A Midwinter's Tail

by Bethany Blake

  That admission, itself, was encouraging, because I knew I couldn’t have any kind of relationship, beyond a superficial friendship, with someone who wouldn’t confide in me. We would need to reach a point where he gave me more than vague references to his childhood overseas, his time in the military, and the illness he’d recently battled again. However, I was also well aware that I continued to be Jonathan’s polar opposite, and that I would need to meet him halfway on some issues, too.

  “It’s okay,” I assured him. “I still don’t lock my doors—yet. And I was pretty sure Norm Alcorn was going to kill me today, for snooping into his personal business, while I admittedly try to solve CeeCee and Jeff ’s deaths, if only to make sure my best friend doesn’t go to jail.”

  I didn’t think Jonathan even heard the last rambling part. “What happened with Alcorn?” he asked sharply. He didn’t seem frustrated with me. Okay, maybe a little bit. However, he was mainly unhappy about the idea of Norm’s threatening me. “What did he do?”

  “Ultimately, nothing,” I assured him, as the dogs all gathered around the pickup. “But Norm was very agitated when he talked about how CeeCee announced her plans for the franchise at the Bijoux.” I recalled the pile of dog food in Norm’s garage—and my own promise to stay quiet about the stash. I didn’t want to break that vow, but I felt I should tell Jonathan. “If you haven’t questioned him, you might want to consider it. Because not only did Norm hate CeeCee for threatening his town, but he also blames her for nearly killing his beloved dog, Dunston, too.” My words came out in a rush. “I also saw him leave Bark the Halls with Jeff Updegrove, while you were very kindly dancing with Fidelia Tutweiler.”

  “I observed Updegrove and Alcorn, too,” Jonathan informed me, opening the passenger side door, so Axis could jump into the back seat. Then Jonathan bent to pick up Artie and helped the Chihuahua into the truck—after deftly deflecting an attempted sloppy kiss. “I saw them leave together.”

  I should’ve known that Jonathan had seen the two men walk off, even as he’d twirled my starry-eyed accountant.

  “And I’m familiar with Alcorn’s recent history with CeeCee French,” he added, slamming the door. “But he has a solid alibi for the night of her death—a speech to the local Lions Club. However, I might talk with him again. Especially since I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “Maybe,” I conceded, glancing at Socrates and Snowdrop, who stood together in the snow, looking for all the world like an old married couple, sending off friends for the evening. I couldn’t resist bending to give the poodle an affectionate pat.

  When I straightened, I saw that Jonathan was frowning at the nearly bare pine tree I’d dragged to the edge of the woods. He gave me a quizzical look. “Is that your Christmas tree?”

  Snowdrop whined and dropped to the ground, covering her muzzle with her paws, while Tinkleston, who must’ve had incredibly keen ears, yowled loudly inside the house.

  “That was our tree, before we had an issue with it,” I said obliquely, not wanting to pile onto the poodle’s guilt. She was doing her best to fit in and get along with Tinks. “Unfortunately, something bad happened.”

  Jonathan broke into a huge grin. “It always does, doesn’t it?”

  I sighed, following him around to the truck’s driver’s side. “I suppose so.”

  He reached for the door handle, then turned back. “Dinner, later this week?”

  I squeezed the yearbook more tightly to myself and cocked my head. “Are you buying?”

  “I would expect to, even if you promised otherwise, in advance. However, I never said we’re going to a restaurant.”

  “I’m intrigued,” I admitted, wondering if Jonathan planned to cook. If he could cook. I’d never eaten anything but cheese at his house. “What’s the plan?”

  “You like mysteries,” he said, with a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “I’ll text you when I get the details worked out.”

  “I can hardly wait.” That was true. Then I suddenly remembered something and held out the annual. “Do you want to borrow the yearbook?”

  “No, that’s okay.” He opened the door. “I plan to send Doebler to the high school tomorrow to pore over all four volumes, covering the years you and French were part of the elite ‘Fighting Squirrels.’ I don’t think there’s anything special in the copy you have—discounting your inscription.”

  “No, I suppose not,” I agreed, glancing at Magical Memories. I was secretly happy not to hand over a book that I still believed contained some sort of clue. “I’ll hold on to this for now.”

  Jonathan climbed behind the wheel, while Snowdrop barked to bid farewell to her new friends. Axis and Artie barked and yipped in response, and Socrates offered a quiet woof.

  Then I led the way to the house, while Jonathan closed his door and started the truck’s engine. But as I stepped up onto the porch, the driver’s side window slid down, and he called to me. “Daphne?”

  I turned to see Jonathan grinning at me. “What?”

  “Really?” he asked. “Leg warmers?”

  Chapter 47

  “Well, I guess Jonathan did notice some of my fashion choices,” I told Socrates, Snowdrop, and Tinks when it was just the four of us again, inside the cottage, which seemed almost too quiet.

  Moving about restlessly, I tossed a few logs on the fire, warding off the chill as night fell. The dogs seemed antsy, too, and Tinks ran up and down the spiral staircase, burning off energy.

  Heading to the kitchen, I switched on the old Bakelite radio, which had sat on the same shelf since I’d moved into my home.

  I’d never touched most of the knobs, but the radio always seemed tuned to the right station for the occasion—and tuned into the past. The soft, scratchy sounds of an old version of “Silent Night” filled the cottage, and I found myself humming along, my mind flitting between the upcoming play, my pending date with Jonathan—and the two murders that had me completely stumped.

  Jeff Updegrove, dumped near a sleigh, like a sack of toys forgotten by Santa.

  Moxie’s scissors, Brett Pinkney cutting netting—and a bloody letter opener, displayed in a way that seemed “staged.”

  CeeCee French left “like the world’s worst present” under the town’s biggest tree . . .

  The quoted word and phrase, uttered by Jonathan and Moxie, ran through my head, along with an image of the massive pine in Pettigrew Park, while the radio suddenly seemed tuned in to me and my thoughts.

  “. . . lot in town is closed for the season, but there’s still a big selection of fresh cut evergreens at the Pinkney’s Pines farm, Sylvan Creek’s family-run purveyor of Christmas trees since 1949. A local tradition, open until 6:30 p.m. each day, now through Christmas Eve . . .”

  I first checked the antique clock that sat next to the radio. Then I turned to Snowdrop and Socrates, who seemed to anticipate that we were going somewhere. They stood near the door, Snowdrop shifting on her fluffy white paws, with an eager gleam in her dark eyes. Socrates didn’t appear as excited for an outing, but he clearly wasn’t going to let me and Snowdrop wander off without someone to serve as the voice of reason.

  “Honestly, Socrates,” I told him, grabbing my coat. “You’ve really got to stop worrying. How much trouble can we get in, buying a Christmas tree?”

  * * *

  ’Twas still a few nights before Christmas, but apparently most people in Sylvan Creek had already purchased their trees. Or maybe we were just cutting it a little close to Pinkney’s Pines’ closing time, because the few cars we’d passed on the way to the farm had been headed down the rutted, dark lane in the opposite direction, bouncing pines already tied to their roofs.

  Jonathan had been kind enough to clear off my van, but I’d borrowed the old truck one last time, because it would be easy to toss a small tree in the bed. Plus, I wanted to surprise Piper by adding a new wreath to the grill.

  “I hope we’re not too late,” I told Socrates and Snowdrop, who were strapp
ed into the front seat together. Giving them a quick, sidelong glance, I noted that Socrates, who wasn’t normally good about sharing his personal space, wasn’t fighting the arrangement. Then I returned my attention to the road, which wound through a forest of mature pines that stood like snow-covered walls, their branches interlaced. “I haven’t seen any cars headed in either direction in the last few minutes.”

  Socrates, who’d endured a terrifying incident with me in a lonely apple orchard, snuffled softly.

  “This is a Christmas tree farm,” I reminded him, as we emerged from the trees and Pinkney’s Pines’ big, red barn came into view. Split-rail fencing was hung with pine roping, a small bonfire burned in a circle of stones, and strings of lights crisscrossed the lot where precut trees were available for customers who didn’t want to wander the grounds and cut down the evergreen of their choice. The scene conjured childhood memories, when my father would take Piper and me to pick a tree, and, as I steered the truck into the empty parking lot, I smiled at the dogs. “This is one of the happiest places in the world!”

  I believed that, until I faced forward again and saw Brett Pinkney standing right in front of the truck, with a less-than-festive scowl on his face—and a very sharp-looking axe in his hands.

  Chapter 48

  “Are we too late?” I asked Brett, looking nervously around the farm as I helped Socrates and Snowdrop down from the truck. I wasn’t sure why I’d even opened the door for the dogs. I was starting to think we should probably head home. I turned back to the Fighting Squirrels’ former quarterback, who was tapping the axe handle lightly against one hand, as if testing the tool’s heft. “We can turn right around and come back tomorrow.”

  “No, we’re still technically open,” Brett assured me, sounding far from enthusiastic. He squinted past me down the lane. “Although, it seems like business has died down for the night. I let the other guys go home already.”

  I didn’t even look down at Socrates, who whined softly to hear that news. I was pretty sure he was picturing both of us cowering in a shed at the Twisted Branch orchard, waiting for a killer to break down the flimsy door.

  “Well, we’ll just grab a tree, and maybe a wreath, and be on our way,” I said, clapping my mitten-clad hands together. Then, while Socrates and Snowdrop observed warily from their low vantage points, I gestured to the lot of precut pines. “If you could just show us something small, please, because we live in a very tiny cottage.”

  “Yes, I know where you live,” Brett said flatly. The comment alarmed me, until I remembered that we both lived in Sylvan Creek. Everybody knew where everybody lived. At least, I hoped that was the case. “And I don’t have anything under six-foot, precut,” he added. “Most people don’t want those little scraggly things, like the one you took from the burn pile.”

  My cheeks caught on fire. “Oh. You saw that?”

  Socrates snuffled, while Snowdrop sneezed. The sounds were very reminiscent of snickers.

  Brett took a moment to observe the poodle, who seemed to puzzle, or displease, him. And while Brett was distracted, I studied him. He still had an athletic build, with a lean, muscular frame, probably honed by farm work as opposed to time in a gym. He’d retained his good looks, too, but there were lines around his eyes and mouth, and I would’ve guessed that he was older than me, if we hadn’t graduated together. Thick, dark-brown curls peeked out from under his knit cap, hinting at a full head of hair. In most ways, he seemed like the guy I’d known in high school—except for the expression in his eyes. The closed-off, angry-at-the-world look was very different from the carefree grin he sported in the yearbook football team photo, where he had his arm draped around Mike Cavanaugh’s shoulder....

  “Come on,” Brett said gruffly, as if he realized I’d been scrutinizing him. He swung the axe up over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  I shot the dogs an uncertain glance. Snowdrop licked her muzzle, a nervous gesture, while Socrates shook his head, his ears swinging. He was clearly telling me that we shouldn’t follow Brett Pinkney anywhere.

  Socrates might’ve been right, but I didn’t want to jump in the truck and drive off in a panic. For all I knew, we were overreacting to a very innocent situation at a place I’d just called one of the happiest on earth. And we certainly shouldn’t have been surprised to encounter someone with an axe at a tree farm, so I asked, “Where, exactly, are we going?”

  Brett was already walking away, and I took a few tentative steps after him. “We’re going to get you the right-sized tree,” he said. “I know the perfect one, where the new pines grow.”

  My feet kept moving, as if of their own accord, and the dogs were right beside me, Socrates huffing with disapproval. “Um, where, exactly, is that?” I asked Brett.

  He turned back, finally smiling, but in a way that told me he thought the question was stupid. “At the far end of the property, near the edge of the forest, of course!”

  * * *

  The night was so cold, under a clear, moonlit sky, that the snow crunched and squeaked under our feet and paws as we made our way through rows and rows of pine trees. Brett led the way, his heavy boots blazing the trail for me and the dogs.

  I was torn between enjoying the stillness of the evening and the smell of fresh pine in the frosty air, and fearing for all our lives. Yet, with each wordless step we took, I relaxed a little more, thinking that, if Brett planned to kill us, he probably would’ve done the deed at least an acre back, because, as it turned out, the untamed forest—a mix of pines and oaks and elms—was never too far off. He could’ve easily grabbed my arm and hauled me into the woods at any point. As far as I could tell, from the way we zigged and zagged through the cultivated trees, he had an actual evergreen in mind for me.

  Snowdrop and even Socrates seemed to be warming to the adventure, too. The dogs never strayed far, but Snowdrop, in particular, hopped out of the tracks now and then to bound through the deeper snow.

  I was just about to ask how much farther we’d have to hike, because I feared the formerly pampered poodle might wear herself out, when all at once, Brett stopped short.

  I nearly bumped into his broad back, and he sidestepped, so I could see around him.

  “There she is,” he told me, pointing to a small tree with the blade end of his axe. “Can’t be more than three feet tall. But shaped just perfect—skinny, not squat—for a small house.”

  “That is a nice tree,” I agreed with a rush of relief, to realize I’d been right. Brett hadn’t planned to lure us to our demise. He just wanted to make a sale. And he seemed to have a surprisingly genuine interest in matching person to pine.

  I was just about to shoot Socrates an I knew we’d be fine look when Brett caught me completely off guard by saying, “But before I cut this thing down for you, I suppose you want to know whether I murdered CeeCee French, right?”

  Chapter 49

  “I don’t need to know anything about your involvement—or lack thereof—in CeeCee’s murder,” I assured Brett, tripping over my words and stumbling back a step. Snowdrop and Socrates backed up, too. “You don’t need to tell me anything.”

  “Daphne, you’re always in the Gazette, solving crimes with the real detective . . .” I tried not to be insulted by that comment, because Brett was right. I wasn’t an authorized sleuth. “. . . and you didn’t come out here just to get a tree. You already have one, from the burn pile!”

  “Actually, that tree got destroyed,” I informed him. “So, I do need a new tree.”

  Brett crossed his arms, resting the axe on his shoulder. “And you had no intention of nosing around? Asking me questions about me and CeeCee’s past? Because everybody—including the real detective, Black—knows that it didn’t end well.”

  The second emphasized reference to Jonathan as the legitimate chief investigator on the case was probably superfluous, but I wasn’t inclined to argue with a man who held an object that could fell mighty trees. In fact, I decided honesty might be the best policy.

&nb
sp; “Okay, maybe I do have a few questions,” I confessed, with a guilty glance at Socrates, who’d known all along that I’d intended to snoop. He hung and shook his head, while Snowdrop yapped loudly. I took that as support for my efforts to find her person’s killer. “I’m mainly trying to find out what happened years ago, at the senior holiday formal, when CeeCee and Mike Cavanaugh disappeared.” I hesitated, then added, “And I’m curious about why you’re missing from the spring sports yearbook photos, too.”

  Brett furrowed his brow. “You’re looking at old yearbooks? And you noticed that?”

  I couldn’t think of one good explanation for why I was nosing through our old yearbook, so I stayed the course with the truth. “Jeff Updegrove left his copy of Magical Memories with me, when he dropped off Snowdrop. I feel like he wanted me to find something in the pages, but, of course, I can’t ask him now.” I shrugged under my heavy coat. “I’ve been studying some of the pictures.”

  Brett’s voice was low and wary. “And what’ve you found?”

  “Nothing,” I admitted, wishing we’d had our conversation by the bonfire. I was getting cold now that we were standing still. “Nothing that will help clear Moxie—or Mike—of either murder.”

  Brett was silent for a long time. Then he said, “I honestly don’t know what happened the night of the formal. Mike and I were pretty good buddies, but he never talked about it.”

  I didn’t want to press my luck, but Brett seemed more thoughtful than agitated, like he wanted to help his old friend, too, so I dared to ask, “What about CeeCee? She was probably your date for the dance, right? You must’ve been upset, too. Didn’t you ever talk about it?”

  Brett snorted, his breath coming out like steam from a racehorse’s nostrils. “No, CeeCee actually had the nerve to ask me to the formal, despite all she’d done, but I turned her down. We were over, by then. I didn’t care what she did at that point.”