I did my best to follow him, awkwardly lugging my sack of food, while Moxie slipped gracefully into the Bijoux behind me. Fortunately, the bins for donations were right by the door, and I gratefully relieved myself of my burden, while Moxie dropped off her bags, too.
Then I straightened and told Moxie, “You really should go. Don’t let CeeCee French’s possible presence deter you from attending one of the best events of the year!”
“You’re probably right,” Moxie agreed, sounding almost convinced. “I could make a point of steering clear of the punch bowl, in case I saw her and got the urge to dump it over again.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed, taking a moment to gaze around the lobby, which never failed to impress me, although I’d been going to movies at the Bijoux since I was a kid. But there was something magical about the theater, which had been lovingly maintained since its heyday.
Art deco wall sconces cast a soft glow upon the walls, a dramatic, red-carpeted staircase led to a lavishly gilt balcony, and a massive Christmas tree, donated every year by Pinkney’s Pines, dominated the lobby.
In fact, farm owner Brett Pinkney—former quarterback of our high school football team and still ruggedly handsome in jeans and flannel shirt—was circling the tree, as if to make sure it was perfect.
“We should say hi to Brett,” I told Moxie, just as our classmate disappeared behind the towering pine.
Moxie sucked in a breath. “Ooh . . . I don’t know if he’d like that,” she noted. “I bet he’d rather be left alone.”
She was probably right. Brett had become something of a recluse since his high school glory days. He seemed to disappear in the months between the holidays.
“I’m not too eager to catch up with him, either,” Moxie added softly.
That was when I recalled that Brett had dated CeeCee French off and on throughout high school. If I recalled correctly, they’d technically been “on” the night of the horrible holiday dance, making him another casualty of the soiree gone awry.
“Sorry, Moxie,” I apologized, tapping her arm.
Thankfully, she was already distracted, gazing around the theater, which smelled like pine and freshly buttered popcorn. The classic movie snack was free that day, along with complimentary hot chocolate, courtesy of Oh, Beans, and adorable, snowman-shaped rice-and-marshmallow treats. I’d contributed some canine snacks, too. Not that many dogs, aside from Socrates, had the patience to sit through the entire Frank Capra classic.
In fact, scanning the crowd, I didn’t see many other pets in attendance. But I did recognize lots of familiar humans, including Piper, who stood near the marble-topped concession stand, talking with her boyfriend, Roger, and my mother, who wore a Burberry plaid scarf and a red cashmere sweater—the holidays as interpreted by Talbots. They were joined by tall, skinny Norm Alcorn, owner of the Sylvan Creek Hotel and president of the chamber of commerce, which not only sponsored Bark the Halls, but supported the movie, too. I suspected that my mom was trying to convince Norm, who fidgeted with his trademark polka-dot bow tie, to highlight Maeve Templeton Realty’s many contributions to the local economy in his annual welcoming remarks, which always preceded the film.
Behind the counter, frizzy-haired Bitsy Bickelheim, who wore an intricately patterned caftan with flowing sleeves, was serving up the cocoa and treats on behalf of her current employer. However, her gaze kept darting around the lobby, as if she was looking for someone. Or maybe I was imagining that she seemed edgier than usual, since I’d last seen her frozen like a mannequin, spilling coffee all over Gabriel Graham.
I hoped that poor Ms. Bickelheim, who’d drifted from odd job to odd job since leaving teaching, wouldn’t lose her latest position for nearly scalding Gabriel, who was also there, snapping pictures for the Gazette’s society page.
Gabriel had wisely chosen to focus upon our town’s most photogenic—and prominent—resident, Elyse Hunter-Black. Detective Jonathan Black’s wealthy, gorgeous ex-wife posed on the carpet with her two elegant greyhounds, Paris and Milan, who, like Socrates, would have no trouble sitting through the film. The dogs were almost unnaturally well-behaved. As I watched, Elyse—dressed in tasteful black, her blond hair pulled into a sleek chignon—smiled, but with a wary look in her blue eyes, as Gabriel crouched down, trying to get the best angles.
I couldn’t blame Elyse for feeling cautious while Gabriel snapped away. Like everyone else in Sylvan Creek, she’d no doubt seen unflattering shots in the Gazette, including a now legendary picture of me in her former husband’s arms, being dragged from Lake Wallapawakee during a polar bear plunge that had ended in disaster.
Shifting so I wouldn’t accidentally end up in even the background of a photo, I next spied the new seamstress in town, Ivy Dunleavy, who appeared to be making stilted small talk with Tessie Flinchbaugh and her husband, Tom, who owned my favorite used bookstore, the Philosopher’s Tome. The couple had apparently complimented the copper-haired town newcomer on her unusual, asymmetrical dress, because her fair cheeks flushed and she self-consciously smoothed her A-line skirt. Tom, meanwhile, had obviously spilled hot chocolate on his red-and-white plaid sweater vest, and Tessie wore one of her trademark seasonal sweatshirts, which featured a running wiener dog and the phrase DACHSHUND THROUGH THE SNOW.
I was about to note that I thought the pun wasn’t the best when Moxie sighed and said, “I really am glad I came to the movie, at least, Daphne. The Bijoux at Christmas is like a movie set itself.”
Before I could agree, someone sidled up to us and joined the conversation uninvited, noting, “Perhaps this could be the backdrop for some sort of maudlin, made-for-TV holiday romance, at best!”
I hadn’t heard that voice in years. But I recognized it immediately. And all of the warm, fuzzy feeling I’d just enjoyed turned to a ball of ice in my stomach when Celeste French, who held the puffiest, whitest, snootiest poodle I’d ever seen, gave me and Moxie a once-over.
“Well, well, well . . . If it isn’t Daphne Templeton—and Moxie Bloom!” Celeste said, in a silky yet snarky tone that was accompanied by a fake, lilting laugh. Then she dared to lightly touch Moxie’s arm, adding, “You probably don’t even remember, Moxie, it was such a silly, high-school thing. But I had a tiny fling with some boy you liked, a few years ago nearly to this day!”
Chapter 5
Moxie Bloom might’ve been caught off guard by the unexpected appearance of an imperious and wealthy, not to mention impeccably dressed and perfectly coiffed, high school bully, who wasn’t supposed to arrive in Sylvan Creek before the ball, according to Moxie’s rumor mill. Yet I had to give my best friend credit for grace under pressure when CeeCee French rudely brought up a topic that most people would’ve been ashamed to mention.
“How have you been, Celeste?” Moxie asked politely, her voice level, but her chin high. She wisely ignored CeeCee’s reference to Mike Cavanaugh, whom Moxie certainly did remember. She forced a smile, trying hard to be kind. “It’s been a long time.”
CeeCee took a moment to coolly survey the lobby, her angular jaw jutting as she absently stroked the poodle with long, red-tipped fingers. Her toes, encased in sharply pointed, distinctive crimson shoes that contrasted with her black, formfitting shift, tapped the thick carpet, as if she was already impatient with the whole affair. I supposed that I should’ve been awed by our multimillionaire classmate, but, to be honest, I couldn’t muster more than mild curiosity and a bit of disappointment to learn that she was still arrogant, and, let’s face it, mean.
“Yes, it has been a while,” CeeCee finally agreed, again looking Moxie and me up and down, her cool gaze taking in Moxie’s vintage outfit and my old barn jacket. “And I find that nothing’s changed.” The corners of her lips twisted upward, and she got a knowing, almost secretive gleam in her dark eyes. “At least, nothing’s changed yet.”
“What the heck does that mean?” I inquired, because that last word sounded almost ominous.
But before CeeCee could answer, and I wasn’t
sure she planned to, a short man in a gray suit, whom I hadn’t even noticed before, drew closer and lightly touched her arm. Then he shook his head and whispered a soft, single-word warning. “CeeCee . . .”
I drew back, suddenly recognizing the man, whom I’d last seen at our high school graduation, where he’d been honored as salutatorian, right behind CeeCee, who’d been valedictorian. The tide had gone out slightly on his brown, bristly hair, and there was the hint of a paunch under his rumpled white shirt, but his ruddy cheeks and slightly bulbous nose hadn’t changed. “Jeff! Jeff Updegrove!” I pointed to my chest. “Remember me? Daphne Templeton?” Forgetting CeeCee for a moment, I jabbed my finger at Moxie. “And Moxie Bloom?”
Sylvan Creek High wasn’t a very big school, and it hadn’t been that long since we’d all been students there, but I could tell that Jeff, who’d usually had his distinctive nose buried in a book, was searching his memory. “Umm . . .”
CeeCee also grasped that our former classmate was drawing a blank. “We were all just reminiscing fondly about our senior-year winter formal, when poor Moxie had a mishap with the punch bowl,” she said dryly. “Perhaps you recall that.”
All the blood drained from Moxie’s face, while the light of recognition finally dawned in Jeff’s eyes. “Oh, yes,” he said, clearing his throat, as if the mention of the incident made him uncomfortable, too. I still had no idea if he remembered me, but he nodded to us both. “Nice to see you again.”
“What the heck are you doing here, and in a suit?” I inquired, as color slowly returned to Moxie’s cheeks. “Are you back to visit family—”
“Jeff is my assistant,” CeeCee said sharply, cutting me off. “He’s been with French’s Poodles nearly from the start.” She smiled condescendingly at Jeff, whose jaw was visibly grinding, then used her free hand—the one not cradling the dog—to pat his arm. “Sylvan Creek people take care of their own, right?”
Jeff didn’t respond to his boss. He tried to smile at me and Moxie, but it came out as a thin, grim line. “I’m actually chief operations officer,” he informed us, his voice as tight as his grin. “Slightly more than an ass . . .”
“Jeff!” CeeCee’s reprimand cut off the word “assistant” at an inopportune spot. She didn’t seem to notice or care. And she quickly put her employee back in his place by asking, in a way that sounded like a command, “Will you please get me something to drink before this dog and pony show gets underway?”
Jeff hesitated for a long time, during which I half expected steam to start puffing out of his ears. Then he agreed, through gritted teeth, “Yes, of course, Celeste.”
We all watched him thread his way through the crowd. Then Moxie said, “Umm, CeeCee? I hate to tell you, but there aren’t any dogs or ponies in the show.” My best friend might’ve been knocked for a loop, moments before, but she’d recovered enough to set her former rival straight about It’s a Wonderful Life. “In fact, I don’t think there’s a single animal in the film. Although, Norm Alcorn will almost certainly mention pets in his little talk about all the wonderful things going on with Sylvan Creek’s businesses.”
I suddenly wondered if CeeCee French was scheduled to be part of that presentation, for some reason, while our former classmate rolled her eyes at Moxie’s admittedly quirky comment and muttered, “Honestly. Nothing has changed in this town.”
I glanced down at Socrates, expecting to find him observing Celeste with narrowed, disapproving eyes. But, to my surprise, he was focused on the poodle, who refused to meet Socrates’s gaze. The smaller dog’s dark, intelligent eyes were trained on the ceiling, and her nose was in the air. A collar studded with diamonds that I suspected were real circled her delicate throat, and she wore an elaborately pleated, red-velvet, fur-trimmed coat with what appeared to be pearl buttons.
I’d never seen anything quite like that dog jacket, but, all at once, recognition dawned on me again, regarding the poodle. Obviously, I hadn’t attended high school with the dog, but I had seen her before, cavorting with children and doing tricks in television commercials for French’s Poodles & More.
“Hey, you’re Snowdrop!” I said, reaching out my hand to let the famously friendly pup take a sniff—only to have a set of razor-sharp teeth snap at my fingers. I yanked my hand away, just as those teeth grazed my knuckles. “Yikes!”
“Ooh, sorry,” CeeCee sniffed, apologizing not to me, but to the dog, who watched me with what I swore was amusement in her dark, haughty eyes. CeeCee again stroked the poodle’s silky-looking ear, this time to soothe her, while I checked to make sure my fingers were all still attached to my hand. “Snowdrop does not like to be touched by anyone except professional handlers and groomers, whom she can sniff out with her discerning little nose,” CeeCee added, tapping the poodle’s shiny black sniffer.
Snowdrop fairly beamed, while I had a feeling I’d just been insulted.
Then CeeCee turned to Moxie and arched a dark, dramatically plucked eyebrow. Apparently, she’d used some of her millions to buff away any soft edges that she used to have, back when we were teenagers. “Would you like to see if you pass Snowdrop’s test, Moxie?” she inquired, holding out the dog. “Because I understand you own a charming little salon.”
CeeCee hadn’t just whittled away at her eyebrows, and, I thought, her nose, which looked more aquiline than I recalled. She’d also sharpened her always well-honed tongue.
“I think people do find Spa and Paw charming,” Moxie said, quietly but firmly defending her beloved local establishment. I was very proud of her when she added, graciously, if through clenched teeth, “And you are welcome to stop by any time.”
“Oh, I’ll be sure to do that,” CeeCee said, surprising me—and Moxie, who probably hadn’t expected her offer to be accepted. “I always check out my competition!”
The funny thing was, CeeCee sounded almost serious, although I had no idea where the closest French’s Poodles & More franchise was even located. We didn’t have a lot of chain stores in Sylvan Creek.
But perhaps that was about to change, because, without another word to us—or any warning for Norm Alcorn, who seemed unhappily surprised by what happened next—CeeCee French swept away from me and Moxie, mounted the Bijoux’s gorgeous, grand, red-carpeted staircase, and summoned everyone’s attention, merely by . . . existing. As she turned to face the crowd, with Snowdrop perched imperiously in her arms, the whole room went silent. Even the kids stopped running around.
“I know that I’m disrupting today’s program,” she said, with a funny smile on her face and a pointed glance at Norm, whose face was ashen.
Over at the concession stand, Bitsy Bickelheim seemed frozen in place, just like she’d been back at Oh, Beans, when she’d spilled coffee all over Gabriel.
I noticed that Brett Pinkney again stood by the tree he’d donated, his body as stiff as the pine’s trunk and his cheeks as pale as snow.
My mother, Piper, Roger, and Elyse Hunter-Black appeared curious and, perhaps, cautious.
And Jeff Updegrove had stopped midstride, halfway across the lobby, the drink he’d been sent to fetch clutched in his hand and a look of dismay on his face—which wasn’t turned toward his boss. He was looking in a different direction.
I was trying to figure out what, or who, he was looking at when movement outside the theater, just beyond the tall glass exit doors, caught my eye. Shifting, I glimpsed someone in a bulky, gray-green coat hurrying away from the Bijoux. In a split second, the person was out of sight, hidden by the ticket counter that extended onto the sidewalk.
Then I looked at CeeCee again and felt my heart sink as she announced, “A whole host of people will want to positively kill me for letting the cat out of the bag—pet pun intended—but I can’t wait a moment longer to share my big gift to the town, this holiday season.” Her smile widened, and I swore Snowdrop had a triumphant gleam in her eyes, too, when CeeCee informed us all, “I’m bringing my flagship store—the biggest and best French’s Poodles & More franchise in the nation—t
o my beloved hometown of Sylvan Creek!”
CeeCee probably expected that news to be greeted with applause, but I didn’t think any of the gasps, especially Moxie’s high-pitched yip, signaled approval of the plan to build a pet superstore in our little community.
“What the . . . ?” Moxie muttered, turning to me, her thick lashes batting with confusion.
“I’m shocked, too,” I whispered, my reply nonetheless too loud, because a hush had descended over the crowd.
The stunned silence, to which CeeCee, who gazed down upon us from her imperious perch, seemed oblivious, dragged on and on—until it was broken by me, when a little pug in a “bah, hum-pug” sweater dashed through the lobby and crashed into the back of my knees, causing them to buckle and sending me sprawling into a kid who held a bucket of popcorn, so the fluffy kernels flew everywhere, like a buttery blizzard. Then I cried out the word that was almost certainly on most people’s lips.
“No!”
Chapter 6
“Did you know about CeeCee’s plan?” I asked my mother, who was crammed with me, Socrates, Piper, and Roger Berendt into Flour Power’s warm little kitchen, where we’d all retreated for coffee and, in Socrates’s case, water, midway through It’s a Wonderful Life. Quite a few people, including Moxie, had skipped the movie altogether after CeeCee French had dropped her bombshell on half the town. I was sure that by tomorrow, Gabriel, who’d snapped at least one hundred photos of Celeste and scribbled furiously in his reporter’s notebook, would alert anyone who’d missed CeeCee’s “dog and pony show” to the impending arrival of a gigantic pet superstore in Sylvan Creek. I watched my mother for signs of guilt as she pounded my poor, imported Italian coffee machine into submission, like she did every day when she snuck into my pet bakery for her evening caffeine infusion. “Next to Norm Alcorn, you’re the most active chamber of commerce member,” I added, continuing to study Mom. “You must’ve known what CeeCee was up to.”
A Midwinter's Tail Page 3