A Midwinter's Tail

by Bethany Blake

  “So,” she said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You’ve been awfully quiet about your night.” Moxie leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table, lacing her fingers together and resting her chin on the bridge they made. “Did you have a nice time with Gabriel? And did you dance with anyone who wore Armani?”

  I’d passed half of the previous, restless night trying to find a link between CeeCee French’s murder and Jeff Updegrove’s death. The remaining hours had been spent reliving my slow turn on the floor with Jonathan Black. Yet, for some reason, I wasn’t quite ready to talk about the ball.

  “That is a topic for another day,” I said, placing more than enough money on the table to cover the check and provide our server with a hefty holiday tip. Then I checked the time on my phone and was shocked to discover how late it was. Pushing my chair back and grabbing my napkin off my lap, I stood up. “Right now, I have to go walk Norm Alcorn’s dog. You don’t mind if I rush off, do you?”

  “No, of course not,” Moxie agreed. “Give Dunston a hug for me, okay?”

  “Will do,” I promised, brushing crumbs off the long skirt of my intricately patterned maxi-dress. The outfit wasn’t practical for dog walking, but everyone dressed up for brunch at the Magee. I tucked the napkin near my empty fruit bowl, telling Moxie, “I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Daphne, wait.”

  I looked down at my best friend, who must’ve been worried about something all during our meal, and who still seemed unsure about whether she should mention whatever was bothering her. I could tell by the uncertainty in her eyes, and the way she was twisting her napkin around her hands.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “You never asked how things ended, with me and Mike.”

  I was running late, but I had to know why she was bringing this up. I sank back down onto my chair. “What happened?”

  “He said he understood why I wouldn’t want to see him. Said it was probably for the best, actually.”

  I had no idea what that meant, but it didn’t sound good. As much as my gut told me that Mike was a good guy, I suffered another twinge of doubt. “And . . . ?”

  Moxie looked miserable. “We were both pretty upset when we parted ways.”

  My heart picked up its pace. “Where?”

  Moxie looked half sick when she confided, “The lobby of the hotel. The last time I saw him, before I ran home in tears, Mike was standing right near the front desk. Alone.”

  Chapter 44

  The bright sunlight that had made the atrium at Magee’s so cheerful disappeared behind a layer of gray clouds as I drove to Norm Alcorn’s house on the Rolling Green golf course. The upscale development was beloved by my mother, who tried to foist the large, low-maintenance homes—each with course access—onto all of her single, male clients, including Jonathan, whom I’d never heard talk about the sport.

  Normally, the thought of Jonathan Black wearing plaid pants and chasing a ball around a manicured lawn would’ve amused me. However, I was still shaken by Moxie’s admission that she’d last seen Mike Cavanaugh standing next to the counter that usually held the letter opener I’d last seen lying in a patch of red-stained snow.

  “Maybe I’m letting nostalgia, or some romantic daydream I have on Moxie’s behalf, stand in the way of accepting reality,” I muttered, turning into the long driveway that led to Norm’s attractive, two-story, stone-and-siding home, where a simple pine wreath hung on the door. “Maybe I’m refusing to face facts.”

  I told myself that, but as I hopped out of the truck—still lacking its wreath, which I fully intended to replace—my gut kept insisting that Mike would be proven innocent.

  The key to both murders is somewhere in that yearbook, I thought, bending to find a different kind of key. A metal one, which Norm kept hidden under a rock that looked absurdly fake. He might as well have left his house unlocked, for all the good the hunk of gray plastic did.

  A much better deterrent to crime was waiting inside the door. When I climbed the steps to the porch, I was greeted by a series of deep, resonant woofs, which echoed out across the empty golf course.

  Anyone who didn’t know that Dunston, who weighed about 150 pounds and stood nearly three feet tall, was a fuzzy, black love bug would almost certainly think twice about entering the house uninvited.

  I, on the other hand, knew that the Newfoundland was a friendly, gentle spirit who only barked because he was happy for company.

  Inserting the key into the lock, I spoke to him, certain that he could hear through the door. “Hey, buddy. I’m happy to see you, too. I hope you’re . . .”

  I was about to say “feeling okay,” but when I swung the door open, the state of Dunston’s health became quite apparent—even viewed from flat on my back, on the throw rug that lay just behind the door.

  * * *

  “You are definitely fit as a fiddle,” I told Dunston, who had first knocked me down when I’d opened the door. Then, during our walk, he’d dragged me from the third to the seventh tee and back again, his massive paws kicking up snow. I’d flailed along behind him, holding his leash in one hand and the hem of my dress in the other. Pulling off my coat, I draped it around a chair that flanked Norm’s granite-topped kitchen island, while Dunston trotted across the tile kitchen floor to get a big, sloppy drink. “You should’ve pulled the sleigh at Bark the Halls.”

  As soon as I made the joke, I wished I hadn’t brought up the dance. I hadn’t seen Jeff Updegrove’s body, but I could imagine him slumped near the sleigh, which I could also picture vividly—probably because I’d just spied a photo of the vintage vehicle on a copy of the Weekly Gazette.

  The paper lay on the island, next to a crumb-filled plate and a half-empty cup of cold coffee that told me Norm had rushed off that morning. He was normally fastidious.

  Taking the plate and mug to the sink for him, I returned to the paper, glancing at the story, which was, of course, written by Gabriel.

  “. . . Updegrove, a former resident of Sylvan Creek . . . recently served as chief operations officer . . .”

  “Another job, like parliamentarian, that no one can explain,” I noted to Dunston, who was alternately sniffing his empty food bowl and shooting me plaintive glances.

  Trying to ignore the dog’s big, brown eyes, I returned my attention to the paper.

  “. . . died of a stab wound . . . bloody letter opener from the Sylvan Creek Hotel found blocks from the scene . . . Detective Jonathan Black declined comment . . .”

  “Not surprising,” I told Dunston, who was nudging the bowl in my direction with his massive muzzle.

  Although I often fed the blatantly begging pup, I didn’t have specific instructions to do so that day, and I again averted my gaze, skimming the long article.

  “. . . speculation that Updegrove’s death is linked to the recent, still unsolved murder of pet store magnate Celeste French . . .”

  “Gabriel really needs to give me . . . I mean, Jonathan . . . time to solve that first crime,” I complained, just as an empty bowl bumped into my foot.

  Looking down—but not too far, given Dunston’s height—I met a pair of desperate eyes, and I couldn’t help melting. Especially since I feared that Norm might’ve forgotten the dog’s breakfast, in his haste to leave the house.

  “Fine,” I grumbled, rumpling the Newfoundland’s big, bushy head. “I’ll give you one scoop, since I don’t know when your person is supposed to return, and you seem pretty hungry.”

  Dunston barked loudly and happily, the sound filling the whole spacious kitchen.

  “Just don’t tell Norm,” I requested, heading for a door that led to the garage. Opening that, I picked my way past two recycling bins to reach another large plastic container, where Norm, who was also very organized, stored Dunston’s food.

  However, when I opened the lid, I discovered that the bin was nearly empty, the red scoop lying next to just a few bits of kibble.

  “Sorry, Dunston,” I said, wit
h a glance at the doorway, where the dog waited at the top of two steps. “There’s hardly a full bite in here.”

  Dunston woofed again, then trotted down the steps and across the garage, his tail wagging when he reached a pallet covered by a dark tarp. The plastic obscured something big and lumpy, and, when I followed Dunston, who was nosing around the mound, I saw the corner of a bright blue bag peeking out.

  “Is this a stash of food?” I asked, grinning at the clever dog. “Are you asking me to refill your bin?”

  His tongue lolling out—a doggie smile—Dunston barked again.

  “I suppose I’ll be helping Norm,” I noted, lifting the edge of the tarp. Then I froze in place when I read the brand name emblazoned in yellow letters across several thirty-pound bags, which lay atop a pile that was at least ten sacks deep. I looked at Dunston again, asking with disbelief, “Norm buys you CeeCee French’s discount food?”

  “Not anymore.”

  For a split second, I thought the dog had answered. Then I realized Norm Alcorn had arrived home at some point and was standing in the doorway, where Dunston had just been. But he didn’t look as happy as the dog.

  Nor did he sound pleased when he told me, in a low growl, “You really, really shouldn’t have looked under that tarp, Daphne. That was quite a mistake on your part!”

  Chapter 45

  “Norm, why?” I asked, as he poured me a cup of coffee from a fresh pot he’d just brewed, after apologizing for scaring the bejeepers out of me in the garage, and for threatening me at the hotel the other day. Apparently, he’d been quite burdened by the fact that he was hiding 300 pounds of toxic, mail-order kibble on his property, when all of Sylvan Creek believed him to be the uncontested champion of local merchants. I shot Dunston, who was chowing down on new food Norm had just picked up at Fetch!, a sympathetic look. “Why feed him something so awful?”

  “I was just trying to save a little money,” Norm admitted, setting the coffee before me and taking a seat across from me at his kitchen table. The table—adorned with a tiny Christmas tree—sat in a window-filled nook that overlooked the golf course, and he gazed outside at the expanse of snow, a look of regret in his blue eyes. “The hotel has required quite a bit of maintenance lately, including replacement of the entire heating system. Things are rather tight.” Shifting in his chair, he shot me an irritated glance. “And I never should’ve let your mother talk me into buying this big place. I don’t even like golf!”

  I didn’t know why I was being held responsible for my mother’s admittedly strong powers of persuasion, but I found myself apologizing. “Sorry about that.”

  Norm shrugged. “It’s not your fault. Really.”

  I didn’t see how it was my fault at all, but I shifted the conversation back to his other bad decision, regarding the kibble. “So, getting back to the food . . .”

  “Oh, yes.” Norm tugged at his signature bow tie. Red and green polka dot, for the holidays. “I was looking to cut costs, and I saw a buy one, get one deal on Gourmet Grub on the French’s Poodles & More Web site.” His gaze flicked to the door leading to the garage, and he winced. “As you saw, under the tarp, I took advantage of the bargain, and a promotional code, quite a few times.”

  I put two and two together faster than Fidelia Tutweiler, which wasn’t saying much for my accountant, because I was actually slow to reach a quite obvious conclusion. “So the food made Dunston sick? And he’s recovered since you switched to a better brand?”

  Norm nodded, a miserable expression on his face, while the dog in question padded over and rested his big head on his person’s lap, as if to tell Norm that all was forgiven.

  Unfortunately, Norm hadn’t forgiven himself.

  “I thought all dog foods were basically the same,” he explained, turning pleading eyes on me, as if he needed my absolution. “And I didn’t realize what was happening until a few weeks ago, when the scandal about the arsenic in the food—”

  I jerked back in my chair. “Arsenic?”

  “Yes. The poison.” Norm’s thin hand absently stroked Dunston’s broad head. “The food was . . . is . . . manufactured overseas, with little or no regulatory control, and somehow excess levels of the toxin got into several large batches. It’s not certain if it was an industrial accident, or if the cheap rice used in the kibble was grown in tainted water, perhaps near a mining operation, because rice can absorb harmful levels of arsenic.” Norm frowned down at Dunston. “Either way, Dunston became very ill. Could’ve died.”

  I leaned forward, wrapping my fingers around my mug, which advertised Sylvan Creek’s Tail Waggin’ Winterfest. “Why didn’t you let Piper do more bloodwork?”

  Norm gave me a funny look, and I realized that I shouldn’t know he’d refused the tests, so I quickly added, “When I told Piper I was walking Dunston this week, she said she hoped he was feeling better, since you had canceled some tests.”

  That sentence was technically true, and Norm seemed to accept my explanation. Plus, he was obviously eager to unburden himself. “By the time the blood tests were scheduled, I already knew what had gone wrong,” he said. “And I’d done enough research to know that Dunston would recover once he stopped ingesting the chemical.” Norm’s pale cheeks flushed with shame, and Dunston looked up at him, whining softly, as if he understood the conversation. “I didn’t want Piper—or anyone—to know I’d purchased the cheap food from a big chain.” Norm lowered his eyes and his voice. “It was such a terrible mistake. A betrayal of Dunston—and Sylvan Creek.”

  Most people probably wouldn’t have been so hard on themselves for trying to save some money, but those two things—Dunston and the town—were clearly everything to the bachelor who lived alone in an oversized house on a golf course.

  “It’s okay,” I told him, while Dunston pulled away and lay down next to Norm’s chair, yawning. “He’s obviously doing well now. You should stop beating yourself up.”

  Norm shook his head. “I can’t seem to let it go.” Then he met my gaze again, and I saw a flash of anger in his eyes. “I even wrote a message to CeeCee French, telling her she nearly killed Dunston!”

  “Really?” I forced myself to sound almost disinterested, although the comment nearly made me jump in my seat again. “You did that?”

  Norm nodded, one sharp jerk of his graying head. “Yes. She’d been e-mailing me, threatening to bring her ‘flagship store’ here, and I let her know that I would fight her franchise plan even harder than before, since she and her products had nearly taken my best friend’s life. In fact, I threatened to sue her, outside of the class action suit that was already looming.”

  Norm’s eyes glistened, as if he was close to tears, and I had to restrain myself from reaching out to pat his hand. I didn’t think he’d appreciate the gesture. Instead, I asked two questions that were competing for precedence in my mind. “So, you’ve known for a while that CeeCee wanted to locate a big French’s Poodles & More store here? And how did she respond to your threat about the lawsuit?”

  “She laughed at the prospect of the litigation—and I did know about her plans,” Norm said, hunching his shoulders. Neither one of us had touched our coffee. “I’d been keeping things quiet, not wanting to panic the local merchants until I could meet with CeeCee, personally, when she came to town for the holidays. I’d hoped that, in spite of the dismissive tone of her e-mails, I could talk some sense into her, face-to-face. Convince her that she’d be killing Sylvan Creek, as surely as she’d nearly killed Dunston, if she located a store here!”

  I leaned forward, studying Norm more closely, while my pulse picked up a few beats. I was honestly starting to wonder if he’d murdered the woman who’d threatened the two things he loved most in the world. It was beginning to seem possible, and I wished Socrates and Snowdrop had come along with me. It would’ve been nice to have backup on that lonely golf course, but, of course, only service dogs were allowed at the Magee, and the unlikely canine couple had spent the day at Piper’s farmhouse, where Jonathan
was also picking up Axis and Artie, at some point. I doubted that Dunston, who was dozing, would rise to my defense, if things went wrong between me and his beloved person, but I nevertheless inquired, as nonchalantly as possible, “What happened when CeeCee arrived in town? Did you get a chance to meet with her?”

  Norm snorted. “Yes. And she told me that I had no power to stop her. That she had every right to purchase property here—”

  “She didn’t have a location yet?” I interrupted him, because I was hopeful that, if the project was still in the early stages of development, maybe it wouldn’t go forward without CeeCee’s backing. I was also curious on behalf of my mother, who would want to know if a real estate deal might still be on the table. Then I immediately felt guilty for seeing anything potentially positive related to a classmate’s death, and for wondering about an opportunity for my mother, too. “Sorry,” I muttered.

  Norm had no idea why I was apologizing, and he didn’t really care. He was caught up in his own story, which must’ve been weighing heavily upon his mind. “There was no location for the store,” he confirmed. Then his voice took on a bitter edge. “But that wasn’t about to stop Celeste French from hijacking the chamber’s annual showing of It’s a Wonderful Life and making her big announcement, although I’d begged her to keep quiet until I could break the news to chamber members, myself, in a more private setting. One where Gabriel Graham wouldn’t be snapping pictures and sensationalizing everything. Especially since CeeCee—who knew I’d purchased some of her food—had threatened to tell everyone in town that I endorsed her products!”

  So that’s why Norm had looked so horrified when CeeCee had mounted the theater’s steps, Snowdrop in her arms. He’d wanted to continue keeping the franchise plan under wraps—and he’d been terrified that CeeCee was about to tell everyone how he’d betrayed Sylvan Creek’s merchants.