I wasn’t even sure how I’d know when I reached the proper mark, so I guessed, to the best of my ability, and thumped the ladder down on the floorboards.
The auditorium seemed impossibly silent as I grabbed the ladder with one hand and tried to lift up the bottom of my robe with the other.
“Careful,” I muttered, ascending the metal rungs—and trying not to be angry with Fidelia Tutweiler, who really should’ve broken character long enough to speak up at the audition.
Reaching the top, my breath ragged with nerves, I crouched and did my best to arrange the fabric so it covered the “apparatus,” to use Ms. Bickelheim’s word. Then, taking a deep breath and pretending I was on a yoga mat, I straightened and tried to balance, just as the curtain slowly parted. I could hear the pulleys squeaking, and people shifting in their seats, as the sound-muffling barrier between me and the audience was removed.
“Don’t fall, don’t fall,” I whispered to myself, as a spotlight slowly dawned upon me. I could feel the warmth and vaguely discern the glow through the fabric of my hood. And, I had to say, I was somewhat gratified by the faint gasps I heard from a few of the more easily spooked patrons.
Then footsteps echoed across the floorboards before coming to a halt, not far from me.
“Oh, spirit most terrible,” Asa Whitaker moaned in feigned fear, his accent veering between bad British and spot-on Jamaican. “What have you come to show me?”
I took that as my cue and slowly raised my hand, my finger shaking in suitably spectral fashion—although I wasn’t acting. I was genuinely wobbly, head to toe.
Judging by the eruption of laughter, I surmised that I’d pointed in the wrong direction. I blamed Ms. Bickelheim, in part, for what I still believed were conflicting instructions.
Shifting slowly, I moved my hand until the giggles stopped. I presumed that meant my finger was pointing in the general direction of the tombstone.
All I could do then was stand with my arm outstretched while Scrooge completed a long soliloquy that soon had my arm shaking with fatigue.
In an effort to distract myself from my precarious position, my aching muscles—and Asa’s really awful accent—I let my thoughts wander to the recent homicides, and things that might or might not be clues, but which stuck in my mind.
A pair of scissors that couldn’t be the murder weapon.
A suitcase full of designer canine clothes—and a catalog for French’s Poodles, featuring snazzy, but discount, dog duds.
“. . . when options run out . . . we turn to the familiarity of home. . . .”
A window in Moxie’s gingerbread village that shouldn’t have been dark.
And distinctive handwriting—created without pen or pencil . . .
I wasn’t supposed to have any lines, but all at once, forgetting where I was, I broke character—proving once again that Fidelia should’ve played the role—and cried out, “I’ve got it!”
Chapter 53
“Asa Whitaker saved the play,” I told Socrates and Snowdrop, who ran with me through the high school, after I’d half-tumbled off the ladder, dragged it offstage, shed my robe, and ducked out of the auditorium. We were headed toward the school library, and I was distracted, but I had to give credit where credit was due. “Asa might be terrible at accents, but he’s not bad at improvisation!”
Socrates, loping at my side, offered a rare, sharp bark, clearly disagreeing. And, in retrospect, perhaps Asa’s on-the-spot response to my slip of the tongue—“Yes, you’ve got me, spirit! I shall change forthwith! ”—wasn’t that brilliant.
“Well, at least the laughter stopped,” I reminded Socrates, as we all wheeled around a dimly lit corner, headed straight for glass double doors that I hoped wouldn’t be locked.
Reaching the library, I grabbed one of the silver handles and pulled hard, nearly flying backward when the door swung wide open.
“Typical Sylvan Creek,” I told the dogs, as we slipped inside the dark, musty room, which smelled of old paper and the SpaghettiOs that the librarian, Ms. Kindercart, apparently still packed for lunch each day. “Nobody locks up!”
Snowdrop seemed to be enjoying our adventure, but Socrates—a veteran of several sleuthing exploits gone awry—did not share in the excitement. He hung back until I said, “We’ll just look at the yearbooks, quickly. And if my hunch is correct, I will text Jonathan. I promise.”
That seemed to placate him, and I calmed down, too, getting a little spooked when we walked through the silent stacks toward a corner that used to hold generations’ worth of annuals.
Sure enough, the yearbooks were still there, and I quickly spotted the volume from my senior year. It stuck out a few inches, probably because Detective Doebler had just looked at it, and hadn’t reshelved it neatly.
“Ms. Kindercart would not appreciate that,” I told the dogs softly, plucking Magical Memories from the shelves and quickly flipping through the pages, looking for a section I hadn’t bothered with before: the junior class.
My finger trembling again, this time with renewed excitement, I traced the rows of smiling portraits until I found the one I wanted.
“I was right,” I said, smiling at Snowdrop.
Socrates was busy sniffing around the stacks. He didn’t seem impressed with the battered volumes—nor with my investigation.
Slamming the book shut, I placed it back on the shelf, aligning it correctly out of respect for Ms. Kindercart. Then I pulled my cell phone from the back pocket of my jeans and texted Jonathan, as promised, before telling the dogs, “Let’s go solve another murder—and quickly, before the play lets out and the killer leaves the school!”
Chapter 54
The Pocono Mountains’ latest snowstorm was picking up steam as I pulled into a parking spot behind Ivy Dunleavy’s little shop. As I’d expected, the front window had been dark when I’d driven past—just like the miniature window in Moxie’s gingerbread village, created using photos Moxie had taken the night of CeeCee French’s murder.
Hopping out of the van, I hurried to the passenger side and opened the door, releasing Socrates and Snowdrop from their harnesses. Snowdrop leaped to the ground—I was honestly starting to wonder if she knew we were trying to catch CeeCee’s killer—but Socrates didn’t move to get down, until I reminded him, “I texted Jonathan. I’m sure he’s on his way.”
I wasn’t really certain of that, since I hadn’t received a reply yet, but I was fairly confident. Unlike me, Jonathan Black kept his phone charged and at the ready.
Regardless, we probably had at least fifteen minutes before Ivy would even leave the theater. The final scene, about Scrooge’s redemption, was fairly long, and I wasn’t going to do more than peek inside the rear window of Ivy’s shop.
“Ivy, herself, noted that the shop should’ve been lit up, in Moxie’s version of Sylvan Creek,” I told the dogs, stomping through the snow and using my mitten to rub a circle in a thin coating of ice that covered the glass. “She said she was always working. Which is, of course, an exaggeration. But when you put all the clues together . . .”
Snowdrop barked quietly but encouragingly, while Socrates continued to look skeptical.
“This will just take a moment,” I assured him, pulling out my phone again and tapping the screen until I found the flashlight app. Then I stood on tiptoes and shined the beam into the shop. “I knew it,” I told the dogs in a whisper, although we were alone in a dark, snowy alley. “Scissors, everywhere—of course. And designer pet outfits, too!”
All at once, Socrates barked loudly, and I thought he was finally congratulating me for likely solving two murders—until Ivy Dunleavy stepped from the shadows and offered us an invitation that was served with a chilly half-smile, and backed up with a very inhospitable gun: “We’d be warmer inside, don’t you think?”
* * *
“You lost weight, changed your name and your look—and lied about your hometown,” I told Ivy, who had me, Socrates, and Snowdrop trapped in her small workroom. The space aggrav
ated my claustrophobia, and the half-clothed, headless mannequins lurking in the shadows were making me edgy, too. I was, however, grateful for the large table, strewn with half-finished, but already gorgeous, outfits for dogs, that stood between us. “Jeff recognized you, though, didn’t he?”
Ivy nodded, and her flat-ironed, copper-colored hair—which had been deep black and wavy during her high school emo phase—swung by her shoulders. “Yes. He’d been an outcast, in his own way. We’d even gone out, once or twice, in high school. He knew me well enough to see through the changes I’d made.”
“He suspected you of the murder, didn’t he?” I asked, fighting back my fear and clinging to the fact that Jonathan, and hopefully Detective Doebler, would arrive at any minute. I forced myself to meet Ivy’s eyes, which I’d recently seen in a photo, where they’d been ringed by thick, raccoon-worthy black liner. “Jeff knew you hated CeeCee—probably for bullying you. And he also knew you well enough to understand what you were capable of. He left me the yearbook, hoping I’d recognize you and solve the case, because he was scared to confront you. Scared that you’d kill him—which you did, anyway.”
Ivy scrunched up her brow. “Yearbook?”
“Yes,” I said, with a glance down at Socrates and Snowdrop. I’d tried to keep the dogs from getting herded into the shop, but Ivy had forced them to accompany us. Snowdrop looked ready to attack, which was alarming, but Socrates’s expression was, as always, reassuringly calm. Then I turned to Ivy again. “Jeff gave me a copy of our senior year annual, right after CeeCee’s murder. And I knew there was a clue inside. But I was looking at the wrong pictures, focusing on the seniors.”
Ivy smiled, a heartless grin. “I guess his attempt to save his skin was pointless. I knew, the moment he saw me at the Bijoux, that he recognized me. And when he came back to town, I confronted him outside the ball. He’d guessed far too much.”
I was surprised Jeff had gone anywhere alone with Ivy, given his suspicions. “How did you convince him to leave with you? To go outside?”
“I didn’t.” Ivy’s eyes glittered. “I meant to confront Jeff in his room after the ball. But as I was sneaking upstairs, prepared to break into his room and wait for him, I saw him arguing with Norm Alcorn.”
“About what?”
“Norm was trying to convince Jeff to call off the plans for the superstore, now that CeeCee was dead. Norm believed the store was a twisted joke on CeeCee’s part, and that no one else at French’s Poodles & More probably wanted to follow through.”
I forgot for a moment that the dogs and I were in grave danger. I was genuinely hopeful that the plans might fall apart. “What did Jeff say?”
“That his hands were tied.”
“Oh.” That news was disappointing—but I needed to keep Ivy talking until reinforcements arrived. “So, what happened?”
“They kept raising their voices, until Norm suggested they take the argument outside.” The gleam in Ivy’s eyes grew deadly cold. “I grabbed the letter opener and followed. And when Norm finally stalked off—”
I wanted her to talk, but I didn’t want to hear more of the gruesome details, and I interrupted her, asking the first question that came to mind. “Why didn’t you already have a weapon, if you went to the hotel to kill Jeff?”
Ivy frowned. “I took the letter opener on impulse, thinking I could add more suspects to the list by implicating Norm and framing Mike, too, by leaving the weapon near his house. But, of course, I had come to the hotel prepared.” She lowered the gun, if only to gesture at the table, which held not only fabric, but the array of scissors I’d seen through the window. “I’d intended to kill him with the same scissors I used to kill CeeCee—right here.”
My blood ran cold, to realize that Celeste French had been murdered close to, if not on the exact spot, where Socrates, Snowdrop, and I now stood, huddled close to one another.
“I killed her with the same scissors I used to make your dress,” Ivy continued, seeming to take some pleasure from the way I’d blanched. Her smile seemed more genuine—and crueler. “Isn’t it nice to know that your lovely gown was crafted with a murder weapon?”
Down by my shins, Socrates snorted, as if to say that he’d known succumbing to vanity was always a mistake.
I ignored the rebuke, keeping my attention trained on Ivy. “But what about Moxie’s scissors ... ?”
Like most killers, Ivy couldn’t resist bragging about her cleverness. “I knew that Moxie Bloom hated CeeCee, and the old story about the Christmas formal was common knowledge. Everybody in town would suspect her of snapping, after years of holding a grudge. So, after I killed Celeste and dumped the body in the park—as a Christmas gift to everyone in this town—I sneaked into Spa and Paw.” She rolled her eyes. “Which, like every place in this hick village, is hardly ever locked!”
A trickle of cold sweat slipped down my spine. Ivy must’ve left the door ajar when she’d sneaked away that night, and Socrates had alerted me to close it.
“I got the scissors, which I meant to leave near the body,” Ivy added, her cheeks flushing with sudden anger. “But this little pug, in a stupid sweater, knocked me over and stole the weapon I hoped to plant.”
“Tiny Tim!” I cried, wondering if the pug had sensed something was wrong and interfered, or if he’d just been causing trouble. I decided to believe he was motivated by a desire to help, because he was a sweet dog at heart. “I hadn’t been able to figure out how he got the scissors!”
Ivy glowered at me. “You know the dog?”
“Yes,” I said. “He was adopted by Mike Cavanaugh, right before Mike returned to Sylvan Creek.”
That revelation seemed to please Ivy, in a weird way. She laughed, a sharp, mirthless sound. “It’s lovely, how things all tie together, isn’t it? Mike’s dog causes trouble for me; I cause trouble for Mike.”
I didn’t really find that amusing, and Ivy grew more serious again, too. “You know, the night I killed Jeff, I saw Mike leave the hotel and limp down the alley,” she said, looking away for a moment, out the window at the falling snow. “He was right ahead of me, but never even noticed me following him.”
Because he was suffering fresh heartbreak after seeing Moxie again.
Shaking off her momentary reverie, Ivy edged to the corner of her work table. Moving closer to me. “I was so surprised he’d returned to Sylvan Creek,” she added. “Because you know what really happened, the night of the formal, right?”
I shook my head. “No. I don’t.” I hesitated, confused. “Do you?”
“Yes, of course.” The last traces of menacing glitter in Ivy’s eyes glimmered out, although I didn’t think Snowdrop, Socrates, and I were safe. She was still armed and agitated, her voice taking on a different edge as she told me, “Mike saw CeeCee follow me out of the gymnasium. She’d been bullying me all night—like she did most days at school, too. Mocking my makeup, my hair, and the gorgeous, ebony silk gown I’d made with my own hands. It was like she was mad at the world that night, but taking it out on me!”
I was pretty sure I knew the root of CeeCee’s anger: her failure to force Brett to love her by removing the object of his affection from the equation. CeeCee had invited Brett to the dance, and—dumbfounded by her audacity—he’d turned her down.
I didn’t relate all that to Ivy, though. I let her continue her story, while Socrates listened patiently, too. I hoped he was devising a plan, because I really had nothing, at that point.
“I ran away crying, and CeeCee took off after me,” Ivy related, her voice choked. She was enraged and suffering again as she relived the incident. “Mike must’ve seen us, and he followed.” Ivy shrugged as she tried to piece together parts of the tale that she didn’t know for sure. “I guess he didn’t make a big deal out of it and tell Moxie he was going to play the hero.” All at once, her expression softened. “I think he really was a nice guy, for a jock. Not all full of himself, you know?”
I suspected Mike was still nice. But I hadn’t yet he
ard the rest of the story. The part that was supposedly worse than betrayal of a girlfriend. “What happened next?”
Ivy’s eyes glistened again, rage and pain once more taking hold, and her hand, holding the gun, trembled in a somewhat alarming way. “CeeCee followed me to the courtyard, where she started pushing me. Grabbing my shoulders and shaking them!” A tear slipped from Ivy’s eye, but she didn’t wipe it away. “Mike found us, and when he tried to pull her off me, begging her to stop, CeeCee spun around and slapped him.” I winced, and cringed more when Ivy said, “She hit him with enough force to make his head snap sideways—then Mike grabbed CeeCee, roughly, and shoved her away from himself, so hard that she fell down.”
There was an ounce of humanity left somewhere inside Ivy, because she grew quiet and got a distant, almost haunted, look in her eyes. “I’ll never forget the expression on his face when he saw what he’d done. He looked horrified, staring down at his hands. Then he ran away.”
I couldn’t ever condone violence against women, and I could understand Mike’s self-loathing, at having shoved CeeCee. But I wasn’t sure if he should still be punishing himself for what sounded like a complicated spontaneous incident.
“How did you figure out I was the killer?” Ivy inquired, interrupting my thoughts—and taking another step in the dogs’ and my direction. Her hand, holding the gun, shook, and, having just held a similar position while wearing one of her creations, I knew she must be getting tired.
I really hoped Jonathan had received my text and was on his way. In the meantime, I would do my best to stall her by explaining how I’d pieced the clues together.
“I saw the drawing for a dog outfit in your sketchbook, when you showed me and Moxie your designs at Oh, Beans,” I said. “I didn’t know what it was at first, and it didn’t mean anything to me, anyhow—until I started caring for and dressing Snowdrop.”
Ivy blinked at me, confused, because I wasn’t telling my story very well. Her hand continued to shake, too.
A Midwinter's Tail Page 27