A Midwinter's Tail

by Bethany Blake

“Oh, Moxie,” I whispered, hoping that Jonathan hadn’t interrogated her too intensely, but knowing that he wouldn’t go easy on her, either. Cringing, I recalled how he’d once questioned poor Piper to the point that she’d doubted her own innocence. And Moxie wasn’t as hardheaded as my sister. “I am very concerned,” I told Tinkleston, who’d crept closer, his orange eyes reminiscent of the fire downstairs. “Very concerned.”

  Tinks mewed softly, and I dared to stroke his head. For once, he didn’t even complain. He just curled up by my side and yawned.

  A moment later, I found myself yawning, too, as a bitter winter wind rocked the cottage, compelling me to snuggle even more deeply under my heavy blankets. And soon, exhausted by the day’s events, I drifted off to sleep, my dreams set in a hazy high school gymnasium, where Moxie and Jonathan . . . or maybe it was Mike Cavanaugh . . . danced, the man’s arm wrapped too tightly around my best friend’s waist. I wanted to run over and help her, but my feet were stuck in a pile of snow, stained red with punch, or something else....

  “Moxie!”

  I cried out loud and fought to sit up, but my feet, overheating in thick socks, really were stuck in the blankets I’d twisted around myself.

  Taking a few deep breaths, I untangled myself, observed by Socrates, Axis—and Artie, who’d somehow managed to climb onto my high bed and take the place of Tinkleston, who often wandered off in the middle of the night.

  “How did you get up here?” I asked the Chihuahua, who wriggled with happiness and attempted to lick my face. I noted that he’d drooled all over one of my pillows. Sitting up straighter, I gently pushed Artie aside. “I bet you don’t do this to Jonathan,” I said, my eyes adjusting to bright sunlight that streamed through the circular window above my head. “I bet you sleep in your dog bed at his house.”

  Artie spun happily in place and yipped, as if he had no idea what I was talking about. But Axis barked deeply, presumably to let me know that I was correct, while Socrates shook his head, disapproving of his best canine friend’s behavior.

  “Well, you are probably going home any minute now, anyway,” I told Artie, immediately suffering a twinge of disappointment. The exuberant little dog’s questionable behavior aside, I wished Artie and Axis could stay longer.

  And, apparently, wishes sometimes came true.

  Reaching for my cell phone, which sat on my nightstand next to an ancient, rotary-dial landline phone, I tapped the screen and saw that I had three messages—including two from people who’d just made appearances in my troubled dreams.

  First was a request from Jonathan Black, written in a way that told me he was in full detective mode, and probably wearing a suit.

  Can you please keep the dogs until this evening, Daphne? If that’s a problem, I will make other arrangements. But your professional help would be appreciated, if possible. And I will, of course, pay you for your trouble.

  “Hey, Artie, you’re staying!” I told the Chihuahua, who remained on the bed when he should’ve been on the floor. I overlooked the issue and smiled at Axis, too. “We have all day to hang out!”

  Socrates’s tail thumped once against the floorboards, although he was still trying to act disappointed with Artie’s behavior.

  No problem, I texted back. Then, because I still hadn’t fully repaid Jonathan for a few meals and some outstanding library fines he’d covered, I added, And keep your $$! Still owe you!

  Next, I checked the second message, which was from Gabriel.

  Another body! When can we talk? Would like to go to press ASAP.

  He might’ve been in a hurry, but I wasn’t eager to be interviewed, and I clicked on the next message before I replied.

  This text was from Moxie Bloom, and it said, simply, HELP—followed by seven sad-face emojis and a seemingly endless string of exclamation points.

  Springing from bed, I let her know that I’d meet her at Oh, Beans in a half hour—an appointment for which I was unfortunately late, although it only took me a few minutes to toss on a pair of jeans and an oversized sweater, then rush downstairs to feed Tinks and the dogs.

  However, when I reached the bottom of my spiral staircase, I discovered a “present” that someone had left me in the dead of the night.

  A gift that, moments later, tried to bite me.

  Chapter 11

  “I can’t believe you’re watching Snowdrop,” Moxie said, lacing her fingers around a steaming, candy-cane-striped mug of double-fudge hot cocoa topped with a melting mountain of Oh, Beans’s house-made peppermint-swirl marshmallows. I’d ordered the same thing, as an antidote to the chilly day, which was clouding over, too. Moxie’s bow-shaped mouth drew down with disapproval. “What kind of person leaves a dog on a doorstep?”

  “Jeff Updegrove, that’s who,” I said. “And he actually left her inside the cottage, along with a note, scrawled on a big, manila envelope, that said he would’ve knocked, but it was very early, and my door was unlocked.” I was glad Jonathan wasn’t there to learn that I still wasn’t using the lock he’d installed. “Not wanting to disturb me, he quietly placed Snowdrop’s monogrammed, bejeweled carrier inside the door before racing off to the airport.”

  Moxie’s mouth formed a perfect o of surprise. Then she said, “That all sounds suspicious!”

  “I know, right?” I’d been debating calling Jonathan, but I assumed that he already knew about Jeff’s hasty departure from Sylvan Creek, minus the dog, who wore what I believed to be a genuine cashmere, pastel-pink sweater with an ironic, 1950s-style embroidered black poodle on the breast. Not that I could get a good look at Snowdrop, who refused to leave her deluxe crate, and who’d bared her teeth at Artie, too, that morning.

  The gregarious Chihuahua had clearly been shocked by Snowdrop’s failure to fall for his relentless charms, a snub that had only made him more determined to win her over. He’d actually started dancing in front of her classy crate.

  Axis, meanwhile, had wisely kept his distance. But Socrates had nudged a food bowl in Snowdrop’s direction. The gesture had greatly surprised me. My baleful basset hound sidekick was always a gentleman, but he didn’t suffer snobs. I could only assume that he felt badly for the newly orphaned, now abandoned pup and was temporarily overlooking her snippy attitude, just like I was doing. In fact, Socrates had remained behind with snooty Snowdrop and a very irate Tinkleston, instead of coming to town with me, Axis, and Artie. Both those dogs were testing out holiday treat recipes at Flour Power while I met with Moxie, who seemed more interested in discussing my new charge than unloading about her interrogation.

  “So what was in the envelope?” she asked, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. The cocoa was impossible to drink without getting a mustache. Her eyes snapped wide open as she was struck by a thought. “A confession? Because, in spite of being a meek bookworm, and one of those forgettable class officers like recording secretary, which makes me doubt he could kill anyone, Jeff really didn’t seem happy with CeeCee!”

  “To be honest, I haven’t opened the envelope yet,” I admitted, suddenly wishing I’d at least peeked inside. Then I shrugged. “I assume it’s filled with paperwork. Snowdrop is a star. She’s probably insured and requires special care.” I wiped my sleeve across my own mouth, which felt a little sticky. “I was in a hurry to see you and decided to check it out later.”

  “Aw, thanks, Daphne.” Moxie scooched forward in her seat, so someone could get past our table in the crowded room.

  Glancing up, I recognized the young woman from Ivy Dunleavy’s Custom Creations, who made a beeline for Bitsy Bickelheim, greeting her with a big smile.

  Ms. Bickelheim, attired that day in a sequined, batwing-sleeved caftan, was struggling to fill a glass jar with loose tea, but she abandoned that endeavor and moved to the counter, where both women consulted a notebook that Ivy had pulled from a big tote slung over her small shoulder.

  At least, I once again assumed the younger woman was Ivy Dunleavy, who seemed somehow familiar to me, upon closer inspection. There was somet
hing about the way she tilted her head when she smiled. Or maybe it was the unusual copper hue of her long, straight hair.

  I wanted to point out the seamstress to Moxie, but she was still fixated on the Snowdrop situation.

  “Well, when is Jeff coming back?” she inquired. “He can’t expect you to watch Snowdrop indefinitely.”

  “I have no idea how long I’m supposed to watch the dog,” I admitted. “Maybe that information is in the envelope.” Then I reached across the table and gave Moxie’s hand a quick squeeze, only to regret that, because I had sticky fingers, too, from the marshmallows I’d been picking at. “Forget Snowdrop and Jeff,” I urged. “What the heck happened last night, after you left with Jonathan?”

  “Oh, goodness.” The light of curiosity flickered out in Moxie’s eyes. “I have to admit you were right,” she said, dipping her head sheepishly and wiping her fingers with her napkin. “You tried to tell me that being interrogated by Jonathan Black isn’t exactly pleasant.” Then she quickly brightened, her cheeks getting pink spots that matched the hand-embroidered poinsettias on her vintage, cream-colored sweater. “Although, he looked so sternly handsome when he basically accused me of murder!”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but I was glad she was at least smiling after fighting off allegations of homicide.

  “So, maybe it wasn’t quite as bad as I feared when I read your text?” I asked hopefully, grabbing a napkin from the holder on the table, too. The paper stuck to my fingers. “Because your message seemed a little desperate.”

  Moxie sighed. “I suppose I might’ve sent one too many sad-faced emojis, before I could get some sleep and put things in perspective. Because, honestly, once Detective Black and I got past the part about how I never forgave CeeCee for stealing away Mike Cavanaugh . . . And the stuff about how she was going to destroy Spa and Paw, so, at the very least, it would just be ‘Spa,’ with no paws to speak of . . .” Moxie shrugged. “After that, things weren’t so awful. I think he’s only ninety-percent convinced I killed CeeCee, when he started at one hundred.”

  I took a moment to digest all that, while picking gooey scraps of paper from my hand.

  “You, er . . . seem to have moved past CeeCee’s demise,” I finally observed, hoping she hadn’t been glib with Jonathan.

  “No, I haven’t done that,” she said, more seriously. “I still feel terrible about what happened to her. But I can’t mourn her like I would a friend, or even acquaintance. In fact, I feel almost as if a stranger has died.”

  That was valid. I also felt badly about CeeCee’s death, the same way I felt whenever I heard about someone who’d died too young. But I wasn’t consumed with grief.

  “Umm, Moxie?” I didn’t want to put my best friend through a second interrogation at my hands, but I had one more important question regarding CeeCee’s murder.

  “Yes?” She’d been eating a marshmallow, too, and she licked her fingers.

  “Did you have an alibi to share with Jonathan? Anything, beyond Sebastian’s squeaky word, to prove that you were really home the night of CeeCee’s death?”

  “Oh, I wasn’t home,” Moxie said, frowning.

  I was pretty sure she’d told me that she planned to stay in her apartment, eating ice cream with her rat, when we’d parted at the Bijoux. “Really, because I thought . . .”

  “I know what I told you at the theater,” Moxie said. “But after CeeCee’s awful—and very smug—announcement, I decided I shouldn’t sit home sulking. So I walked around town, well into the night, taking pictures for my gingerbread village.”

  I wasn’t sure I understood. “For the village?”

  “Yes.” Moxie nodded. “I want the cookie version of Sylvan Creek to be as accurate as possible. And it is a nighttime scene. So I strolled through town, snapping pictures for reference.”

  I fought the urge to groan. “So, you basically recorded proof that you were wandering around town, alone, the night of CeeCee’s death?”

  Moxie seemed proud of me for catching on. She grinned. “Precisely!”

  I wanted to thunk my head against the polished, wooden table, because, from my perspective, it didn’t seem like things had gone very well during her interrogation. But I didn’t want to alarm Moxie, or ruin the positive spin she was putting on her discussion with Jonathan.

  Plus, my attention was suddenly drawn to something I’d noticed outside. A little dog in a red sweater, who darted down the street on stiff legs, his tongue lolling from his mouth and a mischievous look in his round, bulging eyes.

  “Hey!”

  I started to rise from my seat, just as someone else came hurrying along the sidewalk. A man with an uneven, lurching gait whose shoulders were hunched under a heavy, grayish-green coat with an upturned collar that all but obscured his features.

  As he moved quickly past Oh, Beans’s windows, he turned slightly, just enough for me to see his eyes, which locked with mine for a split second before he moved on.

  “Daphne? What’s outside?”

  Moxie spun around in her seat, and, on instinct, I grabbed her hand again. “Nothing,” I assured her, settling into my chair once more and compelling her to face me. I wanted to mention the pug and the man, but for some reason, I simply smiled. “Nothing important.”

  Moxie rested back into her seat, too. “Oh. Well, I was just telling you that I do wish Detective Black had worn a suit last night. I always imagined him being impeccably tailored when he finally questioned me.” Hesitating, she licked one finger, growing thoughtful. Then she ventured uncertainly, “Daphne, has Detective Black said anything . . . ?”

  Moxie didn’t have a chance to finish that question, which reminded me of something she’d started to say the night before, in her apartment. While she was still choosing her words, someone interrupted us, asking in a timid voice, “Did . . . did one of you just say tailor?”

  * * *

  “Oh, your designs are just lovely,” Moxie said, brushing a finger lightly over the pages of the sketchbook that Ivy Dunleavy—who’d joined us at Moxie’s insistence—had reluctantly opened on the table. Moxie’s eyes gleamed, while fair-skinned Ivy blushed to the tips of her ears. “You are very talented, at least on paper.”

  “I’d like to think I’m as good with a needle and thread,” Ivy said, but humbly, her pale lashes lowered over her blue-gray eyes. “I’ve been sewing for a long time. And I attended the Fashion Institute of Technology.”

  “Wow.” Moxie nodded, clearly impressed, while I dared to glance at Ms. Bickelheim, who had spilled a container full of sugar across the counter.

  “Are you sewing something for Ms. Bickelheim?” I asked, continuing to observe the flustered barista in the sparkly shirt. Given that she was at least as klutzy as me, and more scattered, to put it kindly, I wasn’t sure how she managed to make such wonderful drinks. I was also eager to know if Ivy was responsible for any of her clothes. Not that Ms. Bickelheim wasn’t pretty. Back in the day, she’d been quite striking. But her wardrobe seemed to be growing increasingly flamboyant as her personality became more erratic. “I saw you talking with her,” I added, facing Ivy again. “Is she a . . . umm . . . client?”

  Ivy seemed to grasp what I was trying to ask. She laughed, a soft, pretty sound. “No, I am not responsible for that interesting caftan.” She hesitated. “Although, Ms. Bickelheim did hire me to make the costumes for the Sylvan Creek Players’ production of A Christmas Carol.”

  “Oh, how fun!” Moxie clasped her hands. Apparently, she wasn’t overly worried about being a suspect in CeeCee’s death. She beamed at me. “Daphne is a veteran of that production, herself!”

  Before meeting Moxie at Oh, Beans, I’d promised myself that I would politely but firmly say no if Ms. Bickelheim approached me about playing a ghost. And perhaps the role had finally been filled, because she’d made no attempt to offer me the part. I was pretty sure I was off the hook. Yet I suddenly grew edgy, just to be in the director’s presence. “We don’t really need to talk abou
t that. . . .”

  Moxie spoke right over me. “Have you heard about Daphne’s outstanding portrayal of the Ghost of Christmas Present, a few years back?” she asked Ivy, even as she continued to flip through the sketchbook. When she turned a page, I spied a very unusual drawing. I couldn’t imagine how a person would even wear the tartan-plaid garment, and I tilted my head, trying to imagine where I’d put my arms and legs. But before I could ask Ivy about the strange cross between a kilt and a cloak, Moxie flipped to another page, adding, “You must know the story about how the harness broke when Daphne was flying, right?” My best friend apparently still found the incident, which had terrified me, quite thrilling in a positive way. “No one had ever soared like that on a local stage!”

  Ivy grinned at me. “I’m sure that was quite a sight. And it’s a brand new tale, for me. Having just moved to town, I don’t know many local legends, or people, yet.”

  I took a moment to look closely at Ivy again, which caused her to blush once more. Then, just as I was about to ask where she was from, and if there was a chance we’d ever met, Moxie turned another page in the sketchbook and cried, “Oh, Daphne! You must wear this to the ball!”

  I wanted to see what Moxie was pointing to, but at that inopportune moment, Ms. Bickelheim fluttered over to us, her batwing sleeves flapping, and asked, in an excited voice, “Is Ivy showing you your costume, Daphne? Because I think it’s going to be just marvelous!”

  Chapter 12

  “I have no idea why Ms. Bickelheim believes I’ve not only agreed to play the Ghost of Christmas Future, but actually auditioned—in costume,” I told Artie, who was strapped into the front seat of my VW. Axis sat in the back, weaving sleepily after eating quite a few snacks at Flour Power, where I’d worked most of the day after leaving Oh, Beans. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw Axis’s sleek, brown head bob, then jerk. I didn’t know why he didn’t just lie down. Then I returned my attention to the road and the Chihuahua, who was drooling right where Socrates usually sat, when he didn’t inexplicably choose to stay home with a surly Persian cat and a snobby poodle. I’d stopped by Plum Cottage after leaving the bakery, to check on everyone, and he’d again refused to take a ride. “I never showed up at the high school auditorium wearing a black cloak and a skull mask,” I added, again addressing Artie. “I think I’d remember that!”