A Midwinter's Tail

by Bethany Blake

  I had no idea what he was talking about. “What do you mean?”

  “She’d messed up my life, but good. We were finally through, forever. And good riddance!”

  I looked down at Socrates, who was backing up again on his big paws and pushing Snowdrop back, too. I tried to ask, nonverbally, for a few more minutes. My basset hound protector didn’t seem pleased, but I turned back to Brett. “I’m sorry. I still don’t understand what happened between you and CeeCee.”

  “CeeCee French was desperately in love with me,” Brett explained, spelling things out slowly, as if I were a child. “I’d push her away, but she’d never accept that I didn’t care about her, the way she did about me. She thought she could force everyone to do anything she wanted—even love her.”

  I sucked in a quick breath, realizing that Jonathan had been right. CeeCee was the one whose love had been unrequited. And she’d apparently found that unacceptable.

  “When I finally told her it was never happening, fall of our senior year, she went all out to get revenge,” he said, his voice low and angry. He uncrossed his arms, so the axe swung to his side, and, although he wasn’t mad at me, I stepped back, too. “CeeCee figured out who I was really in love with and—although this person didn’t love me back—CeeCee had her banished from the school. And, when it was over, I couldn’t even function. Not in school. Not on the field.” Balling his fist, Brett dug the palm of his free hand into his eye, as if he might be crying. “I took my place here, where I belong, and I’ve stayed here since.”

  I was almost positive that I’d already identified his “true love.” She’d stood in the shadow of a tower of cheerleaders dominated by CeeCee French, staring sadly at Sylvan Creek High’s playing fields, where a misguided student who’d probably declared his affection for her—maybe more than once—was practicing football.

  “Brett, who was it?” I asked, certain that he’d confirm my hunch. “Who were you in love with?”

  “Bitsy Bickelheim,” he said softly, his voice choked with emotion. “And she never did anything wrong—except cross CeeCee, too, by trying to be a responsible adviser to the cheerleading squad. One who didn’t always let CeeCee get her way.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything more to say, and Brett quickly pulled himself together, hoisting the axe and stomping toward the little tree. “Enough with the past,” he said brusquely. “That’s over and done with. Certainly not something I’d kill over. I’m not one to destroy, or take, lives.”

  I didn’t know Brett well, but I was inclined to believe him, at least when it came to human lives. He obviously had no qualms about putting an end to evergreens. As Socrates, Snowdrop, and I tensed, he hauled back the axe, prepared to fell my perfect Christmas tree. The one I’d dragged him across several acres, after regular business hours, specif i-cally to chop down.

  I probably should’ve worried about upsetting him again over the loss of a sale and the waste of his time, but, just as the axe reached the apex of its backswing, I heard myself calling out, “Brett! Wait!”

  Chapter 50

  “You really couldn’t bear to chop down a tree at a tree farm?” Piper asked, scooping leftover chestnut-potato puree into a plastic container. We were in the kitchen at the farmhouse, cleaning up after my sister’s annual attempt at cooking a holiday dinner that was usually attended by Mom, Socrates, Moxie, and me. While the menu remained comfortingly constant—the creamy puree, a festive salad with deep red beets and bright greens, and a glazed ham for the meat eaters—the guest list had been slightly different that year, since Moxie had decided to stay home. New attendees included Snowdrop, as well as Roger Berendt and Fidelia Tutweiler, who were in the living room, enjoying some after-dinner Cognac punch by the fire. Piper snapped the lid onto the container and handed me the serving bowl and spoon, so I could wash them in the deep, apron-front sink. “You know those trees are grown to be harvested, right?” she asked. “And they aren’t sentient!”

  “Yes, I think you went overboard, in terms of compassion,” my mother observed dryly from her perch on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. In spite of having donned an apron to protect her “winter white” cashmere sweater and wool pants ensemble, she wasn’t making herself useful. Like the non-family guests, who’d been forbidden to chip in, she also nursed a cocktail.

  I wouldn’t have minded a drink, myself, given that I needed to take the stage at the high school in less than three hours, but I didn’t think drinking and climbing ladders in oversized cloaks was a good mix. Instead, I gave myself a consolation prize, licking the spoon before I dunked it into the sudsy water. My sister didn’t cook often, but when she did, she applied her usual perfectionism. The puree was delicious.

  “A tree is not like one of your many stray dogs and cats,” Mom observed, with a wave of her drink and a pointed look at the dogs, neither of whom had ever been strays. Socrates ignored my mother, like he always did, but Snowdrop growled at the perceived insult. Then both dogs shambled off to the living room, while Mom gestured with her punch again. Another sip, and she might actually exhibit a facial expression. “One need not feel sorry for an evergreen!”

  “I know you’re probably right,” I agreed, rinsing the serving spoon and handing it to Piper, who’d grabbed a plaid dish towel. “It just looked so happy, out in the snow. And there was a perfectly good alternative in the burn pile. Scrappy seems happy to be dressed up in lights and ornaments.”

  Slipping the spoon into a drawer, Piper shot me a skeptical glance. “You named a tree you got—”

  “From Brett Pinkney’s discard, scrap wood pile,” I said, refusing to feel silly.

  “Why in the world did you drag that poor man across his whole property—valued at nearly one million dollars for the land alone, not that he’ll consider selling—if you had no intention of purchasing a tree?”

  Of course, my mother had to put a price tag on a generations-old family business. And my sister didn’t give me a chance to answer. “Your younger child was snooping into CeeCee French’s and Jeff Updegrove’s murders,” Piper said, accepting the clean, rinsed bowl from me. “Weren’t you, Daphne?”

  I fished around in the sink, locating silverware—and avoiding my sibling’s critical gaze. I had a basset hound who gave me enough disapproving looks. “I might’ve asked a few questions, in the interest of helping Moxie,” I admitted. “But Brett couldn’t tell me much.”

  “He told you something, though,” Mom noted shrewdly. Maybe she hadn’t downed as much punch as I’d believed. Or maybe the strong drink was heightening her always keen powers of perception. “What was it?”

  “I don’t feel like I should share details, but Brett admitted that CeeCee French used to be desperately in love with him.” I scrubbed some forks with a sponge. “And when he wouldn’t reciprocate, she found a way to punish him, and bring down the person he really cared for, too.”

  “Ouch.” Piper, currently in love herself, winced and glanced in the direction of the living room, where Roger, who wore a bright green sweater vest, was deep in conversation with Fidelia.

  My accountant’s cheeks had a pretty flush, and she’d donned a red, silky blouse that featured a dowdy bow, but was nonetheless quite bold by Fidelia’s standards. I really believed that a few dances with two of Sylvan Creek’s most handsome men had boosted her confidence.

  “Well, it’s settled,” Mom said, slapping her free hand against the granite countertop and drawing Piper’s and my attention back to the kitchen.

  “What’s that?” Piper asked, tossing the towel over her shoulder and moving quickly across the room to remove the tumbler of punch from Mom’s possession. Our mother looked confused, and perhaps disappointed, until Piper distracted her with another question. “What’s settled?”

  “The murder,” Mom announced. “Brett Pinkney did it.”

  Piper and I exchanged glances that said we agreed our mother was a bit tipsy. Then I spoke over my shoulder, addressing Mom, while I searched for the last few spoo
ns in the warm water. “How do you figure?”

  I could practically hear the dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s always the strong, silent type.”

  That was not necessarily the case. In fact, one of the killers I’d caught had been quite gregarious. It was difficult enough arguing with my mother when she was stone-cold sober, though, and I had no intention of debating her after one—or perhaps two—drinks.

  “I’ve got to leave soon and head straight to the high school, or I’d drive her home,” I told Piper in a whisper, handing her the last clean utensils. “You are going to brew some coffee, right?”

  “I heard that!” Mom said. “And I do not need a ride—or coffee!”

  Her protests barely registered with me. My right hand, still soapy and wet, was darting out to grab my sister’s left wrist, causing her to drop forks all over the floor.

  “What the . . . ?” I gasped, staring at the big gem that glittered on Piper’s ring finger, while Roger, Fidelia, and the dogs, roused by the commotion, joined us in the kitchen. My gaze darted from Roger, who looked as pleased as the punch we’d taken away from my baffled mother, back to my sister, whose eyes were twinkling like her gorgeous, diamond engagement ring. “Have you been wearing that the whole time?”

  My newly engaged sibling grinned ear to ear. “Yes, Daphne. And I have to say, for a sleuth, you’re not very observant!”

  Chapter 51

  “Piper was not wearing that ring the whole evening,” I told Socrates and Snowdrop, who were strapped in the front seat of my van—which now sported a wreath on the grill, like the old truck.

  I’d felt so badly about not buying the little tree, and taking a freebie, that I’d ended up purchasing no fewer than six wreaths from Pinkney’s Pines. I wasn’t sure what to do with them all, and I’d tossed one in the back seat for Bitsy Bickelheim, thinking I’d give it to her after the performance, instead of the more traditional gift of flowers. At least, I thought actors gave their directors some token of appreciation.

  “Did you see a ring on Piper’s finger?” I asked the dogs. Socrates was keenly observant, and Snowdrop was no stranger to bling. I dared to glance at both canines as I steered down the road to the school. “I’m not sure how Mom would’ve overlooked that big rock, too—not to mention Fidelia.”

  It was dark in the VW, but I was pretty sure I saw a twinkle in Socrates’s eyes, like he agreed that my sister had pulled a fast one on us, hiding the ring until she was ready to announce her engagement.

  There was also a chance that my normally aloof basset hound best friend was suddenly approving of love.

  “Regardless, it was nice to get some good news tonight,” I added, pulling into the parking lot, which was already filled with cars. We were rather late, after spending quite a bit of time congratulating Piper and Roger; calming down a very excited Fidelia, who had a latent romantic side; and trying to convince my mother that Winding Hill was a perfectly wonderful place to raise children, and that the happy couple wouldn’t have to buy “new construction” in a cul-de-sac any time soon, if ever.

  Finding an empty spot, I parked and got out of the van, then helped Socrates and Snowdrop to the pavement. “Why aren’t all these cars reassuring?” I asked, heading for the metal doors we’d used before, as fat snowflakes began to fall from the sky. “I feel more nervous now than when the place was abandoned!”

  Socrates clearly disagreed—because he didn’t have to go onstage. He and Snowdrop would watch from the wings, just like I would do until the next-to-last scene.

  Opening the door, I let the dogs trot past me, then took the lead, showing them the way to a back entrance to the auditorium. I could hear muffled voices coming from the stage, because the play was already underway, and I didn’t want to walk through the main doors and past the audience.

  “This way,” I whispered, turning down a narrow corridor that would take us directly backstage. “And be quiet, okay?”

  I wasn’t sure why I said that. No one could hear us, and, not counting Elyse Hunter-Black’s ghostly greyhounds, Socrates was the most reticent dog I’d ever met. Snowdrop wasn’t noisy, either.

  Needless to say, the dogs didn’t respond, and a few seconds later, we reached the stage entrance and slipped inside, mounting a musty staircase and joining the rest of the cast, whose waiting members were huddled stage right—or stage left—just beyond a heavy velvet curtain.

  I took my place there, too, trying to see past a bunch of people in Dickensian costumes, so I could check out Asa Whitaker’s portrayal of Scrooge.

  I couldn’t see much, but Asa’s attempt at a British accent made me glad Fidelia hadn’t auditioned us both for a speaking role. I wasn’t sure I could’ve done much better than Asa, although I probably couldn’t have done worse. Then someone standing in front of me—I was pretty sure it was Bob Cratchit—moved a little bit sideways, and I spied a character onstage who wore a green velvet costume, a bushy beard, and a laurel wreath upon his head.

  My stomach churned, and I looked down at Socrates and Snowdrop, who probably couldn’t see a thing through a forest of legs and skirts with huge bustles. “I’m pretty sure that’s the Ghost of Christmas Present,” I whispered. “I’ll be on in the next scene!”

  Someone tapped my shoulder and said, “Yes, you will be, and you are tardy!”

  Turning, I saw Ms. Bickelheim standing right behind me—holding my cloak, wadded up in her arms, and scowling like Death herself.

  * * *

  “Unfortunately, the Kinnaman twins, who comprised our entire stage crew, drank some bad eggnog,” Ms. Bickelheim explained quietly, leading me and the dogs behind the backdrop to the other side of the stage, where there was nothing but semidarkness and a waiting ladder. “It’s up to the actors to do everything tonight. You’ll be on your own.”

  I shot Socrates and Snowdrop a panicked look. “But—” Before I could protest that I would appreciate some help from one of my fellow thespians—there were a bunch of them, standing right across the stage—Ms. Bickelheim added, in a hurried but hushed tone, “Put on your costume, and when the lights dim, carry your ladder center stage, climb up, and prepare to point at the tombstone stage right! Just like in rehearsal!”

  First of all, I could’ve sworn that the tombstone had originally been stage left. Not that I knew which direction was which. And, second of all, we’d never completed my rehearsal.

  There was no time to quibble. I could hear Scrooge begging the current ghost—who seemed to be knocking it out of the park—to tell him what would happen next to his stingy self, which I took to mean the scene was wrapping up. In a few minutes, the present set would disappear, replaced by a single tombstone.

  All at once, Jonathan’s words echoed in my mind.

  “. . . the blood was meant to be a dramatic touch . . . the whole placement of the letter opener . . . a little too staged . . .”

  There wasn’t much time to start a new conversation with Ms. Bickelheim, but the clock was running out on my effort to clear Moxie’s—and hopefully Mike’s—names, too, and I said, quietly, “I spoke to Brett Pinkney, and he told me everything. I’m so sorry, Ms. Bickelheim. It sounds like the whole thing was a mess, and you really did nothing wrong. The ‘affair’ was fabricated entirely by CeeCee to punish you—and Brett.”

  Bitsy Bickelheim stared at me for a long time, blinking behind eccentric, leopard-print cat-eye glasses until I started to get uncomfortable. Then, she finally said, in a low, icy tone, “Is this part of some private investigation, Ms. Templeton? Are you trying to lead me to say something? Because I know for a fact that you’re attempting to solve CeeCee French’s murder—and we both know I had motive.”

  Snowdrop growled at Ms. Bickelheim’s mention of her deceased person, while Socrates made a grumbling sound, reminding me that he was available if I needed backup. He was also complaining about the fact that I’d just poked a hornet’s nest.

  “I am trying to solve the crime,” I admitted, with a glance past Ms. Bickelheim
to the stage, where the lights were dimming. Realizing that I still hadn’t donned my costume, I shook out the robe and began to struggle into the fabric, pulling the cloak over my head and snagging my hand in the cowl. The garment was so large and shapeless that the only thing marking the neck hole was a label. A little, pink piece of fabric that gave me pause, for a moment, as I tried to sort myself out. Then I twisted the robe around, so the tag was in the back, and pulled the whole thing over my body. When my head emerged, I resumed addressing Ms. Bickelheim, who—in spite of being angry—adjusted my hem. “I’m not accusing you of anything,” I promised her. “I just want to find the truth, on behalf of my best friend, so if you know anything, we could meet later. . . .”

  Ms. Bickelheim didn’t take me up on that offer. She compressed her mouth into a thin, angry line. And by the time she spoke, Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present had exited the stage to a rousing round of applause, and the entire theater was plunged into darkness—which only made her warning more ominous.

  “Be careful on the ladder, Daphne,” she said, her voice strangely deep and even. “The expression might be ‘break a leg.’ But it’s your neck you really have to watch.”

  Chapter 52

  “Here goes,” I muttered to Socrates and Snowdrop, awkwardly hoisting the ladder and shuffling, to the best of my ability, to the center of the stage, while the heavy velvet curtain was drawn shut.

  I couldn’t see a thing, because the theater was still dark, and Ms. Bickelheim had yanked the hood over my head, covering my eyes, before she’d disappeared into the wings. I couldn’t hear much, either, beyond the shuffling feet of some actors who quickly removed the previous ghost’s armchair throne. I was pretty sure another cast member had rushed out to put Scrooge’s Styrofoam tombstone in place, too, while I struggled not to stumble over the massive hem of my cloak, which I kept stepping on.