, and candles burned in the old wooden-framed windows, warding off the gloomy, gray weather outside.

  Gabriel certainly seemed oblivious to the dismal day. Rubbing his goatee, he sat back in his chair and grinned at me. “It’s not like you to hate anyone,” he noted. “Yet you’ve mentioned this Celeste woman three times since we got here, and you don’t seem happy that she’s coming to Sylvan Creek.”

  “‘Hate’ and ‘loathing’ are strong words,” I told him, breathing a sigh of relief, because Ms. Bickelheim apparently wasn’t going to come over and ask me about the part. She likely recalled that I’d played a small, spectral role in a previous local production of that same play, with disastrous results. Shaking off the memory of myself swinging from the high school auditorium’s rafters, I wrapped my hands around my red enamel mug, which contained a gingerbread house-blend latte, and focused on Gabriel, who was watching me intently with his dark, intelligent eyes. “And I don’t feel either hatred or loathing toward Celeste,” I assured him. “Those are not productive emotions.”

  The corners of Gabriel’s mouth twitched. “I suppose you have a dozen philosophical quotes on the dangers of succumbing to even intense dislike.”

  He was mocking my PhD in philosophy. “I could give you fifty quotes from Socrates alone,” I told him, referencing the ancient Greek, not the dog who’d wisely stayed home by the hearth. “Plus, I haven’t seen Celeste in years. She might be perfectly nice these days.”

  “Then why are you so worried about her coming here?” Gabriel asked. He sipped his drink, a plain Colombian roast, one cream, two sugars. Then he leaned forward, studying me more closely. “What’s the story?”

  “There’s no story,” I told him, my gaze flicking again to Ms. Bickelheim, to make sure she couldn’t overhear us talking about one of her former students. Fortunately, she was distracted, struggling to fill carafes with milk and cream, her progress hampered by an unwieldy, amorphous, somewhat “artsy” fringed poncho. I turned back to Gabriel, warning him, “At least, there’s nothing you can print in the Gazette.”

  While frequently kind and considerate, Gabriel Graham was also a hard-nosed journalist in a town that wasn’t used to reporters who dug for—and printed—whatever they unearthed, if that news would sell papers. That was one of the reasons Piper didn’t completely trust him.

  “Okay, fine,” he promised me, crossing his arms over a chunky, cream-colored fisherman’s sweater that made his eyes appear even darker than usual. “Everything’s off-the-record.”

  “You’ll probably think it’s silly, anyway,” I told him, pausing to sip my drink before the whipped cream all melted down the side of the mug. Then I confided, quietly, “Years ago, back in high school, Celeste French—head cheerleader, then-future valedictorian, and frequent bully—stole away Moxie’s boyfriend, Mike Cavanaugh, at the Sylvan Creek High Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree formal, causing Moxie to have the only meltdown of her entire life and spill a punch bowl all over the gymnasium floor before running off crying.”

  Gabriel tried not to laugh, but his lips twitched.

  “It honestly wasn’t funny,” I assured him, although, in his place, I might’ve chuckled, too. But I’d been there, and I’d seen how upset my best friend had been when Mike had disappeared from the gym for nearly a half hour, only to return with Celeste, both of them looking a little rumpled. “It was horrible, really. Moxie and Mike had been serious since junior year. He was her first, and, to this day only, love.”

  Gabriel got his mirth under control. “Sorry. But I have to say, it sounds like this Mike guy was to blame, too.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “But the funny thing was, he never even defended himself. And the day after we graduated, he gave up a full scholarship to Wynton University and joined the Army, shipping out to heaven knows where, to punish himself.”

  “Lots of people—including your friend Jonathan Black—choose life in the military,” Gabriel reminded me. “Not everyone’s running from heartbreak.”

  I ignored the edge in his voice when he spoke Jonathan’s name. Gabriel was very competitive, used to fighting for scoops in a big city during his days as a reporter with the Philadelphia Inquirer, and I got the sense that he considered Jonathan a rival when it came to solving crimes.

  “Mike came from a blue-collar family, and he worked hard for that scholarship,” I said. “Plus, he sent Moxie a letter, telling her how sorry he was that things had been ruined between them.” I suddenly felt as deflated as my whipped cream. “That was the last contact she ever had with him.”

  “So, what happened to Celeste?” Gabriel asked. “Where has she been in the past few years?”

  “Harvard Business School, at first,” I informed him. “Then she went on to become incredibly rich.”

  “By doing what?” I saw a glimmer of interest in Gabriel’s eyes, and I knew I’d have to remind him that our chat was off-the-record. “What’s her line of work?”

  “Pet care—but in a big way,” I said, glancing outside at the street, where my old VW advertised my own little business. Thanks to Moxie, who’d overestimated her talent for auto-body painting, the pink bus featured a misshapen dog that was often mistaken for a misshapen pony. I’d never bothered to have the van repainted, and I never considered expanding beyond my comfortable, steady list of regular clients. Celeste, meanwhile, had followed a different path. I returned my attention to Gabriel. “Celeste French is the founder of the big pet-care chain, French’s Poodles & More. The franchises are everywhere.”

  Gabriel’s eyes widened. “Celeste, is ‘CeeCee’ French?”

  I drew back, surprised that he knew my high school classmate’s nickname, which I didn’t think I’d used. “You know her?”

  “I know of her,” he said. “She is the CEO of a Fortune 500 company that recently suffered a major scandal about a shoddy product line. It was all over the Wall Street Journal!”

  “Which I’m afraid I don’t read,” I said, with another glance out the window. My poor van had developed a rust spot near one of the rear fenders, so it looked like the misshapen dog had had an accident. “I’m not exactly obsessed with money—but I am worried about unsafe products being sold for pets. So what happened?”

  “Typical box-store issues,” Gabriel said. I wasn’t sure if he’d forgotten details, or if he was distracted, already considering how he might use CeeCee’s impending arrival to boost the Gazette’s circulation. I knew that, while he wouldn’t bother printing Moxie’s story of heartache, he’d cover Cee
Cee’s visit from some angle. “Cheap dog food, cheap products,” he added vaguely. “Some animals got sick from eating the store-brand chow, or something like that. Or maybe it was something about the products she used at her in-store grooming ‘salons.’”

  “I guess it escaped me because pretty much everyone here buys pet food from Tessie Flinchbaugh at Fetch!” I said, sipping the last of my latte. I needed to get going soon. “And Moxie’s the go-to groomer.”

  Gabriel laughed. “Yes, you, Tessie, Moxie, and a handful of other entrepreneurs pretty much have the lock on business in this pet-centric paradise.”

  That was true. But we certainly hadn’t engaged in any price gouging. Moxie and I, especially, practically gave our services away. Which was fine by me, although my lack of profit motive irked my mother, realtor Maeve Templeton, who ran a mini-empire of her own.

  “Speaking of business,” I said, digging into my pockets and glancing at Ms. Bickelheim, who was weaving her way toward our table, carrying a pot of coffee, as if she planned to refill Gabriel’s mug. But I saw a gleam in her eyes, like she might have other intentions, too.

  “Yoo-hoo, Daphne!” she said, waving to me with her free hand, so the fringe on her poncho swung.

  I smiled weakly at her, then turned back to Gabriel, rising from my seat. “I really need to get to Flour Power before I end up being a ghost!” He seemed confused, but I didn’t have time to explain. I pulled a few dollars from my pocket. Thankfully, Ms. Bickelheim had been detained by another customer, but I knew I didn’t have long to make my exit. “We’ll catch up later, okay?” I promised Gabriel, placing the money on the table. “I’ll text you.”

  “Daphne . . .” Before I could withdraw my hand, he clasped my wrist, trapping me. And when I met his gaze, I was surprised to see that he appeared uncharacteristically uncertain. Almost . . . nervous.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Gabriel released me, but it was too late to beat a hasty retreat. Ms. Bickelheim had arrived at our table and was refilling Gabriel’s mug, whether he wanted that or not. I again smiled warily at her, while Gabriel appeared slightly annoyed by the interruption. Then he turned back to me. “I wanted to meet you here for a reason. And I didn’t mean to waste all our time talking about CeeCee French’s visit home—”

  “CeeCee?” Ms. Bickelheim’s voice was sharp enough to cut through the chatter in the crowded café, and her hand locked in place, so coffee overflowed the mug. But she didn’t seem to notice the sudden silence or the mess as she repeated in disbelief, “CeeCee French is coming here?”

  Chapter 3

  “Nobody seems happy about CeeCee’s return to Sylvan Creek,” I muttered, only to realize that Socrates wasn’t by my side, as usual, and I was strolling down Market Street alone under a sky that had grown even darker while I’d been inside Oh, Beans.

  When I’d left the café, Gabriel had still been trying to assure Bitsy Bickelheim that his pants were machine washable, and that the coffee she’d spilled all over his lap probably wouldn’t leave a stain.

  “I take it my former English teacher didn’t know CeeCee was coming to Sylvan Creek, and for some reason, she’s not exactly thrilled,” I added, only to catch myself again.

  Glancing around, I was happy to discover that the street was empty, maybe because the Poconos were definitely destined for another blast of snow. Sylvan Creek’s iconic, three-globed streetlamps, which usually flickered out at dawn, were glowing, as were the thousands of white lights that were strung in the bare branches of the many trees that lined the road.

  Looking down the street, I saw that the Bijoux’s marquee, which jutted out over the sidewalk, was also lit and advertising the upcoming free showing of It’s a Wonderful Life, which would be attended by practically everyone in town.

  Well, the movie wasn’t exactly free, but anyone who brought a canned good or bag of food for the local food bank or one of Sylvan Creek’s pet rescues was welcome to attend the screening.

  In fact, it appeared that fundraising had already started. Crossing the street and stepping under the marquee, I discovered a small kettle hanging from a tripod, next to a sign that said monetary donations would be added to the goods collected the next day.

  Rooting around in the deep pockets of my oversized barn jacket, I located a few crumpled dollars, just as something moved in the shadows near the Bijoux’s ticket booth.

  “Oh, hey there,” I said, greeting the cutest pug I’d ever seen. He waddled toward me on stiff, stubby legs that didn’t look up to the task of carrying his squat body, made bigger by his bulky red sweater, which had the phrase BAH, HUM-PUG knitted across the chest. Stopping at my feet, the dog looked up at me with big, round, brown eyes, and his pink tongue darted in and out of his pushed-in mouth each time he took a breath of the frosty air. “Are you guarding the money?” I asked, smiling at him as I crammed my wad of bills into the pot’s narrow slot. “Because you look pretty fierce.”

  Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, because, all at once, that adorable pup leaped up and banged the kettle with his tiny, tawny-and-black paws, tipping the whole tripod, as if on purpose.

  To my dismay, the kettle’s lid popped off, and all the change that had been collected scattered around the sidewalk, while my money flew off on a gust of air—just like the canine troublemaker, who’d already disappeared on surprisingly quick little legs.

  “Oh, no!” I cried, first running after the bills, which were rolling down the sidewalk, tumbleweed-style, in the wind that was rising before the storm. “Stop!” I called, although I knew I had no power over the breeze or the cash.

  And yet, all at once the wind did die down, and the wad of bills came to a stop right in front of a tiny storefront that had long been unoccupied.

  Grabbing my donation, I started to turn back, so I could clean up the change, too. Then I stopped in my tracks when I noticed someone inside the previously abandoned storefront. A young woman who was bustling around several racks of garments. And a small, hand-lettered sign had been propped in the narrow glass window, announcing IVY DUNLEAVY—CUSTOM CREATIONS (AND TAILORING, TOO).

  Catching sight of me, the woman smiled and waved, urging me to come inside.

  Waving back, I shook my head, indicating that I wasn’t in the market for a “custom creation,” and that I didn’t need anything hemmed or repaired, either.

  Yet the pretty young woman smiled and waved once more, still beckoning me.

  I was again replying silently in the negative when I spied a reflection in the glass near the sign. Someone stood behind me, across the street. And I was pretty sure he was watching me.

  Turning, I sucked in a sharp breath, because I could’ve sworn I’d just seen a real ghost from my own Christmas past darting—limping—into Cherry Alley.

  Forgetting that I was trying hard not to talk to myself, I whispered uncertainly, “Mike Cavanaugh?”

  Chapter 4

  “So, tell me about this new seamstress,” Moxie urged, as she, Socrates, and I stood in front of the Bijoux the next day, waiting in a long line with our donations cradled in our arms. Or, more accurately, I was lugging a practically human-sized bag of premium dog food for one of my favorite charities, Fur-Ever Friends rescue, while Moxie had wisely focused on a smaller species. Her three packages of rat food couldn’t have weighed more than a few pounds. Not that Sylvan Creek had a rodent rescue that I knew of.

  Socrates also seemed doubtful about Moxie’s contribution. He kept shooting the rat snacks skeptical glances.

  Then the line moved, and we all advanced a few steps, so we were under the marquee and practically on the spot where the little bah, hum-pug had knocked over the kettle—right before I’d mistaken some stranger for Moxie’s ex-boyfriend.

  Having decided the night before that my identification had been wrong, I hadn’t mentioned the sighting to Moxie, who continued to press me for details about a business that intrigued her, given her own love of sewing—a topic I couldn’t discuss with h
er. “It would be nice to have someone to talk about darts, beading, and notions with,” she said, immediately shooting me a guilty glance. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” I assured her, hoisting the bag and shuffling a few more feet forward. I pictured the young woman’s smile and almost desperate wave. “And, while she looked a little younger than us, she did seem friendly. She kept trying to get me into the shop, in spite of the fact that I don’t exactly look like someone who wears custom-tailored anything!”

  “You will need a dress for Bark the Halls,” Moxie reminded me. Then her green eyes clouded over. “Are you sure I can’t help you this year?”

  “Honestly, I’m just going to wear the gown I wore last year,” I promised Moxie, who usually accompanied me to Thrifty Threads consignment, helped me sift through the rack of recycled prom and bridesmaids’ gowns, then made any necessary alterations. But I couldn’t ask her to help me get ready when she didn’t plan to attend the ball herself. “I’m pretty sure I got most of last year’s marinara stain out,” I added, although I was not sure about that at all. In fact, I was nearly certain that I’d stuffed the dress into my closet without washing, let alone pretreating, the mark.

  Moxie opened her mouth, and I knew she was about to insist that we follow our usual tradition, so I cut her off, asking, “Are you sure you don’t want to attend the ball, Moxie? You have a whole wardrobe, ready and waiting for the dance!”

  “I don’t know. . . .” Moxie chewed her lower lip. She was already attired for the season in a red, 1950s wool coat with wide, bell-shaped sleeves and oversized black buttons. A pair of green, T-strap heels from that same era completed her holiday look. She’d probably been planning her Bark the Halls outfit since June. And I did see a flicker of interest in her eyes. “Maybe . . .”

  Socrates, who didn’t believe one should be bound by the past, gave a rare woof of approval, just as we reached the front of the line. Being much shorter than Moxie and me, he loped through the theater’s glass door, which was propped open, and slipped under a silver turnstile that dated back to the theater’s heyday in the 1920s.