A Midwinter's Tail

by Bethany Blake

  “What about the photos Moxie took that night for her gingerbread village? They must be time-stamped on her phone, right? You should check those. They can prove where she was all evening.”

  “First of all, I’m insulted that you think I hadn’t already considered that,” Jonathan said dryly.

  I shrunk down in the booth, because it had taken me quite a while to make that connection.

  “And, not surprisingly,” Jonathan continued, “Moxie chose to capture Sylvan Creek’s holiday glory with a 1960s Polaroid Land Camera, the film for which is apparently still available from some online retailers. But there is, obviously, no time stamp.”

  “Oh, that’s not good.” My shoulders slumped even more, and I took a moment to think, wanting to choose my next words carefully. Jonathan gave me time, slicing into one of the hash browns while Bing Crosby crooned about silver bells and Christmastime in a city. Then I asked, “Has anyone else come to talk with you . . . ?”

  Meeting my gaze, he nodded. “Yes. And Cavanaugh told me he’d already spoken to you.” I couldn’t tell if Jonathan was irritated by that fact. His tone was neutral, as professional as his shirt and tie. We still sat in the cheerful, retro diner, but he was slipping into detective mode. “So, I assume you know about his visit to Spa and Paw?” Jonathan added. “Through the back door you also used.”

  How could my cheeks feel hot and my stomach ice over, all at the same time? “Mike did tell me about that.” I lowered my voice and leaned over my plate, which was nearly empty. “I don’t know if I should tell you this . . .”

  “Is it pertinent to the investigation?”

  My immediate thought was, yes. But I also knew that the information I had might make things worse for my best friend. And yet, having been through a few murder investigations—and believing that honesty would lead to the best outcome—I made up my mind to tell the truth.

  “Mike told me that he was happy to implicate himself, to take some of the focus off Moxie.”

  I’d been convinced I was doing the right thing, but I felt sick after those words came out of my mouth.

  Jonathan seemed to understand what I was feeling. He spoke gently, more like a friend again. “It’s okay, Daphne. I already suspected that, from speaking with Cavanaugh. Nothing you just said makes things worse—or, unfortunately, better—for Moxie. And just because he’s trying to muddy the waters on behalf of a former girlfriend doesn’t mean he didn’t commit the crime, himself. He hated Celeste French, and he’s carrying a lot of guilt around. For all I know, some of that’s related to a homicide.”

  “Did he confide in you, regarding any of that guilt?” I inquired, a bit too casually. “Maybe related to the old high school dance I told you about?”

  Jonathan didn’t answer directly. “We mainly spoke soldier to soldier,” he said. “There was plenty of ground to cover there. As is probably the case for anyone who’s seen combat.”

  “Sounds like it was a half questioning, half counseling session.”

  Jonathan shook some pepper onto his eggs. “He needed someone to listen.”

  I wanted to ask him what, exactly, they’d discussed, and whether he’d shared anything with Mike. But he wouldn’t tell me more. I could tell by the way Jonathan had shrugged off his last comment and averted his gaze. Instead, I turned the conversation to another topic that was beginning to worry me: myself. “Given that I was holding the murder weapon, how bad are things for me?” I asked. “Am I a suspect?”

  “Cavanaugh did help you by corroborating—to the extent that he could—your story about the dog, which he confirms has a Houdini-like ability to get loose and cause mischief. But, honestly, your lack of real motive—and your strong alibi for the night of French’s death, as confirmed by Piper, your mother, Roger Berendt, and me—are the only things keeping you on the sidelines.” He shot me a warning look. “For now.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that, although I appreciated that he was vouching for me, probably with more conviction than my mother had done.

  I was about to thank him when all at once my cell phone pinged in my coat pocket. Given that I had quite a few things going on, I excused myself with a raised finger, twisted around, and reached to dig it out. Checking the screen, I saw a message from Ivy Dunleavy, who must’ve been working around the clock, because she’d typed, Dress is ready for fitting!

  She’d also attached an image of the gown I’d commissioned, draped on a dressmaker’s dummy.

  My free hand flew to my mouth, and I gasped, “Oh, goodness!”

  “Is everything okay?”

  I looked up to see Jonathan watching me with concern.

  I quickly tapped the screen and tucked the phone away, hiding the picture. “Yes. Sorry. Everything’s fine. And thanks for verifying my whereabouts.”

  Jonathan didn’t acknowledge the comment. He shook his head, and—even as he set one of the hash browns, which I’d been eyeing, onto my plate—complained, “I don’t know why no one around here locks their doors. It would save so much trouble.”

  All at once, I flashed back to the night of CeeCee’s murder, when Axis, Artie, Socrates, and I had walked to Moxie’s apartment. As we’d passed Spa and Paw, Socrates had barked, the rare sound meant to alert me to the fact that the salon’s door had been open a crack.

  My arm shot across the table, and I grabbed Jonathan’s wrist, causing him to drop his fork. “Sorry,” I said, quickly withdrawing my hand. “I just remembered something, and I got excited.”

  Jonathan didn’t pick up the utensil. He watched me closely. “What is it?”

  “Spa and Paw’s front door was open the night of CeeCee’s murder. Socrates noticed when we were walking to Moxie’s. I pulled the door shut.”

  Jonathan took a long moment to digest that information. I could tell that he was at once intrigued, but also exasperated by the fact that I’d forgotten that detail—and inadvertently handled a potential clue, if by accident.

  When his silence continued, I said, “There’s no way you could’ve lifted prints off a doorknob that hundreds of people have used over the course of years, right?” He did not confirm nor deny that, so I added, “And everybody forgets to lock up in Sylvan Creek. It didn’t really seem odd for me to shut the door. Not a detail worth noting.”

  I could tell that Jonathan wanted to mention the merits of police academy training, but he simply picked up his last piece of toast, dipped it into the remaining egg, and said, “Thank you, Daphne. Better late than never, I suppose. Although, really, you’ve just reinforced my comment about the importance of locking doors.”

  “This is a small and usually safe town,” I reminded him. “Even Piper, who is at least as responsible as you are, leaves the keys in the truck I drove today.”

  “Speaking of which . . .” He was looking out the window, where a tow truck was unloading the red pickup next to Jonathan’s shiny black one. The wreath looked a little worse for the wear. “You should go settle up with the towing service,” he suggested. “I’ll pay for breakfast.” He checked his wristwatch and arched his eyebrows, as if the time surprised him. “Then I need to get going.”

  I’d wanted to tell Jonathan about the key in my pocket, and the yearbook Jeff had left with me, but that discussion would have to wait for some other time, because I was running late, too. Still, I hesitated, not wanting to be in his debt again. “I’d really like to treat this time.”

  Jonathan reached for his wallet. “Maybe next time. You probably have a bigger bill to pay outside.”

  That was likely true, because I didn’t have AAA coverage, which I planned to finally sign up for, after the day’s close call.

  “Okay, thank you,” I said, slipping out of the booth, pulling on my coat and hurrying outside, where I paid a gruff, older man thirty-five dollars for the actual tow, plus twenty more for a “hook up” fee.

  As the driver pulled away, his truck sounding worse than my van, Jonathan joined me by our waiting vehicles.

  I turned to
look up at him. “Thanks again for helping me, back in the ditch, and for breakfast,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself to ward off the chill. “Is there anything I can do to repay you? Like watch the dogs again?” I grinned. “Or dress up Artie for Bark the Halls? Because you are taking him, right?”

  Jonathan wore a gorgeous wool overcoat, unbuttoned in spite of the low temperature, and he slipped his hands into the pockets. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about the ball,” he said, studying my eyes. For once, I didn’t feel like he was boring into my soul, trying to determine if I was guilty of something. He wanted to gauge my reaction when he asked, “Are you going with Graham, as I assume? Or is there a chance you’re free?”

  My heart started racing and sinking at the same time, which was a wonderful, yet unpleasant feeling. I couldn’t believe I was probably about to turn down a date with Jonathan Black for Sylvan Creek’s biggest event of the year. A party to which he would almost certainly wear a tux. Then, realizing that he hadn’t asked me yet, and might just want me to take his dogs, for crying out loud, I ventured, uncertainly, “Umm . . . Why do you ask?”

  A big grin spread across his face, making him almost impossibly handsome. Moxie would’ve passed out, if she’d been there.

  “I wanted to ask you to be my date, Daphne,” he explained. “Sorry that I wasn’t clear.”

  My heart thudded to my cowgirl boots. “I’m sorry, too,” I said, hearing the profound disappointment in my voice. And it wasn’t just because I had to reject an offer from someone I cared about. I realized that I really would’ve loved to have attended the dance with Jonathan. I would need to figure out what that meant for me and Gabriel. “I wish I could say yes,” I added. “But I can’t.”

  “I assumed as much, but I had to try.” Jonathan was a confident man, and he didn’t seem embarrassed in the least to have been turned down. But he did stop smiling. “You and Graham . . . Is it so serious that I can’t ask you for one dance, at least? Or would that be overstepping a boundary?”

  Smiling, I tucked some curls behind my ear, because my hair was starting to whip around in the wintry breeze. “I think a dance will be okay,” I assured him, feeling lighter. “I think that would be fine.”

  He grinned again. “Good. I’ll see you there.”

  “Do you want me to dress up Artie and Axis, beforehand?” I offered. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Believe it or not”—Jonathan sounded like he couldn’t believe himself—“I got them both bow ties, at Fetch!” As if reading my mind, because I was concerned that he’d bought flashy Artie basic black, he added, “Artie’s is paisley. With a matching vest and cummerbund. And I’d rather not discuss any of that further. Or ever again.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, as Jonathan reached outward, opening the door of my borrowed truck for me. Stepping on the old-fashioned runner board, I climbed behind the wheel. “I won’t say a thing, except that I think you made a great choice.”

  Jonathan moved to close the door and end the conversation, but he stopped at the last moment. “Daphne,” he said. “Moxie will be fine. I’m doing my best to watch out for her, to the extent that I can. Just try to trust me, okay?”

  Then he slammed the door before I could respond, and I turned the key that would probably always be in the ignition, because we lived in Sylvan Creek, where the only crime seemed to be murder.

  And maybe the occasional well-intentioned, impromptu break-in. Because, while I did trust Jonathan Black, if push came to shove, he would have to arrest my best friend, while I had no obligations, beyond doing everything I could to keep her out of jail.

  Chapter 24

  “The truck is fine,” I assured Piper, who was fretting on speakerphone, while I was scurrying around Flour Power, trying to pack up twelve-dozen pet treats shaped like Christmas trees, tiny wrapped gifts, and snowmen. I’d painted the cookies with a dog-friendly “icing,” made with a Greek yogurt base and tinted with natural colorings, so they looked quite festive. Carefully placing a half dozen into a bakery box stamped with Flour Power’s peace sign-and-paw logo, I closed the carton’s lid. Then I glanced at the cat-shaped clock, which told me I needed to transport the treats to the Sylvan Creek Hotel soon, while volunteers would still be decorating the ballroom for Bark the Halls. “I’m running a little behind, though, due to the slight accident—and a subsequent hour-long breakfast with Jonathan Black,” I added. “Would you please let Socrates and Snowdrop out for a romp at some point? I don’t think I’ll be able to stop home before rehearsal.”

  There was a long silence, during which I feared Piper was going to refuse my request. Then she said, “I don’t mind walking the dogs, assuming Snowdrop will get her paws wet. But are you sure you should play a ghost again?”

  “No, I am not sure of that,” I said, sealing the box with peace-sign washi tape. “But Ms. Bickelheim is counting on me. And maybe has been, for weeks. I have no idea how long ago my imagined audition even took place!”

  “And I have no idea what you are talking about,” Piper said. Her voice became muffled, and I assumed she was talking to someone else when she added, “No, it sounds crazy to me, too.”

  “Who’s there?” I asked, adding cookies to another container. I hoped I’d baked enough. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Roger,” Piper explained. “And he also thinks you’re making a mistake, performing in a play directed by someone whose behavior seems increasingly erratic.”

  “Oh, hey, Roger,” I said, greeting Piper’s boyfriend. I could picture them snuggled up on the couch at the farmhouse, sipping wine and admiring my sister’s eight-foot-tall tree, which she always decorated with rustic ornaments and popcorn garlands. “Sorry I bothered you two,” I told them. “And thanks for the advice, which I’m afraid I can’t take at this late date.”

  Then I tapped the screen, prepared to end the call. But first, I sneaked a quick peek at the picture of my commissioned ball gown, which was currently undergoing minor nips and tucks, after a quick fitting at Ivy Dunleavy’s shop that morning.

  “Daphne, are you there?” Piper asked, interrupting my thoughts, which were filled with philosophers’ quotes about the dangers of being seduced by material goods—sage advice that I seemed incapable of heeding, right then. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m hanging up so you and Roger can enjoy your day,” I said, putting the last few cookies into the final box. “Thanks again for taking care of the dogs, and please don’t worry about the truck. The wreath is a little smooshed, but everything else is fine.”

  “Daphne . . .”

  I again tapped the screen, this time really ending the call, before Piper could tell me that she was coming to town to check on her spare vehicle, and maybe her sister, too, although, I swore she’d been more concerned about the truck than me.

  Tucking the phone into my pocket, I scooped up the tower of boxes, stumbled my way out the door, and maneuvered awkwardly down the street, my vision largely obscured. Fortunately, I was able to look downward, so I could keep an eye out for Tiny Tim. I was more than a little concerned that he would dart out of nowhere and knock me down again, costing me an entire day’s work.

  Thankfully, the pug never showed up, and I reached the hotel without incident. Fumbling blindly with one cold hand, I managed to open that door, too.

  However, just when I thought my delivery had been a success, I nearly dropped everything when someone grabbed two boxes from the pile and exclaimed, in a booming, bass voice, “Ho, ho, hold on there, young lady! This looks like a disaster waiting to happen!”

  Chapter 25

  “Thanks for the help,” I said, following hotel owner and Sylvan Creek chamber of commerce president Norm Alcorn through his inn’s historic lobby, which was decorated in classic Victorian fashion, with burgundy ribbons, spicy-sweet-smelling orange pomanders, and flickering candles on the elaborately carved fireplace mantel. A fire popped and crackled in the hearth, which was surrounded by velvet chairs, where guests could relax and
drink complimentary glögg, a warm, Swedish spiced wine, after shopping and exploring the town. Norm, who was going above and beyond as Sylvan Creek’s holiday cheerleader, wore a full Santa suit, which he couldn’t quite fill out, even with the help of the pillow that was obviously stuffed into the jacket. I nevertheless gave him an A for effort. “I love the suit!”

  “I feel like we have to go all out this year to promote Sylvan Creek as a safe, happy destination,” Norm said, stopping at the front desk, which was currently unmanned. He set his share of the boxes onto the gleaming, mahogany counter, so I did the same, pushing aside an old-fashioned, pearl-handled letter opener and a stack of mail. I didn’t understand why we were pausing there, when the ballroom was right ahead of us, behind two tall, arched wooden doors. “As you, of all people, should know, we’re in danger of being best known for murder,” Norm added. He no longer seemed holly jolly, like when he’d greeted me with a belly laugh, and he twisted his hands. “And between CeeCee French’s death, and the continued threat of a Poodles & More franchise here—which would be disastrous—it’s not the happiest of holidays for pet-friendly merchants like yourself.”

  “I’ll be okay,” I assured him. “I think the whole town will be fine.”

  Norm didn’t seem convinced. He raised one hand to fiddle with his omnipresent bow tie, only to realize that, for once, he wasn’t wearing one. Instead, he smoothed the strip of white fur that ran down his red, fuzzy jacket. “I hope you’re right.”

  “As the Dalai Lama once said, ‘There is no benefit in worrying whatsoever.’ I trust that things will work out.” I moved to pick up my boxes. “In the meantime, if there’s anything I can do . . .”

  Norm rested one hand on my arm, stopping me. The overly familiar gesture came as a surprise, and I inadvertently withdrew a step.

  “Sorry!” Norm said, quickly pulling back his hand. His pale blue eyes darted around, as if he was checking to make sure we wouldn’t be overheard, then he lowered his voice. “There is something.... If you have any influence over Gabriel Graham, and could encourage him to tone down his coverage of, how shall we say . . . less savory events, that would be much appreciated.” Norm smiled nervously. “You know, convince him to restore the Gazette to its kinder, gentler days, when every tiny flaw in the community wasn’t exposed.”