A Midwinter's Tail

by Bethany Blake

  Socrates and Snowdrop sat quietly together on a rug between us, as if they also wanted to hear whatever Ms. Bickelheim was about to say regarding her past.

  Smoothing her wild, graying hair, she studied my face. “I was sure there must’ve been rumors when I disappeared from this school.”

  I shook my head. “Not really,” I assured her. “At least, not in my class. Everybody was focused on graduation. We all just wanted to leave and explore the world or go to college. To the extent that we even thought about you teachers outside of school—no offense—we probably all just thought you’d made a smart decision, quitting.”

  Ms. Bickelheim knit her brows. “You . . . You really believed that I quit?”

  “That’s what we were told.”

  My former teacher took a long moment to think. Then she said, “That’s the story the administration begged to tell, to prevent a scandal, back in the days when nobody really reported news in Sylvan Creek.”

  Obviously, Norm Alcorn wasn’t the only one who’d noticed that Gabriel Graham had changed the town’s ability to cover things up. I didn’t comment, though. I stayed quiet, letting Ms. Bickelheim talk. I was practically on the edge of my shaky seat.

  “I always thought the worse lie—the complete fabrication—would circulate, regardless,” she continued. “I’ve lived for years wondering if people know that I was actually forced out. And if they secretly think I’m a monster.”

  That word, “monster,” was ominous, and I glanced at Socrates and Snowdrop to see if they thought we should exit quickly, stage left. Or maybe right. But Snowdrop was listening, her head cocked, and Socrates also seemed wrapped up in the tale. His brown eyes were trained on Ms. Bickelheim, who was still speaking, but in a distracted way, delivering a quiet monologue to the empty seats.

  “I suppose, against all odds, the person who caused my downfall managed to keep her mouth shut, probably because she knew that, if the claims she had made secretly, to the administration, were ever carefully investigated, her lies would be exposed, and her reputation besmirched, too—although not destroyed, like mine.”

  I already suspected who the villain in this mysterious tale was, but I asked anyway. I also needed to know the hidden plot twist that Ms. Bickelheim kept referencing, without providing details.

  “Who was behind your . . . departure?” I asked. “And why do you say your reputation was ruined? Because I think most people in Sylvan Creek are very fond of you.”

  All at once, Bitsy Bickelheim’s eyes, which had been clouded with melancholy and regret, blazed to life with unadulterated hatred, and she glared at Snowdrop, as if the dog was a proxy for the person she’d despised.

  “CeeCee French and her lies were the reason I was forced out,” she said, spitting her former student’s name.

  Her tone was so vitriolic that Snowdrop stood up and backed nervously away on her delicate white paws. Socrates rose, too, stepping gallantly between the poodle and the woman who continued to glower at her.

  “I was cheerleading adviser, and I refused to grant her every whim,” Ms. Bickelheim continued. “She had to have her way!”

  Although I’d seen Ms. Bickelheim in the photo with the pyramid of cheerleaders, I hadn’t realized she’d been their adviser.

  “And maybe my reputation is fine, according to most people around here,” she added. “Although I know everyone thinks I’m a little unhinged. But it’s awfully hard to keep one’s chin up, let alone get a new teaching job, anywhere, when your private record says you were accused of having an affair with a student!”

  Chapter 33

  “Well, that was unexpected and intense,” I told Socrates and Snowdrop, as we drove down Sylvan Creek’s main street on our way home after rehearsal. Not that I felt prepared for the play. I never did learn if I needed to do more than climb a ladder and point. We’d beaten a pretty hasty retreat after Ms. Bickelheim’s confession, which had left me with more questions than she’d answered.

  I wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth about the alleged romance, because it was possible that CeeCee’s accusation had been warranted.

  As I steered Mr. Peachy’s old truck slowly past the town Christmas tree, being careful in a sudden squall, I attempted to block out the image of CeeCee’s body, and instead tried to recall details from one of the non-sports yearbook photos. The one of Ms. Bickelheim in the classroom. When I’d seen the image, I’d noted that she’d been very young, and very pretty, and that boys had probably drooled over her.

  “What if some high school guy made an advance, and Ms. Bickelheim was flattered and let things go too far?” I mused aloud. “And what if CeeCee actually saw something? Because there usually is a grain of truth behind rumors, as Moxie can attest.”

  Socrates, who seldom barked, uttered a sharp woof, reminding me that Ms. Bickelheim’s past was none of my business.

  Snowdrop, however, seemed to appreciate my defense of her deceased person, in the wake of Ms. Bickelheim’s scathing accusations. Her soft yip was lighter and encouraging.

  I hoped they weren’t about to have their first spat on the eve of Bark the Halls, and I decided to change the subject. Or, more accurately, I pulled over, right next to the Pinkney’s Pines temporary Christmas tree lot, underneath the town clock.

  It was getting late, and the lot was empty, all the trees baled and stacked in Brett’s pickup. But there was a light on in the hut, and colorful lights still glowed on a temporary picket fence that defined the sales area, so I opened my door, telling the dogs, “I’ll be right back. I want to toss a replacement tree in the back of the truck and get a wreath, too, if Brett has any.”

  Slamming the door, I trudged through the snow to the hut, where I knocked on the half-open door, although clearly no one was inside the small shelter. And, while I’d expected someone to be around, because of the lights, I nevertheless jumped when Brett Pinkney stepped up behind me. I had no idea where he’d been standing, or how long he’d been watching me.

  “Hey, Brett.” He’d spooked me, but I greeted him with a smile—which wasn’t returned. He stood silently before me, a knit cap on his head, a heavy orange-and-brown flannel jacket on his body, and a stern expression on his face. Not sure what I’d done to earn the chilly reception, I forged ahead. “I was just hoping to get a tree and a wreath for my sister’s truck, if you don’t mind helping me out.”

  Clearly, he did mind. “Sorry,” he said, in a clipped tone. “Lot’s closed for the night.”

  I looked at the colorful lights and an open cash box that I could see inside the shelter. Then I smiled more broadly at the one-time quarterback. “It’ll only take a minute, and I have cash. I’d really like to replace my tree and get my sister a new wreath, since I sort of smooshed the previous one in a slow-motion car crash. Whatever you’ve got in the truck will be fine. My last tree was pretty humble.”

  I was talking too much, which was my usual reaction when people stonewalled me, and I finally got myself under control, only to discover that my speech hadn’t made a difference.

  “Sorry,” Brett repeated, walking away from me and unplugging the cheerful lights. “It’s my last night here. Gotta move the inventory back to the farm. If you want a tree, go there tomorrow. More wreaths to pick from, too. Only got a few in the truck bed.”

  “I . . . I . . .” I was trying to understand why he wouldn’t let me lighten his burden by taking a tree, right then and there. It would be one less thing for him to unload.

  But Brett wasn’t going to listen to logic. Stepping into the shed, he snapped off that light, too, and I heard the cash box scrape against wood as he picked it up. And when he emerged into the snowy night, I saw that he’d also grabbed something else. An object that dangled from his left hand, while his right hand balanced the box.

  Scissors.

  A big, sharp pair, made for cutting the twine used to bale the pines.

  As I stood there, mute and staring too hard, my reclusive former classmate went to his truck, opened the d
oor, tossed the box and scissors inside, then climbed in, himself, and drove away.

  I continued to linger, watching as Brett drove off, the taillights on his vehicle mingling with the pretty lights in all the shop windows and the Bijoux’s glowing marquee.

  I was taking a moment to consider my second strange encounter of the evening—and waiting for someone whom I’d seen crossing the street, heading in my direction.

  I assumed that Gabriel wanted to discuss plans for the dance, and I should’ve been better prepared to talk with him, because I felt like we needed to discuss our relationship, in the wake of my revelation about my feelings for Jonathan. Whether or not those feelings were reciprocated, I probably owed it to Gabriel to make sure that, at the very least, we were on the same page about keeping things light and commitment-free.

  However, Gabriel didn’t mention the ball right away, let alone greet me. He had a big grin on his face—a reporter-with-a-scoop expression—and his eyes twinkled when he asked me a question that sounded very reminiscent of a traditional Christmas carol.

  “Did you see what I saw?”

  Chapter 34

  “I’d offer you some coffee, but the pot has been brewing all day, and it’s pretty much dark glue at this point,” Gabriel said, while I shrugged out of my coat and took one of the seats near his desk.

  As usual, Gabriel dropped down onto the old chair behind his piled-high desk and propped his feet on a blotter from years gone by, while Socrates proceeded to give Snowdrop a tour of the Gazette’s stuck-in-time headquarters.

  I took a moment to look around, too, and was surprised to discover that Gabriel had placed a small, artificial tree on a teetering pile of newspapers dating back to goodness knew when, next to a table that held a black Remington typewriter I suspected he still used now and then. The wobbling fake pine was smothered under a lumpy wad of shiny silver garland and cheap glass balls, but it was nonetheless a surprising nod to the holidays.

  “I like the décor,” I teased. “I’m glad you’re in the spirit.”

  “Speaking of spirits!” Gabriel swung his feet off the desk and rooted around until he found a sheet of paper, which he held up, grinning from ear to ear. “I received this snail-mailed press release yesterday.”

  For a guy who had a printer’s tray full of block letters, inches from his elbow, he was awfully amused by a traditional form of correspondence, but I was too intrigued, and slightly worried, to interrupt and point that out.

  “The missive is from Bitsy Bickelheim,” he continued, “who, as I assume you know, is president of the Sylvan Creek Players. And she lists you as one of the ‘local luminaries’ who will be onstage during a ‘spectacular’ production of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. Specifically as a ‘dreadful specter who portends the future.’”

  I groaned. “I actually can ‘portend’ what’s to come, and it involves me falling off a ladder while wearing a cloak.”

  “Sounds exciting.” Gabriel set the news release down, where I assumed it would disappear into the mess on his desk. Yet, he never missed an event, as far as I could tell. And, not surprisingly, he promised, “I will definitely be there to review the performances.”

  “Please, don’t be too harsh,” I requested. “I didn’t even get a chance to rehearse my part, because Ms. Bickelheim saw Snowdrop and went into a tailspin.”

  The dogs had rejoined us, and Snowdrop yipped disapprovingly about the incident. Socrates stood stiffly, too.

  “What happened?” Gabriel inquired, one eyebrow arched. He obviously sniffed a story, which I didn’t intend to share. At least, not in its entirety. However, I did tell him, “Ms. Bickelheim used to be a teacher at Sylvan Creek High. She had some run-ins with CeeCee French, years ago, and apparently they still rankle. Seeing Snowdrop triggered a negative response.”

  The posh poodle yipped again. I had to admit, I was starting to appreciate how she stood up for herself, now that she’d toned down the arrogance.

  “Wow.” Gabriel kicked up his feet again and laced his hands behind his head. “Sounds like Bitsy has a powerful aversion to CeeCee French—as evidenced by your experience, and the fact that I still have a coffee stain on my pants, from the day we surprised her by mentioning that Ms. French was returning to Sylvan Creek. So, what’s the story?”

  “I don’t think it’s for me to tell,” I said, glancing at Socrates, who gave me a look of approval. I met Gabriel’s gaze again. “But, let’s face it, we’re both wondering if that aversion was strong enough to compel her to commit murder.” Before Gabriel could start theorizing, I added, “But we have no idea if Ms. Bickelheim had an alibi, or access to a weapon . . . nothing like that. We—or more accurately I—have only identified motive, at this point.”

  Gabriel slid his feet off the desk again and leaned forward, crossing his arms on the old blotter. His dark goatee made the spark in his eyes all the more devilish. “You know who did have a potential weapon in his hands, this very evening?”

  “Yes, I noted that, too.” I didn’t look at Socrates, who would disapprove of the turn the conversation had taken. I was glad that he couldn’t report to Piper, who would agree that I shouldn’t be speculating. However, if I could find an alternate weapon for Jonathan to consider, that might help Moxie. “Those were very sharp-looking scissors in Brett Pinkney’s hand.”

  “So, now we have a potential weapon, but no motive.” Gabriel watched me closely. “Unless there’s something more you can share about Pinkney, who I know was yet another of your high school classmates. Does he, perhaps, have some intriguing connection to CeeCee French, like the incident with Moxie Bloom and the punch bowl?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, Gabriel. CeeCee and Brett dated, off and on, but for all I know, it was just the stereotypical, superficial pairing of the school’s head cheerleader and top jock. I don’t even know how much they really cared about each other.”

  “What if it was a lot—at least on one side?” Gabriel mused. “You never know what lurks in the hearts of teenagers. And, by all accounts, Pinkney went from being a star athlete to a tree-farming hermit. There has to be a story there.”

  “Maybe,” I conceded, rising to leave. The snow was falling more heavily past the Gazette’s windows, making picturesque little drifts on the twelve panes. “But maybe not.”

  “Daphne . . .” Gabriel rose, too, and I pulled on my coat while he stepped around from behind the desk. “We’re still on for the ball, right?”

  We met each other’s eyes for a long time, while I figured out how to respond. I hadn’t said much back at the skating pond, when Gabriel had almost certainly been within earshot, but there must’ve been a twinge of disappointment in my voice when I’d mentioned turning down Jonathan’s invitation. I could tell, right then, that Gabriel knew I was having doubts about our relationship, casual as it was. And, most important, I didn’t want to be unfair to him.

  “I really want to attend the dance with you,” I finally said, “as long as you are honestly good with the way things stand between us.” I held his gaze steadily. “Because I like getting coffee or dinner now and then, and solving the occasional murder with you. But I’m not looking for more at this point. I have some conflicting feelings going on.”

  He nodded. “I understand, and we’re on the same page. I’m not much for commitment right now, myself.” He gestured around the office. “I’m basically married to this place.”

  “Then we’re good for the ball,” I said, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. “Will I just see you there? Because, traditionally, I get ready at Moxie’s apartment, with her and sometimes Piper. It’s right across the street from the hotel, so you don’t really need to come get me.”

  “That sounds good,” Gabriel agreed. “I need to arrive early to shoot some photos when Elyse Hunter-Black’s secret décor is finally revealed, so your plan makes sense.”

  “Great.” I moved to the door and rested one hand on the knob, while the dogs crowded me, clearly ready
to head home. But I paused and turned back. “Gabriel, could you do me a favor?”

  He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “What’s that?”

  “I know you’re going to dig into Bitsy Bickelheim’s story,” I said. “But please—please—don’t print anything that you aren’t positive is true.” I didn’t mean to sound like Norm Alcorn, who wanted everything sanitized. But I didn’t want some old rumors that had ruined Ms. Bickelheim’s life to be printed, either, unless there was proof they were true. And even if there was a grain of truth at the heart of CeeCee’s accusation, so much time had passed that I didn’t believe the scandal was worth rehashing in public. “Or, better yet, don’t print anything at all.”

  “Assuming there’s even a newsworthy story there—”

  “And I don’t think there is,” I interrupted.

  “But if there is something worth printing, I’ll triple-check my facts,” Gabriel promised.

  “Thanks,” I said, hoping that was a promise he’d keep. Then I opened the door for the dogs, and we all hurried to the truck.

  The whole ride home, I found myself pondering questions I hadn’t discussed with Gabriel. Because, the more I thought about it—mulling over images in the yearbook Jeff Updegrove had left me for some specific purpose he wouldn’t own up to—the more I believed that Brett Pinkney might have had not just a weapon, but a motive, too.

  Chapter 35

  That same night was truly silent at Plum Cottage, as snow continued to blanket the woods surrounding my little home. Socrates and Snowdrop quickly fell asleep by the fire after sharing some chicken and rice. I was tired, too, but starving, and I puttered around the kitchen in my oversized flannel robe, leggings, and big fluffy socks, heating up some homemade curried corn chowder. I also wanted to spend some time with Tinkleston, since I’d be out late the next evening, too, at the ball. Not that Tinks, who was enjoying a snack in his favorite spot amid the herbs on the windowsill, minded being left alone. In fact, I thought he preferred solitude most of the time.