“Yes, Mom,” Piper said, for once agreeing with me. She and my mother were usually two peas in a pod, but it was hard not to suspect that Mom had been keeping a pretty big secret from us. Taking a seat on one of the stools that ringed the kitchen’s butcher-block island, where I rolled out dough for dogs and cats and occasionally baked for humans, too, Piper also watched our mother carefully. “Was the big announcement a genuine surprise to you, too?”
“Piper . . .” Roger seemed to caution my sister as he sat down next to her, while I leaned past him to light a pine-scented candle I’d set on the island. As he drew back, giving me room, he told Piper, “You sound as if you’re accusing your poor mother!”
Socrates made a groaning sound deep in his dappled chest, and I stifled the urge to roll my eyes at Roger, who appeared to be currying favor with his likely future mother-in-law, who was anything but “poor,” in any sense of the word.
Then again, if I’d been in Roger’s conservative loafers, I would probably also take pains to get on Maeve Templeton’s good side. I’d spent enough time on her bad side, as her own flesh and blood, to know that could be a very, very uncomfortable place. Perhaps, in spite of his mild manner and penchant for wearing argyle, the brown-eyed English professor, who was reaching for one of the double-fudge peppermint brownies I’d just pulled from the oven, along with some Nutty Bacon Wreaths for dogs, was actually a savvy strategist.
Whatever his motive, the comment earned Roger points. Mom turned from the coffee maker, which was hissing like a time bomb, and graced my sister’s boyfriend with a rare smile. “Thank you for your vote of confidence, Roger,” she said, before shooting me, and me alone, a dark look. “I only wish Daphne shared your faith in me.”
I opened my mouth to point out that Piper had also expressed doubts, only to immediately give up. Placing two “wreaths” onto a festive, holly-patterned plate, which I set on the floor for Socrates, I took a seat and grabbed a brownie, myself. Then I asked Mom, point-blank, “Did you know about the plan or not?”
“No, I honestly didn’t,” she insisted, filling up four deep-red mugs that, like the coffee maker, were left over from the bakery’s previous incarnation as an Italian bistro. Frowning—another rare show of emotion—Mom distributed the beverages, sliding a mug under each of our noses before climbing onto the stool next to mine with surprising grace, given that she wore a constricting black pencil skirt and four-inch-high, patent-leather Ferragamo heels. “And you can imagine that I am quite piqued with Norm Alcorn, springing this upon the rest of the chamber at a public event. We should have all been consulted months ago!”
Although I rarely attended meetings, I was technically a chamber member, and I hadn’t even thought about that. But my mother was right. Then I pictured Norm Alcorn’s face, as CeeCee had delivered her speech. I often watched Norm’s ailing Newfoundland, Dunston—in fact, the big black dog was on my schedule for later that week—and I thought Norm had seemed more pale and agitated than usual, back at the Bijoux.
“Are we sure Norm even knew?” I ventured, through a bite of gooey, freshly baked brownie, topped with crunchy, crushed candy canes. “The chamber isn’t really a governing body, right? It’s more of a booster club for the town—albeit a powerful one.”
“I agree with Daphne,” Piper said, surprising me again by taking my side. It wasn’t that we didn’t get along. We just often viewed life from different perspectives. But apparently, we’d both observed the same thing at the theater. “I saw Norm, and he looked shocked.”
Of course, a lot of other people had been stunned, too, including Moxie. And Ms. Bickelheim. Not to mention tree-farm owner and former quarterback Brett Pinkney, as well as CeeCee’s own colleague, Jeff Updegrove, who couldn’t have been surprised by the news.
So why had he looked startled?
And who had been standing just outside the theater, before hurrying away . . . ?
“Well, I remain very peeved,” Mom said, with a sniff. She absently smoothed the slightly-too-asymmetrical bob that Moxie had convinced her was not a mistake, but rather a “signature look.” “Obviously there was a substantial real estate deal involved,” Mom added, sounding almost hurt. “And I was not a part of it.”
“That’s not necessarily true,” Roger ventured, daring to contradict his potential relative. Perhaps his plan was to alternate between currying favor and speaking his mind when it counted. That seemed sound, to me. Resting his arms on the table, he leaned forward, frowning thoughtfully. “Maybe this Celeste person made the announcement on the spur of the moment. Maybe she doesn’t have a plan in place yet.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, again thinking back to the lobby, where CeeCee had said Sylvan Creek hadn’t changed—yet. “I think she at least went to the theater with the intention of making a big announcement.”
“We’ll probably know more tomorrow, when the Gazette comes out,” Piper noted, sipping her coffee. Her cheeks were rosy and almost a little plump. Being in love was giving my cardigan-wearing, sometimes stern sister softer edges, while CeeCee had gone the other direction. “Gabriel was practically salivating while CeeCee was talking. I’m sure the front page will be dedicated to the story.” Then Piper quirked an eyebrow at me. “And what happened to you, Daphne? Why in the world did you fall down, spilling popcorn everywhere?”
“The little pug . . . It was his fault,” I defended myself, although I could tell that no one knew what I was talking about. My mother, my sister, and Roger were all giving me funny looks. “You know. The little dog in the red ‘bah, hum-pug’ sweater,” I clarified, holding down my hand to indicate the pug’s diminutive stature, although I didn’t come even close to the floor. I looked to Socrates for support, but he shook his head, letting me know that he hadn’t seen the impish canine, either. I turned back to the humans. “Seriously? None of you saw a pug?”
“Celeste was holding a poodle,” Roger pointed out. “Maybe you’re mixing up the breeds.”
At the mention of Snowdrop, Socrates started, the tags on his collar rattling. I had no idea what that was all about. I only knew that I was insulted by Roger’s comment.
“I’m a professional pet sitter,” I reminded him. “I know a pug from a poodle. Especially a famous poodle, like Snowdrop.”
My mother set down the mug she’d already drained and waved a hand laden with large, but tasteful, rings. The gesture was dismissive. “You’re debating dogs when there are huge things at stake here, Daphne. Like the future of Sylvan Creek.” Roger had just been discussing canines, too, but she gave him a grateful micro-smile. “And real estate deals that might still be on the table!”
“How can you think about making money off a store that might destroy local businesses?” I asked Mom, setting down what was left of my brownie. I’d suddenly lost my appetite. “A pet superstore could mean the end of Moxie’s salon and Tessie’s boutique.”
Every time that reality sank in, I felt a little sick, and I wished that Moxie hadn’t insisted on being alone that evening. But she’d refused to join us for coffee, saying she preferred to spend some quiet time with Sebastian and a pint of ice cream in her garret.
“Competition is the American way,” declared my mother, who only had one real rival for the local real estate market. And Reed Bynum—terrible slogan: “We’re Bynum and Sellin’ ’Em”—was also an independent operator, without the backing of a national chain. Mom reached for a brownie, then withdrew her hand, no doubt having mentally calculated the potential calories as she lectured me. “And I hope you are already strategizing to keep your share of the market, Daphne,” she cautioned. “You will almost certainly be impacted, too. From what I understand, French’s Poodles & More provides kenneling and, of course, sells pet treats at discount prices.”
“People hire me because they don’t want to kennel their pets,” I reminded Mom. Needless to say, I’d considered the potential impact of CeeCee’s plan on my own small enterprises, and, although I could see the potential for problems,
I was trying to stay positive. “And my treats are organic and locally sourced,” I pointed out. “They also appeal to a certain clientele. I think my ‘market share’ will be okay.”
I could tell from their expressions that Piper and Roger were still concerned for the future of my businesses. But Piper, at least, seemed to agree that I produced a high-quality product at Flour Power, compared to the food sold at CeeCee’s superstores.
“The products CeeCee stocks under the store’s brand name are terrible,” my veterinarian sibling said, with clear disapproval. She’d obviously followed the news about the scandal that Gabriel had referenced. “A few months ago, CeeCee French’s company was in court . . .”
I wanted to hear the rest of that sentence, but at that moment, my cell phone rang with a custom tone that I’d never really expected to hear, and I was so intrigued that I popped off my seat and went to my jacket, which hung on a peg near the back door.
I’d missed the call, but there was a voice mail waiting.
Playing it, I then stuck my phone in my pocket, grabbed my coat from the peg, and told Mom, Piper, and Roger, “I’m going to trust you to blow out the candle and clean up when you’re done, okay? Socrates and I have to leave now.”
Roger appeared surprised, while Piper and my mother studied me suspiciously.
“Where are you headed in the middle of your own gathering?” Mom asked, as if we weren’t all—or at least nearly all—family, and she didn’t visit Flour Power all the time, uninvited.
“Yes, Daphne,” Piper said, observing me skeptically from behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “It’s pitch-black and practically freezing outside.”
Although part of me was almost nervous, I couldn’t help grinning at Socrates, whose keen ears must’ve picked up at least some of the message, even though the phone hadn’t been on speaker. His tail twitched, just slightly. Then I turned back to the humans, telling them, “What better time for a stroll through Pettigrew Park!”
Chapter 7
“This was a good idea, right?” I asked Socrates, who was jumping down from my van, which I’d parked in front of the Sylvan Creek Public Library, at the edge of Pettigrew Park. The library was closed, but each of the ornate, Italianate building’s many windows, including those in the pretty cupola that topped the roof, glowed with candles. The structure, which always reminded me of a wedding cake, was also bathed in spotlights that highlighted the elaborate woodwork on the wraparound porch and two gorgeous, oversized pine wreaths that hung on a pair of tall, arched main doors. Then I glanced behind us at the park, where the gazebo was outlined with white lights and Sylvan Creek’s big community Christmas tree gleamed in the distance. But the town’s namesake creek ran black and silent, and the paths were dark and quiet. I looked down at Socrates, who also seemed uncertain. “I didn’t reply to the invitation, so we might actually be alone. . . .”
I had barely finished that thought, my words still hanging in the frosty air, when I heard claws tapping on pavement, followed by excited yips, right before a tiny dog darted around the corner of the library and launched himself directly at the basset hound by my side.
“Artie!” I cried, so the one-eared, drooling Chihuahua diverted for a second to wriggle against my ankles, his big eyes bulging even larger than usual with happiness. Then my favorite, most exuberant former foster scampered to his best, if completely opposite, canine buddy.
Moments later, another bigger dog loped in our direction, followed by a man who stepped from the shadowed paths.
“Hello, Daphne,” Detective Jonathan Black said, grinning at me, his teeth white in the darkness. “I wasn’t sure you’d come if I didn’t promise you cheese—or a murder.”
* * *
“I was half afraid there’d actually been a homicide, and I was somehow involved without even knowing it yet,” I joked . . . or sort of joked . . . with Jonathan, who strolled next to me along the narrow footpaths that wound through Pettigrew Park. The sky had cleared, and the snowy grounds were bathed in soft moonlight. The dogs ran off-leash, Artie leading Socrates and Jonathan’s chocolate Lab, Axis, on a merry chase—although, as always, Socrates slowed when he thought I could see him. I did my best to keep my focus on Jonathan, which wasn’t difficult. The six-foot-something, ex-SEAL was as handsome as ever. Maybe even more so.
He continued to wear his nearly black hair a little longer than when he’d first moved to Sylvan Creek, a good look for him, and his changeable, often difficult-to-read blue eyes were practically the color of the starry sky that arched overhead. He wore a black down jacket, only half-zipped in spite of the cold, and worn jeans that he carried off as well as the tailored suits he favored when on duty.
I studied his face, my gaze shifting from a small scar on his jaw back to his eyes, and I suddenly recalled the illness he’d once suffered. The one that had caused him to leave the military, because there was a real risk of relapse. Given that Jonathan had never called me before to meet socially, I suffered a twinge of concern. “Is everything okay?”
Jonathan hesitated, and for a split second, I thought something really was wrong. Then he smiled at me. “Everything’s fine, Daphne. I just realized, this evening, that the dogs and I have spent a lot of time on our property lately. And, since you haven’t stumbled across any bodies—thankfully—Artie hasn’t had a chance to expend his considerable social energy on Socrates. I thought it might be nice for the dogs to see each other.”
I couldn’t resist nudging Jonathan with my elbow, since my hands, protected by soft, knitted mittens, were stuffed into my pockets. “Gee, I’ve missed you, too,” I teased, trying not to be offended by Jonathan’s failure to even mention me in his explanation for the unexpected outreach. “I kind of thought you’d extended the invitation to take a walk so we could catch up.”
Jonathan laughed, his breath coming out as a puff of steam. “Okay, Daphne. Perhaps I was curious about what you’ve been up to.” He seemed to grow more serious. “It has been a while.”
I stopped joking, too, and spoke more softly. “Yes. I’ve noticed.”
I didn’t think I’d realized, until that moment, that I actually had missed Jonathan. I supposed I’d expected our paths to cross after we’d last parted. But they hadn’t, and time had passed....
“So, what’s been happening with you, since you’ve apparently retired from doing my job?” he asked, lightening the mood again. We walked slowly past the gazebo, so I could better see his face by the garlands of white lights that were strung around the gingerbread structure, and I thought his expression didn’t quite match his tone. “Is business good at the pet bakery?”
“First of all, thank you for dropping off the bamboo,” I said, referencing a gift he’d somehow managed to leave at Flour Power’s grand opening. I hadn’t even seen him deliver the plant, which was thriving. “I could feed a panda with that thing, these days.”
“You’re very welcome.” He lightly touched my arm for a moment, guiding me around a patch of ice, and our pace slowed to a crawl. “I hope it’s lived up to its reputation for bringing good luck.”
We’d passed into the darkness again, and a shadow crossed my thoughts, too. “Things have been going great. Although, I’ll admit that I’m a little concerned for all the pet-related businesses in town, now that we’re apparently getting a French’s Poodles & More franchise.”
“Yes, I heard about Celeste French’s big announcement,” Jonathan said, as the three dogs tore past us, kicking up snow. Socrates didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t having fun. His long ears flew back as he raced on his short legs. Jonathan and I paused for a moment to watch the trio disappear into the darkness, then we resumed walking, Jonathan bending to see my face. “How worried are you?”
“First of all, how do you even know about the announcement?” I asked, tilting my head, which was also covered by a fuzzy, knit cap with a pompom on top. “I didn’t see you at the theater, and I don’t think you follow the local gossip.”
He smiled. �
�You’re right. I normally don’t. Unless Moxie Bloom has me hostage in her chair.” He absently dragged a hand through his hair, and I made a mental note to tell my best friend that, while she’d really messed up my mother’s look, she was doing a great job styling her crush. “But, as you can imagine, the arrival of a wealthy, powerful woman in this little town has not gone unnoticed by the other wealthy, powerful female, who did attend the movie.”
For a second, I didn’t know who he was talking about. Then I realized he was referring to his ex-wife, Elyse Hunter-Black, who was Sylvan Creek’s richest, most influential resident of either gender.
Elyse, who split her time between Manhattan and the lakeside mansion she’d purchased in Sylvan Creek—probably to be near Jonathan, if Moxie’s guess was correct—was a high-powered producer for the Stylish Life television network. And, from what I understood, Elyse, like Jonathan, had some family money to burn, too.
“Elyse isn’t normally the jealous type, but she is competitive,” Jonathan added, grinning. “I don’t think she’s happy about being deposed, even temporarily, as Sylvan Creek’s most accomplished woman, and she’s keeping close tabs on Ms. French.”
“Unless CeeCee has changed dramatically since high school, everyone should be on guard around her,” I noted, kicking at some snow with one of my favorite oversized cowgirl boots, which was still stained with guacamole from another adventure in that very same park. “Which is not to say that CeeCee hasn’t evolved. As Günter Grass once noted, our younger selves can seem like strangers, or aliens, to us.”
Jonathan arched an eyebrow. “You usually reference Greek philosophers, not German novelists.”
I pictured Jonathan’s amazing A-frame cabin in the woods, where massive, well stocked bookshelves flanked an equally impressive stone fireplace. “Are you a fan?”
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