A Midwinter's Tail

by Bethany Blake

  “Mike told me that he didn’t cheat on you,” I added. “He said the old story is wrong.”

  Setting down her own stick, after her second marshmallow had dropped into the fire, Moxie shifted to face me again. “Then what did happen?”

  Something worse.

  That’s what Mike had said. But I wasn’t sure I believed him. And I had no details. So I simply told Moxie, “I think you should ask him yourself. Meet someplace neutral, like the Silver Moon, or the Lakeside, or Oh, Beans. . . .” I rattled off three of the best public meeting places in Sylvan Creek, because I wasn’t 100 percent sure Mike hadn’t committed murder. “And finally ask for the truth, which really might set you free.” I loved that Moxie was stuck in the past, in many ways, but I believed that her heart needed to move forward. “Just reach out, okay? Obviously, I know where he lives, and I have his contact information. I can deliver a message, if you want.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Moxie promised, rising. Her eyes still looked watery, but she smiled and managed to tease me. “But only if you take one more turn around the ice.”

  “I’ll skate—if you’ll come to Bark the Halls,” I countered. “Because it won’t be the same without you. And you need to have some fun.”

  Moxie wrinkled her nose while she considered my bargain. Then she stuck out her hand. “Deal.”

  “Excellent!” We shook on our agreement, and I handed the paper bag, which was still nearly full, to some rosy-cheeked kids who were swooping in to claim our bench. While I was tottering away, they snatched up the sticks, too. I heard them calling “thank you” and laughing—probably at me—as I again stepped tentatively onto the slick surface. “This is seriously my last time out here,” I added firmly. “I have had a long day, between wrecking a truck, getting threatened by Norm Alcorn—and stuffing myself with a half-dozen pancakes before turning down Jonathan’s offer to take me to the ball.”

  Moxie might’ve been primarily focused on her lost love, but she still retained some interest in her law-enforcement crush. Completely ignoring the fact that I’d mentioned a car accident and a threat, she swooped around to face me, her mouth hanging open. “Did you just say Jonathan Black asked you to Bark the Halls? And you turned him down?”

  I nodded, my feet sliding in and out of their own accord. “Yes. That’s what I said. I already promised Gabriel I’d go with him.”

  Moxie stood there in flabbergasted silence while a conga line of skaters and a pack of dogs tried to maneuver around us. Then Moxie Bloom, still stunned and speechless, completely wiped out, taking me down with her.

  I thought I saw stars. But as I lay flat on my back, blinking up at the sky, I figured out that the flashing light came from a completely different, external source. I also realized that someone I hadn’t even known was at Pinchwater Pond had likely overheard Moxie’s and my conversation—which wasn’t a good thing.

  Chapter 28

  “I hope none of my inevitable bruises show when I wear my gown—and that Gabriel isn’t too unhappy, after he almost certainly overheard me talking with Moxie about Jonathan’s invitation,” I told Snowdrop, who was the only resident of Plum Cottage who seemed to care, in the least, that my ice skating misadventures might have negative ramifications at the upcoming ball.

  Socrates, who had either mastered or overcome his ardor for Snowdrop, had shaken his head and wandered up to the loft at my first mentions of Gabriel and especially the dress, which I needed to pick up the next day. And Tinks, who had no interest in romantic affairs or social gatherings, let alone clothing, had slunk away when I’d tried to show him the picture Ivy had sent to my phone.

  Snowdrop, however, was following me around the cottage, listening attentively as I discussed my concerns about Bark the Halls.

  “What are the odds Gabriel Graham would be snapping pictures at the pond?” I added, turning off the kitchen light for the night. It was almost time for bed. “I didn’t want to mention Jonathan until I figured out what, if anything, I needed to say.”

  Snowdrop whined in a sympathetic way, as if she completely understood.

  “And, as for the bruises, I swear, it’s not like me to worry so much about my appearance,” I noted, heading for the living room. “There’s just something about this dress, you know?”

  Close on my heels, Snowdrop yapped in agreement. She was a surprisingly good listener when the topic interested her.

  “I realize you have a huge wardrobe of gorgeous clothes,” I continued, padding into the living room, my big slippers slapping against the wooden floor. I was grateful to have wide soles under my feet, and, although I was usually open to all sorts of experiences, I couldn’t understand why so many people wanted to put blades on the bottom of shoes. I tossed two logs on the fire, so we’d have heat for a while. “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring anything back for you. I wasn’t sure I should be in CeeCee’s room, let alone take things.”

  In fact, I’d severely restricted my snooping, too. I’d seen several things, including some binders that I’d really wanted to check out. Especially one that was labeled Product Designs—Toys, Apparel, Accessories. As someone who dealt with a lot of pets, I was intrigued by what CeeCee might have in the works to sell at her franchises. I also wondered if the new products were in development because of the scandal I still needed to investigate. However, I’d refrained from touching anything, except some of Snowdrop’s clothes.

  “I did look at your outfits,” I told the poodle, who continued to follow me, as I turned off a small lamp near the door. “You have some unique, beautiful things that must’ve cost a bundle!”

  Snowdrop whined again, this time more softly. I wasn’t sure if I’d made her sad by mentioning CeeCee, or if she was also sorry that I hadn’t snagged a few of her designer duds back at the hotel.

  Turning, I looked into her dark eyes, noting that her expression wasn’t quite as haughty as before. Her fur was also flattened and her cashmere sweater was a mess.

  “Not to pressure you,” I ventured softly, hoping I wasn’t about to break our fragile connection and send her scurrying back to her crate. “But do you want to change out of that dirty sweater? Because I have a hand-knit, free-range yak cardigan that I think might fit you.”

  I’d ordered a sweater for Artie from former murder suspect and holistic pet healer Arlo Finch, who also knit canine clothes, hoping to give the cardigan to the Chihuahua for Christmas. But I was pretty sure the red-and-green-striped sweater was too big. Plus, paisley bow tie aside, Jonathan never dressed up the little dog. I wasn’t really sure what I’d been thinking when I’d contacted Arlo.

  “Do you want to try on the sweater?” I asked again. “It’s not cashmere, or haute couture, but it is one of a kind and pretty cute.”

  Snowdrop hesitated, dancing uncertainly on her paws. Then she sighed and growled, but not at me. The sound was clearly a grumble of concession, as if she were telling me, “Fine. I’ll try your cheap clothes.”

  A little more gratitude would’ve been nice. But we were making headway.

  “Come on,” I said, leading the way up the spiral staircase. When we reached the loft, I dug around in my small closet until I found a bag from Arlo’s new pet-therapy practice, Peaceable Pets West in Sedona, Arizona. Pulling out the cardigan, I held it up for Snowdrop’s approval. “What do you think?”

  She couldn’t help wrinkling her nose and whining with disappointment, which earned her a snuffle of rebuke from Socrates. I hadn’t even realized he’d been watching us from his purple velvet pillow.

  Snowdrop looked over at him, then her head drooped, as if she regretted acting snooty.

  I couldn’t help grinning. Socrates was still suffering from a case of unrequited puppy love, but he was clearly done fawning. In fact, I got the sense that the tables were starting to turn between the two dogs, and that Snowdrop was beginning to want Socrates’s attention. She looked disappointed when he closed his eyes again, returning to his nightly meditation.

  “You two will f
igure it out,” I whispered to the poodle, kneeling down and helping her switch garments. As I’d expected, the red-and-green cardigan fit her perfectly and looked quite festive against her white coat. “You look adorable!” I assured her, standing up, the cashmere sweater in hand, so I could put it on a pile of my own clothes that needed laundered—only to realize that I probably shouldn’t run the expensive garment through Piper’s washing machine.

  “Jeez, I hope this doesn’t need to be dry cleaned,” I said, checking for a tag, while Snowdrop, who seemed more pleased by her new outfit than she’d anticipated, walked too casually past Socrates.

  I was about to tell her that he didn’t like canine apparel, in general, so if she was trying to impress him, she was barking up the wrong tree. No pun intended.

  However, before I could say anything, Socrates opened one eye, and I could tell that he thought she looked cute. His expression was quite transparent. At least to me, who knew him well.

  “Why is romance always complicated?” I muttered, returning my attention to the sweater. Unfortunately, there were no instructions for laundering on the tag, which looked to be hand-embroidered in a distinctive, swooping font that spelled out Park Avenue Pets. I’d seen the label in other outfits in CeeCee’s hotel room, too. The fabrics, to my admittedly untrained fingers, had felt sumptuous.

  “I guess I’ll call Mom for help,” I said, placing the pretty pup garment into my wicker basket full of no-name jeans and shirts I’d picked up during my world travels. Then I set a pillow on the floor for Snowdrop, who didn’t seem in any rush to retreat to her crate. On the contrary, ignoring the bed I’d made for her, she jumped up onto my mattress, where she sat down, watching me hopefully—when not shooting the lowly pillow disdainful looks.

  I hesitated, weighing my options, because I usually had a rule about dogs sleeping in their own spaces. But Snowdrop was trying to fit in at Plum Cottage, and I doubted she’d ever slept on the floor in her former life, so I finally grumbled, “Fine. You can stay.”

  I climbed into bed, too. When I was settled under my comforter, I glanced at the basset hound who was already snoring on his humble cushion. Then I nudged Snowdrop, who’d curled into a ball, and whispered, “Do you want to go to Bark the Halls? I thought it might be beneath you. But you and Socrates might have fun.”

  Snowdrop raised her head, the tags on her diamond-studded collar jangling, and I swore I spied an eager gleam in her eyes.

  I smiled. “I’ll make an appointment with Moxie for you, and try to figure out what you can wear. If worse comes to worse, I can always contact Jonathan Black and admit that I know you have a whole wardrobe waiting in a hotel room.”

  Snowdrop wriggled happily, then curled up again and closed her eyes, while I reached for my cell phone, which I’d set in its usual spot on the nightstand, next to my old landline. I started to call my mother, to ask about washing fine fabrics, only to reconsider and check the Internet. A few minutes later, I was fairly convinced that handwashing would be okay.

  As Snowdrop’s snores joined Socrates’s, and Tinks found his spot at the foot of the bed—after giving the poodle the stink eye—I next called up the Web site for the Weekly Gazette, to make sure Gabriel had made good on his promise to feature a photo of dogs and skating kids, as opposed to an image of me and Moxie sprawled on our backs.

  Needless to say, I was pleased to see a picture of a lively game of crack-the-whip pop up, right on the home page, above the caption, Old-fashioned fun keeps chills at bay at Pinchwater Pond, Sylvan Creek’s skating destination for more years than even old-timers can recall.

  “So much for Norm Alcorn’s overblown worries about Gabriel’s digging up skeletons and exposing secrets,” I whispered, thinking small-town life was softening up the hard-nosed reporter, just like it was doing for Jonathan, who would never, ever have bent any rules during a homicide investigation when I’d first met him. “Before long, the Weekly Gazette will be full of reprinted school menus and articles about suppers at the Moose Lodge again.”

  Of course, I didn’t really think Gabriel would ever carry things that far. And maybe he hadn’t lost his edge at all, because when I scrolled down a little farther, the lead article, beneath the quaint feature photo, was headlined, MURDER WEAPON TIED TO LOCAL SALON.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to read that story, but I knew that I would, just in case Gabriel, with his “sources,” had included information I didn’t know yet.

  However, to be honest, I was more intrigued by the subhead: MEMORIAL SERVICE FOR FRENCH SCHEDULED FOR TOMORROW.

  Chapter 29

  “Honestly, Daphne, I’m not sure why you’re going to this service,” my mother complained, leading the way up the steps to Walzacker’s Funeral Home, located in a lovely Greek revival building in an otherwise residential part of Sylvan Creek. The surrounding homes were all decorated for the holidays, smoke curled from most of the chimneys, and a snowman in a red scarf waved at us with twig arms from the house next door, so the setting wasn’t as grim as one might’ve expected. Stepping onto the porch, Mom stomped snow off her low-heeled Stuart Weitzman boots—a slight downgrade in terms of height and brand, in recognition of the day’s weather, which was blustery and prone to squalls. “Given that you and Celeste weren’t exactly friends, your attendance is rather morbid, don’t you think?”

  “I feel a certain posthumous kinship with CeeCee, since I found her body,” I said, not bothering to remind Mom that she hadn’t known Celeste French at all. I had no idea why she was stopping by the first of several services that would commemorate CeeCee’s life. The others would be held in New York City, where CeeCee had had a penthouse, and in California, where her business was currently headquartered and where her ashes would eventually be interred, according to Gabriel’s story in the Gazette. The Sylvan Creek event was just a gathering so local people could remember her and pay their respects to her family. Following my mother through tall double doors into a large foyer, I added, “And I am here on behalf of Snowdrop.”

  I hadn’t exactly meant that I was representing the poodle—although I kind of felt that way. I’d mainly meant that I hoped to find someone who might know about her future, since Jeff Updegrove had seemingly disappeared.

  Of course, my mother didn’t wait for me to explain. She unfurled her favorite Burberry plaid scarf from around her neck while sighing profoundly. “You and those dogs, Daphne!”

  Then she shrugged off her coat, shoved it into the arms of a man in a suit—who I didn’t think worked at the funeral home, given his look of surprise—and sashayed off into a reception room that was filled with people and rows of folding chairs. If my hunch was correct, Mom planned to offer condolences and troll for news about the fate of the planned French’s Poodles & More franchise, as related to local real estate.

  Shooting the baffled bystander who continued to hold Mom’s outerwear a look of apology, I followed her, passing a white-draped table that held cards and candles and dozens of photos of CeeCee.

  Then I joined the milling crowd, immediately spotting Gabriel, who was speaking with people I didn’t recognize. He hadn’t whipped out his notebook, and he didn’t have his camera, but I knew the event would yield a story.

  I also spotted Jonathan, who nodded to me, but remained in conversation with Norm Alcorn. Judging from the way Maeve Templeton, Realtor, was hovering, vulture-like, I was pretty sure my mother would soon join that discussion or swoop in to monopolize Norm the moment the two men parted.

  I, meanwhile, didn’t know who to mingle with until the inevitable speeches started.

  As suspects in CeeCee’s murder, Moxie and Mike Cavanaugh certainly hadn’t shown up, and the few former classmates I recognized were already in tight circles, forming the same cliques they’d belonged to in high school.

  A few teachers had stopped by, too. They were also clustered together, chatting.

  As I watched them, I noted that Bitsy Bickelheim, who’d had such a strange—and strong—reaction to the news about
CeeCee’s visit to Sylvan Creek, wasn’t paying her respects. Then I also remembered the photo in the yearbook. The one in which Ms. Bickelheim had stood on the sidelines, between the cheerleaders and the football players.

  “I need to look at that again,” I muttered to myself, just as someone tapped my shoulder.

  I half expected the stranger who’d accepted my mother’s coat to shove it back at me, because I’d probably looked like Mom’s assistant, the way she’d addressed me in the lobby. And when I turned around, someone was handing me something—but it wasn’t an eight-hundred-dollar, double-breasted wool trench from Barney’s.

  It was a check with a similarly large sum on the line marked DOLLARS, and the phrase “For Care of Snowdrop” in the MEMO line.

  I heard the surprise in my voice as my gaze darted between the signature and the face of the man who matched the name.

  “Jeff Updegrove! You actually came back!”

  * * *

  “I really can’t talk now,” Jeff said, looking nervously around the room, where the only available activity was conversation. “I need to get going.”

  “The service hasn’t even started yet,” I reminded him. “And we need to talk.”

  Jeff was already walking away, and I followed him, the chatter in the main reception room fading and our footsteps muffled by heavy carpeting. The layout of the repurposed house was rather complicated, and he slipped around a corner.

  I made the turn, too, and discovered that we’d reached the alcove where my mother should’ve left her coat, which I spied immediately. Obviously, the stranger in the suit had been kind enough to hang it up, while I still wore my jacket and was getting a little warm, chasing after a surprisingly speedy former parliamentarian and salutatorian.

  “What is your big hurry?” I asked, blocking the exit, while Jeff rooted around for his coat. “We need to talk about Snowdrop—and yearbooks, and keys!” I held up the check, which was still clutched in my hand. “And this payment . . . How long do you expect me to keep Snowdrop? Or are you taking her when you leave town? Or today?”