A Midwinter's Tail

by Bethany Blake

  I didn’t always agree with Gabriel’s journalistic methods, but I didn’t think people should be kept in the dark, either. Moreover, some of the things Gabriel covered weren’t exactly “tiny.” Last, but not least, there was no way anyone—let alone me—would ever convince Gabriel to make the Gazette “kinder and gentler.”

  “I’m sorry, Norm,” I said. “But I don’t have any influence over Gabriel, and I really think the paper, while not perfect, is better since he took over.”

  “Oh, you can’t think that, Daphne,” Norm countered, rolling his eyes. “Surely, things were better when certain stories were swept under the carpet. Not every little secret needs to be exposed!”

  “Of course not,” I said. “But big stories need to be told. And, like I said, Gabriel is very independent—”

  “But you two date.”

  “You’re getting very personal,” I said, taking another step backward. I felt like I was under attack. “Who I date, or don’t date, is really none of your business, no offense. And, I’m telling you again, I couldn’t—and wouldn’t—try to tell Gabriel how to run his newspaper.”

  All at once, Norm’s eyes grew flinty, his expression a strange contrast to the benevolent character he was playing. “I’m sorry to hear that, Daphne,” he said. His voice had hardened, too. “Most local merchants agree that Graham’s coverage of certain events—including stories on local murders that have been picked up nationally—has become detrimental to our community’s image.”

  “The national media are already here about CeeCee,” I reminded him. I’d seen a CNN truck parked near the Bijoux. “You can’t avoid that type of coverage.”

  “CNN will be here and gone in a day,” Norm said. “Graham keeps the stories going, digging up embarrassing details about decent citizens. Sometimes with your help, we all fear!”

  “Who is ‘we’ . . . ?”

  Norm didn’t let me ask who else believed Gabriel’s decision to actually print news in the Gazette—with or without my “help”—had harmed Sylvan Creek’s reputation. He spoke right over me.

  “It’s nice when local merchants work together in unison,” he said. “Supporting one another. Such gestures are reciprocated, which can be crucial in today’s difficult business climate.”

  “I’m always supportive,” I said, taken aback by his tone. I gestured to the boxes full of dog treats, which I’d donated for the ball. “I do my part.”

  Norm smiled, but there was no warmth behind it. “Of course, of course, Daphne. I hope you’ll continue to prove that we can count on you.”

  I was standing in a lovely hotel lobby, talking with a man dressed like Santa Claus, but I felt increasingly uneasy. Almost like I was being threatened, in some vague way that I didn’t understand.

  Was I being warned that the chamber, which was influential in Sylvan Creek, would work against me if I didn’t follow the majority on every issue?

  It seemed that way, and I suddenly recalled my mother talking about a clothing boutique owner who’d run afoul of the chamber. The woman had been quietly left out of networking and promotional events targeting locals and tourists—her store basically made invisible—and the shop had shut down so quickly I couldn’t even recall its name.

  “It’s very difficult to go it alone in Sylvan Creek,” Mom had said, basically forcing me to join the chamber when I’d launched Lucky Paws, which had benefited from the organization’s support.

  Still, I set my jaw, refusing to be bullied.

  Norm stared back at me, so suddenly we were in a standoff.

  “I’ll help you take the treats into the ballroom,” I finally said, breaking the tense silence. “I need to get back to Flour Power.”

  I started to reach for some of the boxes again, only to feel Norm’s hand on my wrist, gripping me more firmly. Once more, I pulled back, and he again released me, with another smile and another apology.

  “Sorry, Daphne,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to the closed doors behind him. “No one outside the decorating committee is allowed into the ballroom at this point. Elyse Hunter-Black, who has kindly agreed to lend her talents to our humble event, wants to have a big reveal this year.”

  “No problem,” I said, as Norm gathered up all the boxes.

  “Thank you for agreeing to walk Dunston later this week,” he added, sounding more normal again. I almost wondered if I’d misconstrued his tone, moments before. But I didn’t think I had. And I’d nearly forgotten that I was caring for his big Newfoundland soon. “I’ll be very busy in the next few days, with both holiday bookings and the ball,” Norm noted, backing away from me. The twinkle in his eyes made me doubt myself again. “And you’ve been so good with Dunston as he’s recovered from his illness.”

  “He’s a great dog,” I said absently. I wasn’t really thinking about the once ailing pup. As Norm used his foot to open one of the doors, I finally asked a question that had been bothering me since before CeeCee French’s murder. “How long ago did you know about the franchise, Norm? When did you first hear about it?”

  I knew that Norm heard my question, but he didn’t respond. He slipped into the ballroom, managing to carry all the treats without giving me more than a glimpse of Elyse’s handiwork.

  Once again, I wasn’t sure I trusted my senses, because what I’d seen was very different from the usual Bark the Halls décor.

  I shook my head, trying to sort out my thoughts, then turned to leave the hotel—only to spy something behind the desk.

  A wall of old-fashioned, brass keys, probably dating to the inn’s establishment more than a century ago.

  And each of those keys—presumably to the rooms on the floors above—hung from a velvet ribbon in the hotel’s signature burgundy hue.

  Chapter 26

  Climbing the carpeted stairs to the inn’s third floor, I fidgeted with the key in my pocket, wondering why Jeff Updegrove had left it with me. Technically, hotel guests were supposed to leave their keys at the desk when they went out. Hence the wall that was full of shiny brass at that time of day, because Sylvan Creek’s many tourists were either skiing at nearby Pocono resorts, visiting the locally famous toboggan run that plunged from Bear Tooth forest and spun out over the ice on Lake Wallapawakee, or shopping downtown for gifts for their pets and people.

  I needed to return to my business, but I couldn’t resist at least opening the door to whatever room the key unlocked—and I assumed it would be Jeff’s—because he had to have left me the curious object for a reason.

  Padding quietly down the silent hallway, which was dimly lit by gleaming brass wall sconces, each festooned with a ribbon and a sprig of mistletoe, I found room 37 and inserted the key into the lock.

  At the last moment, I slipped my sleeve over my hand before touching the doorknob, although I doubted the maids who were probably cleaning the room every day were worried about leaving prints. And the knob, like the one at Spa and Paw, was likely handled by multiple guests between cleanings.

  Still, just to be on the safe side, I made sure my fingers were covered. Twisting the knob, which was difficult, I finally managed to open the door. Then I crossed the threshold, only to discover that I wasn’t exactly where I’d expected to be.

  And the room, curtained off, dim, and cluttered, was filled with surprises, too.

  Some of which I really wanted to take home.

  I was debating whether I’d get in trouble for borrowing a few items, since Jeff had almost certainly left me the key so I could do just that, when my cell phone pinged with four messages.

  The first was from Bitsy Bickelheim—which was a surprise, since I didn’t have her in my contacts.

  Rehearsal canceled tonight! Extra shift at Oh, Beans.

  So many peppermint mochas!! Meet tomorrow

  7 p.m. at high school.

  I hadn’t been overly eager to spend my evening with the Sylvan Creek Players, but I was a little concerned about the fact that I’d only have one chance to practice pointi
ng at Scrooge’s grave. However, there was nothing I could do about the local run on seasonal coffee drinks, so I checked the next two texts, which were from Ivy Dunleavy, who had sent photos.

  One image featured my completed gown, on a dressmaker’s dummy, with the exclamation, Tada!

  The second picture showed my Ghost of Christmas Future costume, above the word, Yikes.

  “Yikes, indeed,” I muttered, clicking onto the final message, which was from Moxie and consisted of a string of emojis that I immediately translated, although I kind of wished I hadn’t:

  Chapter 27

  “Moxie, you know I won’t stay upright for two minutes,” I pointed out, nevertheless lacing up a pair of mismatched ice skates I’d rented for fifty cents from a hut on the banks of Pinchwater Pond, a pretty little body of water in the woods near Sylvan Creek.

  The town didn’t have an official skating rink, but every winter, local residents pitched in to ring the pond with Edison lights, fill the lean-to shed with hand-me-down skates, and stoke a bonfire that would blaze each night for as long as the water was frozen solid enough to support a lighted pine tree, always placed in the middle of the ice. Most evenings, volunteers from scout troops sold hot cocoa, as well as hotdogs and marshmallows, which skaters roasted on whittled-down sticks, gathered from the surrounding woods. And, of course, it being Sylvan Creek, everyone brought their pets.

  Socrates and I often visited the pond during the winter months, but we didn’t venture onto the ice. We just liked to soak up the atmosphere, while Socrates enjoyed a hotdog or two and I scorched some marshmallows. However, once each year, Moxie managed to convince me to turn a few slow, clumsy circles with the other skaters, until I inevitably fell on my butt and retreated awkwardly back to the same rickety wooden bench I was sitting on right then.

  “Winter sports never go well for me,” I reminded Moxie, just like I did every year. I tugged on a lace, which broke in my hands. “Don’t you remember what happened when we tried cross-country skiing?”

  Moxie, who had managed to dig a pure white, Dorothy-Hamill-worthy pair of skates from the otherwise random, beat-up pile, took a break from looping her own laces around shiny, silver hooks. “Oh, I do remember,” she said brightly. “We were having a wonderful time, until you went over the edge of that little hill—”

  “Big Drop.” I supplied the name, thinking the hill was far from little.

  “Yes!” Moxie bent again and tied a perfect bow, while I tried to stretch my broken lace far enough to make a tiny knot. “Then you rolled to the bottom, where old Max Pottinger found you, gave you some herbal tea—and tried to kill you and bury you in a shallow, snowy grave. None of which can happen here. The pond is flat, there’s no tea, and I haven’t seen Mr. Pottinger here in years.”

  She was kind of missing the point, and exaggerating the part about the shallow grave. I’d merely feared that reclusive Mr. Pottinger had intended to kill me. He’d actually turned out to be quite nice.

  However, I didn’t bother correcting Moxie, who was standing up, not even wobbling on the gleaming blades beneath her feet. I struggled to rise, my knees knocking.

  “I should point out that I really can’t stay long,” I said, grabbing Moxie’s arm as we moved slowly toward the ice, which glistened under a full moon. The bonfire blazed cheerfully, and the sound of children’s laughter filled the air as kids and a few adults zipped around, playing tag and crack-the-whip. A bunch of dogs were skidding around, too, trying to keep up and barking merrily. “I need to get home to Socrates and Snowdrop.”

  “I can’t believe Jeff Updegrove left you a secret key to CeeCee’s room, which turned out to be full of custom-designed poodle outfits,” Moxie said, stepping onto the ice first, followed reluctantly by me. She peeled my fingers off her arm and performed a quick twirl, while I flailed to stay upright. When she stopped spinning, and I’d managed to steady myself, she added, “And you really didn’t take any?”

  “I thought I should ask Jonathan first, and I didn’t want to text him and let him know I’d visited CeeCee’s room.”

  “I think, for once, your snooping was legitimate,” Moxie said, gliding in a circle around me. She wore a knit beret with a pompom on top, plaid leggings, and a chunky, vintage men’s fisherman’s sweater, an outfit that would’ve fit right in at Pinchwater Pond circa 1959. “Jeff left you a key, with no explanation. Any sensible person would assume that the key was meant to be used. And since you’re watching the poodle, it stands to reason that he expected you to pick up some of her belongings.”

  “When you put it that way, I almost wish I’d borrowed a few things, to get Snowdrop out of her rumpled cashmere sweater,” I said, while two kids and a border collie zoomed past, nearly knocking me down. I got control of my feet again and said, “Still, I think I should consult with Jonathan first.”

  “Probably wise.” Moxie pushed off, floated to an open spot near the tree, and proceeded to complete what I thought was a double axel. A few people applauded. Then she glided back to me and slid to a stop, kicking up ice. Holding out her arm, she kindly offered to let me lean on her again. I gratefully accepted. “Why do you think Jeff had CeeCee’s key?” she mused, raising a question I hadn’t really considered. “Wouldn’t CeeCee have kept that with her when she went out?”

  I understood what Moxie was saying. That CeeCee’s key should have been on her body, if she wasn’t killed at the hotel. Which mustn’t have been the case. It would’ve been impossible to get her corpse from one of the rooms to the town tree without anyone noticing. The Sylvan Creek Hotel was always booked solid near the holidays. Which meant that someone almost certainly would have heard the murder taking place, too.

  But Moxie’s theory did have one flaw.

  “Technically, guests are supposed to drop off their keys at the front desk when they leave the hotel,” I pointed out, squeezing her arm when we hit a bumpy spot. “There’s a place to hang them, behind the counter.”

  “And yet, the key left the premises in somebody’s possession. Either Jeff’s, or CeeCee’s.”

  I looked sideways at Moxie. “Do you really think he might’ve taken the key off her body?”

  “I think it’s possible. Especially since he hurried out of state so quickly.”

  “Interesting.”

  We’d completed my obligatory single turn around the pond, and I tugged on Moxie’s sleeve, indicating that I wanted to head toward the edge of the ice. She reluctantly followed, and I was relieved when my blades connected with snowy ground. Even so, I had to wobble my way back to the benches, choosing one by the bonfire. As soon as we sat down, two kids in scout uniforms approached, handing us sticks and offering us snacks. Digging into my pocket, I pulled out a dollar, the standard donation for a paper bag full of marshmallows.

  When Moxie and I were both situated, sitting side by side, our sticks in the fire and gooey treats toasting in the popping flames, I finally asked, “Are we ever going to talk about the scissors?”

  Her marshmallow had turned golden brown and puffy, and she pulled it back, plucking it from the stick while it was still hot. “There’s not much to say,” she told me, with a tiny shrug. “Somehow, a pug got scissors that belonged in my drawer, and that I didn’t know were missing until after CeeCee’s murder. I have no idea what really happened.”

  “You . . . you know who the pug belongs to, right?” I ventured, as my marshmallow erupted into flames. I yanked the stick back, blowing on the sugary torch, but it was too late. Shaking the stick, I flung the mess into the fire.

  Moxie, who’d downed her snack in two delicate bites, seemed oblivious to my continued troubles. She licked her sticky fingers, staring into the flames, and I couldn’t read her expression, nor her tone of voice, when she said, “Mike Cavanaugh. The last time Detective Black and I discussed the scissors, he told me that Mike is back in town. And that you spoke with him.”

  “Yes,” I confirmed. “The pug, Tiny Tim, led me to Mike’s house. We talked for a few minutes. I
was hoping he’d contacted you by now.”

  Jamming another marshmallow onto her stick, Moxie pursed her lips and shook her head. “Nope. Haven’t heard from him.”

  “He stopped by Spa and Paw, you know,” I said quietly. Giving up on open-fire cooking, I poked at the logs. “He didn’t want you to get an ‘unpleasant surprise’—his words—in public.” Moxie didn’t say anything, so I kept talking. “He still seems like a nice guy. One who regrets whatever happened years ago, and who wants to make it up to you. Even if that means implicating himself in a murder to take the focus off you.”

  Moxie jolted and faced me for a moment, her eyes wide. I’d surprised her. “He did that?”

  “I think so. At least, that was his plan.”

  Moxie returned her attention to the fire. “What if he really committed the crime?” she noted in a whisper. “It’s a possibility.”

  “Yes,” I conceded. “But my gut tells me that’s not the case. I could be wrong, but I don’t think the guy who cares for the world’s worst-behaved pug—and who still cares for you—murdered anyone.” I recalled how Jonathan had described his discussion with Mike as more of a counseling session than an interrogation. “And I get the sense that Jonathan agrees, although he hasn’t said that explicitly.”

  For once, Moxie’s eyes didn’t light up at the mention of Jonathan Black. I thought the fact that she was still focused on Mike was telling. “You really think he still cares about me?”

  “Yes. I really do,” I promised her. “And I think you two should at least talk.”

  I thought I spied a tear glistening in the corner of my best friend’s eye, and her voice sounded choked. “I don’t know, Daph. . . .”