A Midwinter's Tail

by Bethany Blake

  “True,” I agreed, daring to peek at Socrates and Snowdrop, who weren’t exactly curled up together on the rug. But there wasn’t a lot of space between them, either. Snowdrop was dozing off, and, not realizing he was being observed by me, Socrates let down his guard and gazed at her fondly.

  I could still hardly believe that my stoic sidekick had fallen for a snobby fashionista, but that seemed to be the case.

  Piper had followed my gaze. “What’s up with the poodle?” she asked. “Mom said Jeff Updegrove was at CeeCee’s memorial service. Why isn’t Snowdrop with him now? And why didn’t he leave any instructions for her care, in the first place?”

  I overlooked that last question, because, lo and behold, when I’d shaken the envelope again, then dug inside with my hand, because the paper had been wedged tightly, I’d managed to find the note Jeff had referenced, on his company letterhead, as promised.

  “I get the sense that Jeff’s not exactly a dog lover and wants as little contact with Snowdrop as possible,” I said, speaking very softly. I was afraid that, if Snowdrop was a light sleeper, she might overhear her name, and my negative tone of voice. Socrates was listening, though, and he growled softly on her behalf. I overlooked the rare show of anger, because I’d felt like growling at Jeff Updegrove, too, back at the funeral home. However, to be fair, I said, “Jeff did pay me quite well at the service to watch her for a few more days.”

  “I’m probably not going to like the answer, but I have to ask why you, of all people, attended CeeCee French’s memorial,” Piper asked, sounding like Mom. “And please tell me you’re not trying to solve her murder.”

  I was about to admit that solving the case had been part of my motive for visiting the funeral home. But Fidelia spoke before I had a chance.

  “I don’t think you should discourage Daphne from investigating,” she chimed in, hopping off her tall stool, as if she was preparing to leave. I suddenly realized it was growing even darker outside, the sun setting behind the clouds. “It sounds as if Moxie’s in trouble. And if it weren’t for Daphne’s incessant meddling, and kind heart, you might’ve been convicted of murder,” she reminded Piper. “And I might be in prison, if not for homicide, at least for attempted armed robbery, if your sister hadn’t intervened.”

  Fidelia was not the most socially adept person, but I appreciated the sentiment. However, she was exaggerating how close she’d come to being incarcerated for robbery.

  “You pointed a carrot at me, not a gun,” I said, realizing, suddenly, that Fidelia had played a ghost on more than one occasion. On the night she was referencing, she’d shown up at my door wearing a white sheet and wielding a root vegetable, in hopes of obtaining a valuable painting. That performance had been so unconvincing that I’d welcomed her inside and offered her a snack. “Even if I’d called the police, you probably would’ve gotten community service, at most.” I got down from my stool, too, and grinned at my sister. “Piper, however, should be grateful. She really might be serving time if I hadn’t solved my first murder to save her.”

  “You also nearly got killed, Daphne,” Piper noted, as Fidelia and I retrieved our coats from pegs near the door. Socrates nudged Snowdrop, who opened her eyes, yawned, and stood up too, shaking herself. “Why does that part always seem to be overlooked?”

  “I feel like that’s the part that’s always emphasized,” I said, pulling on my barn jacket. Then I glanced at the clock again and realized I was running late for rehearsal. “Speaking of people who’ve tried to kill me, can I borrow Mr. Peachy’s truck again?” I asked Piper. “The dogs and I walked here, because the access road is still pretty messy.”

  “Sure,” Piper agreed, while Fidelia buttoned herself into a shapeless wool coat.

  My barn jacket wasn’t the height of fashion, but I couldn’t help thinking that I’d have to help Fidelia step it up a notch, if my plans for Bark the Halls worked out.

  “Thanks,” I told Piper. “Are the keys still in the ignition?”

  “Yes. And please don’t wreck it again!”

  Fidelia shook her head wistfully. “Your life is so exciting, Daphne.”

  Then my part-time accountant, the famous poodle nobody wanted, a lovestruck, taciturn basset hound, and I tromped out into the snow.

  As Fidelia drove away, and I helped Snowdrop and Socrates into the truck on a dark and gloomy evening, I hoped that my afterlife—at least as portrayed on a high school stage—would be downright dull.

  Yet, deep in my heart, I doubted that would be the case.

  Chapter 31

  A light snow began to fall as I drove the truck, which lacked its wreath, to Sylvan Creek High, the clouds obscuring the moon and causing the winding road to be even trickier to navigate than usual. My alma mater had been built in the 1960s on donated farmland, which had saved taxpayers money and allowed for the construction of expansive athletic fields. But everyone—especially kids like me who’d gotten stuck riding the bus, even through senior year—always complained about the school’s isolation.

  “This really was a bad place to build a school,” I told Socrates and Snowdrop, steering around a final curve in the road. The weak headlights illuminated a brick-and-concrete sign that read SYLVAN CREEK HIGH, with the tagline HOME OF THE FIGHTING SQUIRRELS! “I have to say, the choice of mascot leaves something to be desired, too.”

  The dogs didn’t make a peep in reply, so I checked the rearview mirror and—in spite of my promise to Piper—nearly drove into a ditch again. “Were you two . . . ?”

  I started to ask if Socrates and Snowdrop had been about to bump their little noses together, canoodling in the back seat, like two high-school kids, themselves. Then I quickly caught myself, not wanting to mess up what appeared to be a budding canine romance.

  Plus, I had made the final turn into the parking lot closest to the gymnasium and auditorium, the latter of which the Players always rented for their productions.

  I’d expected to see at least a dozen vehicles in the dark lot. However, there was only one other car—a beat-up Prius—and the lights near the back entrance weren’t lit, either.

  “I know I have the right time,” I told the dogs. Looking in the mirror again, I saw that they’d edged apart, and both seemed sheepish. I pretended like I didn’t notice and pulled my phone from my pocket, checking Ms. Bickelheim’s text. Then I pocketed the phone again. “This is definitely where we’re supposed to be. And I recall using this entrance the last time I played a ghost. The rest of the school was always locked up.”

  Socrates made a low, grumbling sound, deep in his broad chest, and Snowdrop whined softly, as if she had a bad feeling about the empty lot. I was a bit concerned myself, but I opened my door, telling them, “Maybe everyone’s just running late. It is the holiday season, and people have a lot going on. We’ll at least try the door.”

  Hopping out of the truck, I helped the dogs exit, too. When all eight paws were on the ground, they both looked up at me and shook their heads.

  “I’m pretty sure this is the last rehearsal,” I said, overriding their objections and leading the way to a flat, metal door that almost disappeared against the school’s brick wall. “If I don’t do a run-through tonight, I’ll have to play my part live, in front of a crowd, without one chance to practice.” We’d reached the door, and I rested my hand on the handle. “I know the part isn’t big, but I’d at least like to know when and where I should stand and point.”

  Socrates and Snowdrop exchanged glances that seemed skeptical, to me, but I pulled on the handle.

  To my surprise, the door opened. The school seemed so deserted that I’d half-suspected Ms. Bickelheim had texted me the wrong information.

  However, I found myself staring into a dimly lit corridor that smelled like a combination of disinfectant, musty paper, old sneakers, and cheap pizza sauce. Two dark windows, built into the walls, were labeled TICKET SALES.

  Beyond those were doors, opposite each other, marked GYMNASIUM and AUDITORIUM.

  “
We’ve come this far,” I told my canine companions. “Let’s at least peek inside.”

  Socrates shot Snowdrop a look that I was 99 percent certain said, “This is happening, so we might as well play along.” Snowdrop’s puffball tail drooped, but she followed me and Socrates inside.

  The door clanged shut behind us, the sound ominous in the empty hallway. But when the echoes faded away, I heard something else in the distance.

  “Christmas music!” I cried softly.

  Of course, the dogs, whose ears were much keener than mine, heard it, too.

  “Come on,” I said, leading the way toward the auditorium—only to stop halfway down the corridor, in front of a glass case full of photos of athletes, as well as medals and trophies won by former Fighting Squirrels.

  It only took me a moment to find a picture of a uniformed Brett Pinkney, who’d pitched Sylvan Creek’s only no-hitter, his junior year. And the photo I’d seen in the yearbook, in which Brett and Mike Cavanaugh stood together as football team captains, fall of our senior year, was posted, too.

  “I had completely forgotten we were state champions that year,” I said, looking down at Socrates and Snowdrop. “Go, Squirrels, I guess!”

  Both dogs rolled their eyes, so I resumed walking, my booted feet clomping and their toenails clicking on the old, but gleaming linoleum.

  As we approached the double doors to the auditorium, the music grew slightly louder, while my heart began to race.

  I was flashing back to my disastrous, previous performance and suffering a touch of stage fright regarding the upcoming show, too. And my fear only intensified when I opened one of the doors, revealing a deathly silent, empty theater—and something so scary, spotlighted on the otherwise dark stage, that I yelped, Socrates took two steps backward, and Snowdrop, to her credit, launched an all-out attack.

  * * *

  “I’m so sorry,” I told Ms. Bickelheim, who had silenced the carols playing on her cell phone so she could concentrate on searching my costume for possible tears.

  The black robe had been displayed center stage on a prop mannequin, the hand outstretched so the specter had appeared to be pointing at us. Ivy Dunleavy had done a great job. The sight was terrifying, and Snowdrop had charged the spirit, teeth bared, trying to pull it down until Ms. Bickelheim had risen from a dark row of seats—a somewhat alarming development, in and of itself—and cried out for the poodle to stop.

  “The whole thing was just scary,” I added, shooting Snowdrop a grateful glance. I was surprised and impressed by her effort to protect us all, while Socrates and I had recoiled. The normally unflappable basset hound appeared sheepish, although a rash charge, undertaken without careful consideration, would never have been his style. “Your reaction was completely appropriate,” I told him softly, earning the slightest wag of his tail. Then, as the dogs wandered off to explore backstage, I turned back to Ms. Bickelheim, who continued to fuss with the garment. “Snowdrop didn’t mean any harm.”

  “I suppose the sight was somewhat alarming,” Ms. Bickelheim conceded, beginning to disrobe the mannequin. “I was merely worried because, as you are likely aware, the Sylvan Creek Players operate on a limited budget, and Ivy Dumphree’s creations—while magnificent—are not cheap!”

  I did know all those things, except for the name Ms. Bickelheim had used. “You mean Dunleavy, right?”

  My former teacher, who was drowning under a sea of black fabric, hesitated, a look of confusion in her pale blue eyes. Then she managed to wave one hand dismissively. “Dumphree, Dunleavy . . . So many students passed through my classrooms, back in the day. I can’t recall anyone’s name anymore. They just slip right out of my mind!”

  “Yes, I can imagine,” I agreed, stepping forward to help her with the costume, which was huge. I was too late, though. By the time I’d crossed the stage, the mannequin was bare, and Ms. Bickelheim dumped the robe into my arms, while I looked out over the empty seats, getting a twinge of stage fright again. “Speaking of remembering things, do I have any lines?” I inquired, fumbling to hold the slippery cloak, which seemed almost animated and determined to slink away. “And where is everybody?”

  Ms. Bickelheim, who wore a striped, flowing tunic over plaid leggings—the wild patterns a dramatic departure from the pencil skirt and silk blouse she’d worn in the yearbook photograph—blinked at me for a moment, as if she didn’t understand my questions.

  “The rest of the Players already had their dress rehearsal,” she finally said. “I didn’t want to make them watch while you learned your role, from square one, at the last minute. We’ve all been very confused about your failure to attend regular rehearsals, after your very committed and impressive audition. And you of all people should know that the third ghost has no lines. You performed the role beautifully, right on this stage, just a few weeks ago.”

  “That wasn’t . . .” I started to explain the whole mix up with Fidelia Tutweiler, but quickly abandoned the idea. The evening seemed strange enough without adding another layer of confusion. Instead, I adjusted the costume in my arms, asking, “Do I need to put this on?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  Ms. Bickelheim was starting to sound exasperated with me, so I did my best to find the bottom of the cloak and slid the garment over my head, flailing around to find the sleeves. While I was completely in the dark—literally, as well as figuratively—I heard something scraping across the floorboards.

  When my head miraculously emerged from the proper hole, I discovered that Ms. Bickelheim had dragged a tall stepladder to center stage. I eyed the object warily, and, although I already knew the answer to my question, because the costume was puddled around my feet, inquired, “What’s that for?”

  “When the stage is dark, before the climactic act, the prop master will place this ladder here and help you ascend, then arrange your cloak so it covers the apparatus.” I presumed that meant rungs of the ladder. “After which,” Ms. Bickelheim continued, “you will point at Scrooge’s grave, stage left.”

  I turned in that direction, only to be corrected. “Other. Stage. Left.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Well?”

  I stood there stupidly, keenly aware that Socrates and Snowdrop were observing from what I now knew was stage right. “You want me to . . . ?”

  Ms. Bickelheim thrust a finger into the air. “Ascend, oh spirit! Ascend!”

  I took that to mean I should climb the ladder, which was an awkward journey, given the voluminous folds of the robe that tangled around my feet. I thought that bode poorly for opening—and closing—night, but I managed to rise to the top and stand upright. The position felt precarious, and I wobbled as Ms. Bickelheim adjusted the lower part of the cloak so the ladder was concealed.

  Stepping back, she assessed the scene, then directed, “Don the hood!”

  I suddenly felt like I was back in high school, taking orders as a student, and I did as I was told, slipping the hood up over my head. The cowl drooped over my eyes, blinding me, but Ms. Bickelheim seemed pleased by the effect.

  “Terrifying!” she proclaimed.

  Snowdrop agreed. She clearly knew that I was under the swath of black fabric, yet I heard her utter a low growl and quickly pulled off the hood before she charged again.

  My decision to break character did not please my director. “Daphne, you can’t do that during the actual performance, no matter what happens,” she reminded me, shooting Snowdrop and Socrates dark looks, too. “And I’m not sure dogs should be in a high school, even in a pet-friendly town like Sylvan Creek. There are limits!”

  I shifted to look down at Ms. Bickelheim and wobbled again. “Sorry,” I said. “But I take Socrates everywhere. I didn’t think about school rules, since it’s been a while.” I managed to offer the dogs an apologetic look, too, without tumbling to the floor. Socrates appeared insulted, and Snowdrop was still watching me with a hint of distrust in her dark eyes. I addressed Ms. Bickelheim again. “And please don’t be too hard on Snowdrop.
She’s adjusting to a lot of new things in the wake of CeeCee’s death.”

  All the color drained from Ms. Bickelheim’s face, and she stammered. “That’s . . . That’s . . . Celeste French’s dog?”

  I looked between my former teacher and Snowdrop about ten times, trying to figure out why Ms. Bickelheim had such a strong reaction to a poodle in a red-and-green-striped sweater. My head swiveled so much that I almost did tumble from my perch. When I managed to get control of myself again, I looked down at Ms. Bickelheim once more, only to realize that she wasn’t pale and trembling with fear. She was angry.

  I took a moment to consider my circumstances, noting that I was in an unwieldy robe, in a nearly empty and isolated high school, with a woman who hadn’t been happy to learn that CeeCee French had planned to visit Sylvan Creek. Then my curiosity got the best of me, and, ignoring Socrates’s warning look, I dared to ask, “Why did you dump coffee all over Gabriel Graham when you heard that CeeCee was coming home? What happened, back at Oh, Beans?”

  Ms. Bickelheim’s cheeks went from alabaster to bright red in under three seconds, and she said, loudly enough to reach the back row of seats and dramatically enough to win a Tony, “It wasn’t what happened at Oh, Beans, Daphne! It’s what happened back when you and Celeste were in high school!”

  My silence and the confusion on my face must’ve spoken volumes, because Ms. Bickelheim took a step closer, looking up at me. She seemed baffled, too. Then her voice grew softer, and she asked, with obvious disbelief, “You . . . You really don’t know, do you?”

  Chapter 32

  “I thought everyone in Sylvan Creek knew my story, but pretended otherwise,” Ms. Bickelheim said, after we’d managed to get me safely off the ladder and out of my costume.

  We sat in the wings on props for the upcoming play, Ms. Bickelheim on the edge of a fake bed, where Scrooge—played by local historian Asa Whitaker—would sleep between his nocturnal visits. I’d taken Bob Cratchit’s tall chair, from the counting house scenes. The seat was rickety, and I thought Tom Flinchbaugh, who would play the role, might be the show’s first casualty, before I inevitably tumbled off the ladder.