“But not to the top,” I noted. Outside, one of the horses whinnied. The happy sound contrasted sharply with a dark thought that had just crossed my mind. “Maybe CeeCee hired him because she liked keeping Jeff under her thumb. Maybe it amused her, on some level, to dangle promotions in front of her old rival, keeping him with the company, but knowing that he’d never be in her top spot, as founder of the French’s empire.”
“That would be diabolical,” Jonathan observed, picking up his wineglass and swirling the liquid as he considered my theory. “And slightly farfetched.”
“Maybe so,” I agreed. “But I will say that she seemed happy to wield power over her ‘assistant.’”
Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “Yes, and Updegrove was quick to admit that there was no love lost between him and his boss.”
I shifted on my seat, growing intrigued. “How about an alibi?”
“He claimed he was alone in the Sylvan Creek Hotel, watching Snowdrop, at the time of the murder,” Jonathan said. “Not exactly an airtight story. Especially since he says he had no idea where Celeste was going when she asked him to keep the dog for a few hours.”
“Where do you think she was going?”
“I haven’t pieced that together yet,” Jonathan admitted. “And without a real timeline, or a weapon, I didn’t have enough evidence to force Updegrove to stick around. I had no choice but to let him leave town. However, his parents still live in Sylvan Creek, and I have an address for him in California. Hopefully, I can find him if necessary.”
“If he doesn’t fly off to some foreign country.”
“Believe me, I’ve thought of that,” Jonathan agreed. “But for now, he’s assured me that his next trip will be back to Sylvan Creek for holiday celebrations with his family and French’s memorial service.”
Jonathan didn’t sound convinced that Jeff would return, and I again wondered how long I’d be watching Snowdrop. I hoped the answer lay in the envelope that was waiting at Plum Cottage, where I needed to return—after trying one more time to get some assurance, regarding Moxie.
“Jonathan?” I ventured. “When you said you tried to help Moxie . . .”
He frowned. “Please, don’t ever mention that outside of this house. Doebler already thinks I’ve lost my edge.”
“My lips are sealed,” I promised, although I couldn’t imagine Jonathan’s partner ever losing respect for his younger, but more assertive, colleague. “But, just between us, about Moxie . . .”
Jonathan lowered his head for a moment and rubbed his eyes, as if he was getting tired. Then he met my gaze again and said, “I know she has motive, and her alibi is . . . nothing. But I can’t help but find it difficult to believe that Moxie Bloom could kill anyone.”
“Yet, you thought Piper—”
He raised one hand, silencing me. “I was new to Sylvan Creek then. And I’m not telling you that I’m dismissing Moxie as a suspect. But, to some degree, I trust my gut when it comes to killers.” He dragged one hand through his hair, a gesture that made me think he was a little frustrated with himself for not being completely objective. Or maybe he was just thinking about Moxie’s haircuts and shaves, because he added, “And the woman who cried once when she nicked me with a razor . . . the one who loves a rat . . . It’s honestly almost impossible for me to believe she committed homicide.”
I felt another rush of relief, until he concluded, grimly, “Although, I won’t rule out that possibility if the evidence leads that way.”
I knew that he was just being honest, and, with one last, wistful glance at the cheese, I hopped off the stool. “Thanks for at least admitting that it’s hard to imagine Moxie as a killer. That’s reassuring.”
Jonathan followed me to the door. The dogs were so tired they didn’t even rouse when the wide-plank floors creaked under our feet. We paused in the foyer, and I reached for my coat, which he’d tossed onto a bench. “Remember,” Jonathan said, “nothing we discussed this evening—neither the sleigh nor the case—should be mentioned once you leave here.”
Folding the coat over my arm, I looked out the window and saw that snow was falling softly on the pasture and the horses were gone, likely seeking shelter in the barn. Then I met Jonathan’s eyes again, and I saw that he appeared concerned.
“I never asked if you were okay, after finding CeeCee,” he said quietly. “All joking aside, I know that discovering bodies isn’t something you ever really get used to.” A dark shadow formed in his eyes. “Especially when the deceased is someone you know and have a history with.” I was sure a part of him was back on a battlefield. “I wanted to check in with you,” he continued, “but I went straight to work, and then had to deal with Moxie.”
“I’m fine,” I assured him, although I had been unnerved by the sight of CeeCee’s corpse. I shook off the memory of her red shoe, and the red blood, in the snow. Then I recalled a little red sweater I’d spied, too. “Whatever happened to the dog at the scene?” I asked. “Did you try to catch him? Or did he run away?”
Jonathan gave me a sharp look. “If you saw Snowdrop—who is female, right?—that would poke a big hole in Updegrove’s story.”
“No, not the poodle,” I said. “The pug. In the ‘bah, hum-pug’ sweater.”
He clearly wasn’t following. “Pug?”
I nodded. “Yes, the small, tan-and-black dog with the mischievous eyes.” He continued to look askance at me, so I gave up. “Never mind. I seem to be the only one who can see him!”
I thought Jonathan was going to rest the back of his hand against my forehead, checking me for a fever. He actually raised his hand—then dropped it to his side. He didn’t seem to know what to say, and we stood in silence for a moment, the only sound in the house the crackling fire, while I again flashed back to the previous night, when we’d stood before the town Christmas tree. Only this time, I wasn’t thinking about murder. I was recalling the mixture of warmth and anticipation and nervousness I’d felt when we’d been close to each other in the frosty park.
He’d wanted to ask me a question then. One that was still on his mind. I could tell by the way he was looking at me that he had something to say.
“Jonathan? You wanted to ask me something, on our walk,” I prompted softly, studying his expression. “What was it?”
He opened his mouth to reply—just as both our phones started making noise.
“Sorry,” he apologized, pulling his cell from the back pocket of his worn jeans. He checked the screen. “I have to take this. It’s Vonda Shakes.”
“Sure. Of course.” While he turned away, speaking quietly with the local coroner, I retrieved my phone, which was stashed in my pocket, and read a text from Gabriel.
Meet me at town tree, half hour.
As always, fate had intervened to put a stop to whatever had been about to transpire between Jonathan Black and me. As I tucked my phone away, I wondered if the universe knew best. And when Jonathan tapped his screen, ending his call, I knew that we weren’t going to resume our discussion. Clearly, something had gone wrong.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, worried about his very grim expression. “What happened?”
He stared out the window for a moment, as if he couldn’t decide whether he should confide in me. Then he faced me again and said, “Vonda believes that her team has matched the wounds that Celeste French suffered with a type of tool, if not the exact weapon used in the crime.”
I swallowed thickly, not liking the grave tone of his voice. “And that weapon would be . . .”
“Scissors,” he said. “Perhaps the kind a beautician—or dog groomer—might use.”
Chapter 15
“Sorry I’ve been out of touch,” I told Gabriel, who was pacing just beyond a line of yellow crime scene tape that ringed the Christmas tree in Pettigrew Park. The snow around the tree was trampled down and muddy. And, down the street, a dark sedan and Jonathan’s truck were parked across from Moxie’s apartment, near the Pinkney’s Pines hut
, where Brett Pinkney was unloading a truck full of trees to sell the next day. A fourth deceptively nondescript vehicle sat in front of Spa and Paw.
I assumed that Moxie was being taken in for questioning again, and her business, at least, scoured for a possible weapon. Moments after getting the call from Vonda Shakes, Jonathan had walked me to my van, his hand lightly, perhaps apologetically, on my back while he made phone calls, telling someone he needed a warrant, right away, to search Moxie’s salon and apartment. Then, after taking a momentary break to let me know that he’d follow me, to make sure my old VW didn’t break down halfway to Sylvan Creek, he’d called Detective Doebler, too.
They’d still been talking when he’d climbed into his truck, headed to Moxie’s to meet his partner.
I stared down Market Street, hoping Moxie’s prized tools wouldn’t have to be confiscated, and wondering when the detectives and my best friend would emerge into the frosty, moonlit night.
I was also trying to figure out why Jonathan had told me about the coroner’s findings, and I thought I knew the reason.
He wants me to protect Moxie. He’d never admit that, or urge me to investigate, but it’s true....
“You’re right here, but still ‘out of touch,’” Gabriel said, lightly tapping my shoulder to get my attention. I turned to see that he was grinning at me, the corners of his dark eyes crinkled with amusement. Then he looked past me and frowned. “What’s going on over by the Philosopher’s Tome and Spa and Paw that’s got you so distracted?”
I hated lying, but I didn’t want news of Moxie’s second interrogation winding up in the Gazette, so I crossed my fingers inside my big, knitted mittens and said, “Nothing important, really.”
That was hopefully kind of true. The actual questioning would almost certainly take place at the police station, and there was no way the murder weapon was at Moxie’s home or business.
“So, why are we at Pettigrew Park after dark?” I asked Gabriel, stepping around him, so he’d follow me and stop watching Moxie’s home. I knew he’d dart off if Jonathan, Detective Doebler, and Moxie emerged while he was still looking in that direction. “Why did you ask me to meet you here?”
“I know that you’re going to investigate CeeCee French’s murder, if you haven’t already started on behalf of your best friend,” he told me, jerking his head in the direction of the Philosopher’s Tome, where colored lights glowed in the third-floor windows. I suspected that Moxie had been working on her gingerbread re-creation of Sylvan Creek when Jonathan and Detective Doebler had arrived. I’d tried to text her, to warn her that they were coming—Jonathan hadn’t made me promise to do otherwise—but she hadn’t answered. I knew my best friend well, and I was almost certain that she’d been too busy piping white icing and propping up cookie walls to bother with her phone. “There’s no way you’re going to let Black railroad Moxie Bloom,” Gabriel noted, surprising me by adding, “especially since she’s being taken in for a second round of questioning.”
I felt my cheeks get warm, in spite of the fact that the temperature seemed to be dropping. Our breath came out in puffs. “How did you know?”
Gabriel, who’d no doubt faced a lot of competition for scoops, back when he’d been a top crime reporter in Philadelphia, didn’t seem to mind that I’d misdirected him. He continued to smile. “Let’s just say I have sources.”
“Who . . . ?”
He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he told me, “Plus, I saw Black and Doebler go into Moxie’s building, right around the time you arrived. I don’t think they’re buying old books after hours, or making a social call on a murder suspect. And I spied two uniformed cops, who pulled up in a plain car and entered Spa and Paw—where I’ll be headed next. Although, I’m not in a huge hurry to get stonewalled by any of the local law enforcement professionals.”
My heart sank. “You’re not going to print . . .”
Gabriel raised both of his hands, one of which held his trusty Nikon. “I make no promises. Especially since some huge news outlets are about to swoop down on this town at any moment. While I can’t imagine Moxie Bloom hurting a flea, and think everyone down the street is barking up the wrong tree—forgive the two pet-related clichés—this story is pretty big, Daphne. Most people didn’t know CeeCee
French from Adam, but she was rich. And rich counts with the media.”
“I know,” I agreed, my shoulders slumping with resignation. The rational part of my brain understood that Gabriel was a journalist and had to report every development in such an important story—just like Jonathan had to follow every lead, even though he didn’t believe Moxie was a killer, either. Still, it was sometimes difficult to separate the men I knew personally from the jobs they had to do. “I’m glad I’m a pet sitter,” I muttered. “There are fewer conflicts of interest.”
“You’re also an amateur detective, who was practically at the scene of the crime,” Gabriel pointed out. He cocked his head. “What did you see? And what have you dug up so far?”
“All I saw were CeeCee’s shoes—and a naughty little pug, who seems to show up everywhere, although only I ever see him.”
“You . . . You’re seeing another ghost dog?” Gabriel asked, referencing a spectral Saint Bernard who was said to haunt the woods around Lake Wallapawakee. For a moment, I thought Gabriel might reach out to rest the back of his hand against my forehead, checking if I had a fever. But, like Jonathan, he refrained. “How many canine phantoms can one town handle?”
“The bah, hum-pug is a real dog,” I insisted, immediately wishing I hadn’t used the pun from the pup’s sweater. The reference only seemed to baffle Gabriel more. “And he’s more like a canine elf on the shelf—showing up and doing mischief—than a haunting poltergeist.”
“‘Elf on the shelf’?”
I’d completely lost him, and I gave up. “The point is, I didn’t see much of anything, the night of CeeCee’s murder. And I haven’t done any investigating. Yet.” As the icy breeze off the creek riffled Gabriel’s dark, longish hair, I watched him for some sign of secrecy, or smug superiority. “How about you?”
“I’ve just started digging around, quite literally.” Before I could ask what he meant, he gestured around the park. “I’ve been searching high and low for the murder weapon, which gut instinct tells me was ditched here.”
I tilted my head and felt the puffball on the top of my knit cap jiggle. “Why do you think that?”
“This is a dark but public place to commit homicide,” he pointed out. “I think there’s a good chance someone would toss the weapon and run.” He nodded toward the creek, which ran like a black slash through the park. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the knife is in the water.”
“Knife?” I realized that I probably had a bit more information than he did. “How do you know that’s what you’re looking for?”
“Well, the weapon was something with a blade,” he said. “I understand that French was stabbed.” He hesitated, then asked, almost too casually. “You saw blood on the snow, right?”
“I don’t want to be interviewed,” I told him, folding my arms around myself.
Gabriel narrowed his eyes at me. “Do you know something you’re holding back, since you’re pretty tight with Black? What are the cops searching for at Moxie’s salon?”
As he asked that, he glanced past me, and I turned to catch a glimpse of Jonathan entering Spa and Paw, while Detective Doebler’s sedan rumbled to life. I wondered if Moxie was inside the car, because the windows of her apartment were now dark. Brett Pinkney was gone, too, and the trees he’d dropped off were still baled, as if he’d been in a hurry.
Meeting Gabriel’s gaze again, I decided I wouldn’t lie a second time. But I wouldn’t tell him everything I knew, either. “I do know a little bit about what’s happening tonight. But you’ll have to ask your other ‘sources’ for details. I don’t think I’m supposed to divulge anything.”
Gabriel might’ve left Philadelphia because he was tired of constan
tly covering homicides. But a part of him still enjoyed the challenge of solving crimes. However, the spark of friendly competition I’d seen in his eyes suddenly flickered out. “All joking about you and Black aside,” he said, “what’s going on there?”
I couldn’t help looking down the street one more time. Jonathan’s truck was still there, along with the unmarked car. Either he was supervising the uniformed officers in the salon, or he’d ridden with Detective Doebler, and probably Moxie, to the police station. Detective Doebler’s sedan was gone. Then I turned back to Gabriel, who’d slung his camera around his neck and buried his hands in the pockets of his rust-colored down vest.
“There’s nothing ‘going on’ with me and Jonathan,” I said, not quite sure if that was true. At least, I thought something might’ve happened . . . something small, like an invitation to lunch or a movie . . . if our phones—and destiny—hadn’t seemed determined, as always, to keep us apart. Then again, I still had no idea what, if anything, was transpiring between Jonathan and his ex-wife, nor why his year had been “challenging,” and I shrugged. “There’s really nothing but a fits-and-starts friendship between me and Jonathan. Not that it’s really any of your business. You and I aren’t exactly a couple, either!”
I kept that reminder light, and I was glad Gabriel laughed. “You’re right. My questions were nosy and out of line.”
“So, do you want to keep searching for the weapon?” I suggested, because that activity intrigued me. In fact, finding the scissors used in the murder might help me clear Moxie’s name. I knew that she was very particular about the tools of her trade. Then I thought about Snowdrop, Tinkleston, and Socrates, all waiting at Plum Cottage, and added, “Although, I can only stay for a few minutes.”
Gabriel didn’t jump to accept my offer to help with his search. Nor did he ask why I needed to rush off. Instead, by the light of the same, now somewhat disheveled, Christmas tree where I’d recently stood with Jonathan, he posed a different question. One that caught me off guard more than it should have.
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