A Midwinter's Tail

by Bethany Blake

  I’d asked a lot of questions and still hadn’t covered everything I wanted and needed to know, and Jeff, who’d pulled a nondescript black overcoat from a sea of nondescript black overcoats, finally turned around. His cheeks were ruddy, and a few beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, just beneath a comb-over that made him look about ten years older than he really was.

  I had a feeling that being part of CeeCee French’s executive team had contributed to his premature aging.

  “I answered most of those questions in the note I left you,” he said, slipping on his coat. “I told you that I’ll take the dog with me when I return to California on December 27th, after visiting my family.”

  “There was no note,” I said. “And no way to contact you.”

  Jeff’s brow furrowed. “I put a note in the envelope. On my company letterhead, with my cell phone number and direct line to my office. I told you to contact me if the arrangement didn’t work and I needed to find someone else to care for the dog.”

  “I don’t think you left any note, except for a brief one on the envelope,” I said, stepping sideways to block him. He was trying to move past me. “Otherwise, there was just a key and a yearbook.”

  I suddenly recalled that Jeff had placed a tiny sticky note on the yearbook. But he wasn’t talking about that.

  “I . . . I don’t believe that was the case,” he countered.

  “And I really need to be going. Family obligations, you know. CeeCee French’s death should make my holiday less stressful, not more! She can’t compel me to spend my whole day here, from beyond the grave. She stopped being my boss when she died!”

  That all came out in a burst, and he jerked his hand, as if to clap it over his mouth, while I wished Jonathan had been there to witness everything. I thought the comment, or at least the way Jeff had blown up at CeeCee, was somewhat incriminating. Plus, I would have liked to prove a statement I’d once made about the fact that people tended to open up to me.

  “Sorry,” Jeff said, his voice hoarse with regret and his eyes miserable. “I didn’t mean . . . I’ve just been under a lot of pressure, and that detective is here. . . .”

  “Yes, Jonathan Black can be intimidating,” I agreed, stepping back so we could move away from the alcove and into a stiffly formal sitting area that was nice enough, but still clearly part of a funeral home. It was just the vibe in the whole place, and I could hardly blame Jeff for wanting to return to his family visit. Yet I still needed him to answer a few questions. “But you can’t hide from Detective Black. If he has questions for you, he’s going to find you and ask them. And in the meantime, I need you to tell me more about Snowdrop and the other objects you gave me.”

  Jeff regained some composure, although his gaze kept darting over my shoulder, as if he expected Jonathan to come charging into the room at any moment, handcuffs at the ready. “If you are amenable, and the check I wrote is sufficient, I would like you to keep Snowdrop for a few more days,” he requested. “As you can imagine, CeeCee’s estate is quite complicated, and we have yet to find any provision for the dog—who is of no interest to the trainer, unfortunately.”

  I suddenly felt sorry for Snowdrop, who had a wealth of material goods, but no one running to claim her. “Why not?”

  “She’s spoiled rotten and miserable to be around,” Jeff said. “She literally bites every hand that feeds her, with the exception of CeeCee’s.” He shrugged. “I can’t imagine who we’ll foist her upon.”

  Snowdrop and I had gotten off to a rocky start, but she wasn’t a bad dog at heart, and his choice of words rankled me. “She just requires a little patience, and surely she doesn’t need to be ‘foisted’ on anyone. Surely, someone will step forward and give her the loving home she deserves.”

  Jeff snorted a laugh. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

  I’d started out feeling sorry for him, for being under CeeCee’s thumb, and I still suspected that working for someone who’d treated him badly had hardened him. But that situation also could’ve made him more sympathetic. And he could’ve found another job, somewhere along the way. Either way, I suddenly found myself not caring that Jeff Updegrove had forgotten me.

  “If you need help finding a good home for Snowdrop, please let me know,” I said, keeping the edge of anger out of my voice. “I’m pretty good at matching people and pets.”

  “I’ll call you if necessary,” he said. “There still might be provision for her, somewhere.”

  I suddenly felt very concerned about Snowdrop’s future. However, there wasn’t anything else to say at that point, so I asked, “Why did you leave me the key?”

  “It’s in the note—”

  “I didn’t find a note,” I repeated, hoping that I’d shaken the envelope hard enough. It would be embarrassing to go home and learn that all along there had been instructions. “So just tell me, please, okay?”

  “CeeCee’s room is filled with Snowdrop’s designer clothes.” Jeff rolled his eyes, and I couldn’t imagine how he’d managed to win parliamentarian, even, if he’d had the same attitude in high school.

  I also wondered why I’d told him I’d never forget him, when I didn’t think I’d ever really known him. I could probably blame the same impulse that had compelled me to don the leg warmers I’d been wearing in a picture on page forty-two of the yearbook. As I’d told Mike Cavanaugh the other day, we’d all made youthful mistakes.

  “So, it’s okay if I take some outfits?” I asked, not confessing that I’d already visited the room. I could tell Jeff was getting anxious to leave again. He continued to look past me, on high alert for Jonathan.

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” he said. “The dog is always dressed, and she certainly won’t wear the knock-offs we sell in our stores, or the higher quality clothes available at Fetch! even.” I was surprised that he’d just denigrated his own products, but I didn’t interrupt him. “I’d hate for you to get bitten, just because Snowdrop’s fashion whims weren’t indulged,” he added. “Who’d watch her then?”

  Jeff really hated the poor poodle, and I silently vowed to protect her if there was no provision in CeeCee’s will, as Piper had feared. I was afraid Jeff would dump her off at a shelter, which would kill a pampered pooch like Snowdrop, as surely as someone had murdered her person.

  I studied Jeff, questioning whether he might really have killed CeeCee. I was starting to think it was possible. Then I asked, “What’s the deal with the yearbook—which did have a tiny note attached? Why did you give the book to me? And why do you think it might be ‘helpful’?”

  He didn’t respond. He was looking over my shoulder again, and his face suddenly blanched, as if he’d seen a ghost. Then he backed up a few steps, retreating toward an archway that I thought led to the foyer. The place was something of a maze.

  “My parents mentioned that you have a reputation for solving murders,” he said, continuing to edge away. “I thought recalling details about CeeCee’s past might be helpful, if you were looking into her death. It was probably a stupid idea!”

  With that, Jeff Updegrove turned on his heel and hurried out the door, leaving me alone in a pretty and yet melancholy parlor, wondering why he’d just lied—and who he’d just seen walk behind us, because I was pretty sure that, if that person had been Jonathan, he would’ve made his presence known.

  Chapter 30

  “Your life is so thrilling.” Fidelia Tutweiler sighed, shaking her head wistfully.

  My part-time accountant had joined me and the dogs at Piper’s farmhouse for a year-end review of my books. Given that Fidelia was still taking accounting classes to supplement her degree from an already-defunct online program, Piper—who was a meticulous business owner—thought perhaps she should supervise the meeting. Not that we’d mentioned that to Fidelia. She believed I’d chosen the farmhouse over my cottage because there was more room to spread out the receipts I was trying to keep organized. We sat across from each other at Piper’s breakfast bar, while my sister popped more corn to string on her Ch
ristmas tree, since she and Roger had eaten most of an earlier batch, the day I’d talked to them on speakerphone.

  “You’re sitting for a famous dog,” Fidelia continued, listing the so-called exciting aspects of my life and glancing at Snowdrop, who sat next to Socrates on a braided throw rug near the oven.

  I was trying not to make a big deal out of what appeared to be a growing friendship, nor the fact that Snowdrop was on the floor, like a normal dog, and still sporting her red-and-green, yak-hair sweater. In fact, she looked quite cozy.

  “You also got threatened by the president of the chamber of commerce,” Fidelia added, summarizing things I probably shouldn’t have mentioned while she was supposed to be focused on bookkeeping. “Plus, former high school classmates leave you mysterious presents—and you got my part in A Christmas Carol!”

  Piper was dumping steaming hot popcorn into two green bowls, and her hand jerked, so she spilled some fluffy kernels on the marble countertop. We exchanged shocked, puzzled glances. Socrates had jolted, too. The tags on his collar were still jingling when I turned back to Fidelia. “You auditioned for the role of the Ghost of Christmas Future?”

  “Yes, and I was sure I’d get the part.” Fidelia sighed again and picked up a yellow highlighter. Uncapping the pen, she swiped it over some numbers on one of the receipts. I hoped she knew why she’d done that, because I had no idea. “I really went all out at the audition.”

  “How so?” Piper inquired, sounding as if she already knew the story was going to exasperate her. “I have got to hear how this all went wrong for both of you.”

  If Fidelia caught the sarcasm in Piper’s voice, she didn’t let on. “I’ve been trying to improve my social life, and I thought community theater really seemed like the way to go,” she said, highlighting some more numbers on a different slip of paper. The action seemed random, and I wondered if I’d made a mistake by suggesting that we enjoy hot toddies to ward off the chill outside. “I went to the audition in a full costume, complete with a terrifying rubber mask that made it difficult to breathe,” Fidelia continued. “And I didn’t break character the whole time. I walked up onto the stage, pointed at a trash can that was filling in for Scrooge’s grave until the set could be built, and then floated away out the door when Ms. Bickelheim yelled ‘cut.’ I thought the whole thing was rather impressive.” She shot me an almost accusing look, to the degree that meek Fidelia could manage that. “Until I learned you got the part!”

  Piper looked like she wanted to thunk her head against something, while Socrates lay down, whined, and placed his paws over his muzzle. Snowdrop, who was unfamiliar with Fidelia—but who had barked with disapproval at the accountant’s droopy cardigan—appeared confused.

  “So, you never said a word, even to give Ms. Bickelheim your name?” I asked, trying to lead Fidelia to her own revelation. “You didn’t even let her hear your voice?”

  “Of course not.” Fidelia frowned at me and Piper, like we were clueless. “The ghost doesn’t speak. And I thought it would be dramatic to just leave. . . .” All at once, a light went on behind her brown eyes, which matched her brown hair. “Oh . . . Ms. Bickelheim had no idea who I was, did she?”

  “Nope, not a clue,” Piper said, opening the fridge and grabbing some butter and parmesan cheese. I had a feeling the second batch of popcorn was about to go the way of the first. “And, for some reason, she thought Daphne had tried out,” Piper added, dropping nearly an entire stick of butter into the still-warm pot before heading for her pantry, where she retrieved some dog biscuits, a shaker of garlic salt, and a mini jar of freshly chopped rosemary. She placed the biscuits into a waiting bowl on the way across the kitchen. I was happy to note that Socrates and Snowdrop sniffed the air, looked at each other, and crossed the floor in tandem. Then I returned my attention to Piper, who was telling us, “It’s a classic, if completely ludicrous, case of mistaken identity.”

  “Oh, goodness!” Fidelia sat up straighter. “That explains why Ms. Bickelheim kept congratulating me for redeeming myself after my last ‘horrid’ performance, and telling me how brave I was to even dare approach the stage again!”

  I was insulted, because I’d done my best to deliver my lines during a major equipment malfunction that had left me hanging upside down over the audience at one point. But, more than that, I was excited about the prospect of giving up my part to someone who really wanted it.

  “This is great, Fidelia,” I said, raising my toddy and toasting both of us. I took a sip of the warm bourbon, honey, and lemon, my mood improving even more. “You can take over for me. I haven’t even rehearsed yet, so you’re at least as prepared as I am!”

  “Oh, no.” Fidelia shook her head, dashing my hopes. “I’m afraid I’ve already decided that the acting lifestyle isn’t for me. The fans, late hours, and wild parties . . . It would be too much.”

  “It’s the Sylvan Creek Players,” Piper pointed out, drizzling butter into one of the bowls, then hitting the popcorn with a generous dose of garlic salt and parmesan cheese, followed by a pinch of the rosemary. The kitchen smelled amazing, and I wondered if my sister was starting to get some domestic tendencies since settling into a relationship with Roger. She set the bowl between me and Fidelia, pausing to give the highlighted receipts a funny look before sitting down next to me. “I don’t think there’s a lot of partying going on,” she noted. “Some of the Players are in their eighties.”

  “Well, even so, I was nervous just to audition,” Fidelia confided, while I began to gather the scattered receipts, pulling them into a pile in front of myself. I was starting to think bourbon and accounting didn’t mix. Fidelia didn’t seem to notice that I was ending the work portion of the day. “While a part of me was hurt, to be overlooked—again,” she said, “I was also relieved when I heard you’d be playing the role, Daphne.” Smiling, she raised her glass. “So, break a leg! I will be in the audience on opening—which is also closing—night, cheering you on!”

  “Try not to break anything,” Piper suggested, grabbing a handful of popcorn. “Not legs, harnesses, or scenery.”

  “I don’t think it’s possible to mess up this role,” I assured her, with a quick glance at Fidelia. “No offense.”

  She smiled. “None taken. Especially since I now know I aced my audition.”

  “Now that the play—and the die—are cast, what’s this about you and Norm Alcorn, Daphne?” Piper inquired, while I checked the clock on her microwave. I needed to leave soon to rehearse Fidelia’s part. “What did I miss?”

  “You were busy lighting candles when I told that tale,” I explained. Piper always placed real candles on the deep sills of the farmhouse’s original, twelve-paned windows during the holidays. She’d lit them early that day, because the sky was a deep, wintry gray. “Basically, Norm told me that, if I didn’t use my ‘influence’ on Gabriel to convince him to stop printing negative news about Sylvan Creek in the Gazette, Norm would turn the rest of the chamber against me and ruin my business.”

  Piper’s eyes were wide behind her glasses. “That doesn’t sound like Norm.”

  I grabbed some popcorn, too, and pushed the bowl closer to Fidelia. I sensed that she didn’t drink alcohol very often and should probably get something into her stomach. “Trust me,” I said, tossing a few kernels into my mouth. The rosemary was a fresh, seasonal counterpoint to the salty cheese and garlic. “Norm might’ve been wearing a Santa suit, but he was not feeling very jolly toward me that day. I am definitely on the naughty list, in spite of contributing nearly all of the dog treats for Bark the Halls.”

  “Oh, I wish I was going to that,” Fidelia lamented.

  “Then you should go,” Piper said flatly. “You don’t need to have a date. Lots of people go solo.”

  “Really?” Fidelia looked to me. “Are you going alone? Because I know Piper will go with Roger.”

  I hated to disappoint her, but I shook my head. “Sorry. Usually, I have gone by myself, which was always fine. There’s no lack of peopl
e to talk to. But this year I’m attending with Gabriel.”

  All at once, I was struck by a thought, which I didn’t voice yet, for fear of getting her hopes up. And Piper wasn’t done discussing my strange encounter with Norm Alcorn.

  “Maybe Norm is just stressed about everything that happened with CeeCee—both the murder and the continued uncertainty about whether we’re really getting a local-business-crushing pet discount store,” she suggested. “Plus, there’s Dunston’s recent illness. The poor dog is recovering, but it was very worrisome for a while.”

  “What was wrong with him?” I inquired, reaching for a shoebox near my elbow and shoving my pile of receipts back from whence they’d come. I was better about saving important papers, but still not exactly organized. “Did you ever figure it out?”

  “I think he got into something,” Piper guessed, sipping her toddy. I heard toenails clicking as Socrates and Snowdrop reclaimed their places on the rug. I didn’t even look at them, for fear of drawing attention to the fact that they seemed to be joined at Socrates’s dappled and Snowdrop’s pompom-covered hip. “My best guess is that he ate something toxic, maybe over the course of several weeks. But Norm won’t let me run any more tests. He says the dog has been poked and prodded enough.”

  “But if tests could help solve the mystery—” Fidelia, who already seemed to be shaking off the effects of her thimbleful of alcohol, started to voice an opinion I shared.

  But Piper raised a hand and cut her off. “It’s not my call. And I firmly believe that Norm loves Dunston. I’m sure he’s trying to make the best decisions possible. And the dog is doing better.”

  “Do you think it could’ve been Dunston’s diet?” I asked. “I could volunteer to make him some homemade food.”

  “That’s nice of you, but I kind of doubt it would help,” Piper said. “Norm assured me that, as the biggest supporter of Sylvan Creek businesses, he buys all of Dunston’s food from Fetch!, and Tessie Flinchbaugh only carries quality brands.”