“When Jeff dropped her off, Snowdrop wore a beautiful cashmere sweater, which I didn’t know how to clean,” I said, with a glance down at the poodle, whose lips were curled. I shook my head, just slightly, telling her to back down, and Socrates nudged her with his muzzle, too, presumably urging patience. Then I addressed Ivy again. “When I looked for directions, I noticed the hand-stitched Park Avenue Pets label.”
“My former label,” Ivy growled, her eyes narrowed. “Until CeeCee French—ever the bully—began to knock off all my designs, selling nearly identical clothes in her megastores, turning out her cheap merchandise so quickly that my snooty clients declared my designs ‘irrelevant’ and ‘low class.’ I had to close my Manhattan storefront and crawl back here, my tail between my legs!”
I’d seen the copies of Ivy’s designs in the catalog I’d found in CeeCee’s room. The one that introduced new products that would be available in CeeCee’s stores. The canine clothes had been the same as the outfits in Snowdrop’s wardrobe. I hadn’t been sure if the poodle’s garments were actually cheap—or if, as Ivy had just confirmed, CeeCee had been ripping off Park Avenue Pets’ ideas.
All at once, I was struck by an important question. “Did CeeCee even know who you were when she was pirating your work? Was she bullying you again?”
“No,” Ivy informed me, her voice dripping icicles, while, outside, the snow came down harder. Fat flakes were falling past the shop’s rear window, and I wondered if the storm had delayed Jonathan, who should’ve arrived by then, even if he’d had to drive from his home in the country. “I had reinvented myself by the time CeeCee started stealing from me,” Ivy added. “In fact, I doubt she even knew the person behind Park Avenue Pets. She sent minions to the shop when she needed prototypes.”
“Like . . . secret shoppers?”
Ivy nodded, her mouth a thin, white line. Then she said, “If she’d known my identity, I never could have lured her here.”
My stomach clenched. “You . . . ?”
Ivy could tell that I was horrified to realize CeeCee’s murder had been premeditated, and she laughed. “Yes. I pretended I was a naïve, up-and-coming designer who would create exquisite pet clothes that she’d be welcome to copy and sell for next to nothing, because I was desperate to launch my career.” The flicker of amusement in Ivy’s eyes guttered out. “Cheapskate that she was, CeeCee couldn’t resist at least looking at my designs. Alone. Here.”
I glanced at the glittering array of scissors and, feeling queasy, rested one hand on my stomach. Both dogs stood stock-still, too.
“How did you put everything together?” Ivy asked, drawing my attention back to her. “You couldn’t have known about my New York store.”
I cleared my throat, which felt dry, then explained. “I saw something in CeeCee’s hotel room that made me suspect she was knocking off someone’s designs. And when I donned my costume tonight, I also noticed the label, which was hand-stitched in the same distinctive script I’d seen in Snowdrop’s sweater—and my gown. When I stood onstage, I started putting two and two together.”
Ivy appeared wary. “How so?”
“You’d told me that you had lived in New York City,” I reminded her. “And you couldn’t resist handling Snowdrop’s clothes—your own creations—when you dropped off my gown at Moxie’s apartment. You had to compliment your own handiwork.”
Ivy’s cheeks flushed again, with embarrassment. “Any seamstress would’ve been drawn to the outfits. That’s hardly proof—”
I spoke over her. “And when you saw Moxie’s gingerbread re-creation of your shop, you joked that a light should’ve been burning, because you were always working. But I knew that Moxie was very careful about capturing Sylvan Creek just as she’d seen it the evening of CeeCee’s murder. For once, you’d turned off the lights—so you could dispose of CeeCee’s body, without risking that anyone would see.” Ivy opened her mouth, perhaps to protest, but I didn’t give her a chance. “I initially thought you’d shut off the lights because you’d gone somewhere to meet CeeCee—maybe an encounter that had gone wrong. But now I realize that you were hiding the body and cleaning up.”
Ivy’s voice shook almost as badly as her hand, which was trembling pretty hard at that point. “You think you’re really clever, don’t you?”
“It was mainly the label,” I said. “Your stitches are like handwriting.” A low, sustained growling sound came from down near my ankles, and I gently bumped Snowdrop with my foot. Then I heard Socrates’s tags jangle when he nudged her, too. He must’ve had greater influence over the feisty poodle than me, because she settled down, so I could ask, “I’m not the only one who figured out your true identity, am I?”
“Bitsy. Bickelheim.” Ivy snarled the name. “We spent a lot of time on her ridiculous costumes, our heads bent over my sketchbooks. One day, she looked me in the eye, and I knew she’d recognized me.” Ivy gave me a sharp look. “How did you know?”
“She slipped and called you by your real last name, Dumphree, at rehearsal one night. I didn’t think twice about it—until I saw your picture and your real name in the yearbook tonight.”
“Stupid yearbook,” Ivy grumbled, under her breath. “I should’ve killed Ms. Bickelheim, too.” She was speaking more to herself than me. “I counted on her cowardice to keep her silent, but I didn’t factor in how scatterbrained she is.” Then Ivy met my gaze again and leveled the gun right at my chest. “And I can’t have too many bodies piling up, can I?”
“Ivy, wait!” I raised my hands, as if I could ward off a bullet, and, desperate for more time, asked, “Why did you leave the play? Why are you even here so early?”
Of all the things I’d said to upset her, my mention of the Sylvan Creek Players’ interpretation of A Christmas Carol seemed to send her over the edge.
“I heard you say, ‘I got it!’ Which is not something the ghost says!” Ivy complained, practically yelling at me. “I knew you solved murders, and I had to follow you. Plus, I couldn’t stand Scrooge’s accent one more second!”
I was out of time, too. Ivy’s hand was shaking like crazy, and she stretched out her arm, her finger twitching on the trigger.
My hands were still raised, and I took a step backward. But there was nowhere to go, and I crashed into one of the half-naked mannequins.
The dummy tumbled sideways—just as Ivy squealed with pain and fell, too, when a posh, but surprisingly tough, poodle who’d darted under the table nipped Ivy’s calf, while a low-slung basset hound who knew something about leverage strategically placed himself as a stumbling block.
Ivy seemed to fall in slow motion, her eyes huge with surprise and fear, and, although the small, cramped room had erupted into chaos, I swore there was a terrible moment of silence when Jonathan Black stepped through the back door—and the gun, still clutched in Ivy’s hand, went off.
Chapter 55
“What took you so long?” I asked Jonathan, when Detective Doebler and the uniformed officers had led Ivy Dunleavy away. I hoped she’d be charged for shooting the poor mannequin I’d knocked over, too. The dummy, which still lay on the floor a few feet from me and Jonathan, had a gaping hole in its chest. Trying not to think about how that could’ve been me, or one of the dogs, who’d disappeared, I pressed for Jonathan to explain where the heck he’d been, after I’d texted to let him know I’d solved the crime. “I sent my message an hour ago!”
Jonathan was clearly torn between frustration, exasperation—and laughter, now that he’d checked me over and found me free of bullet holes. “I was at the high school, watching your play—as I’d promised to do,” he informed me. “As per Ms. Bickelheim’s instruction, my phone was silenced for the entire . . . let’s just say ‘interesting’ interpretation of a classic tale that I’d never associated with Jamaica, before tonight.”
I gasped. “You heard it, too! Asa’s accent!”
“It was difficult to miss,” Jonathan said dryly. “Although, the real highlight was a silent specter who poin
ted toward a wall-mounted fire extinguisher, when predicting Scrooge’s fate.”
“Oh, that is pretty bad,” I agreed. “I had no idea where I was pointing. Ms. Bickelheim and I both have problems with stage right versus stage left.”
“You’re just lucky you didn’t break your neck,” Jonathan noted, taking my elbow and gently moving me aside, so one of the uniformed officers could reach past us and bag a pair of scissors. Ivy had refused to identify which one, or ones, were weapons. In fact, she’d pleaded innocence the whole time she was being handcuffed and escorted out of the shop. “I’ve seen you fall on flat ground.”
“The whole thing is Fidelia Tutweiler’s fault,” I said. “But that’s a story for another time.”
“I look forward to hearing it,” Jonathan assured me, his gaze flicking to the officer, who nodded to indicate that he was done collecting evidence before opening the door and joining everyone else outside. Jonathan met my eyes again. “For now, I need to get back to work—if you’re all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” I promised, adding quickly, “And please don’t hold tonight’s mishaps against me. I fully expected to solve this crime with you.”
“You were actually a few steps behind,” he informed me. “Doebler and I had already solved the case. He’d scoured the yearbooks and recognized Ivy Dumphree. We spent the day reconstructing her past and identifying a fingerprint she’d left on Moxie’s scissors. I came here because there was a text waiting for me, after the play, that said we had enough evidence to make an arrest.”
“Did you see Ivy at the high school?”
Jonathan nodded. “Yes. And if I’d known we were ready to take her in, I would’ve followed her when she left early. But I had no reason to tail her. In truth, I assumed she just couldn’t take the acting anymore, either, and was headed home.” He grinned. “No offense.”
Jonathan was amused, but I felt strangely crestfallen. “So, you really didn’t come here in response to my message?”
“Sorry, Daphne.” He squeezed my elbow again, this time to apologize. “I didn’t even read my other messages. I just hurried over here to meet Doebler.”
“Oh.” I shrugged, shaking off my vague sense of disappointment. “Well, it all worked out. And we’re still on for dinner, right?”
Jonathan frowned. “About that. Would you take a rain check? I’m afraid I’m going to be busy for the next few days.”
I forced a smile. “Yes, of course. Between the holidays and wrapping up this case, I guess you will be preoccupied.”
Jonathan smiled, too. “Thanks for understanding.” “No problem,” I said, as Detective Doebler opened the door and poked his head inside to let his partner know that people were waiting outside for him, in a blizzard.
Jonathan left without another word, and—still suffering a twinge of disappointment—I went to find the dogs, who’d wandered off when the police had arrived.
I’d thought they wanted to stay out from underfoot, until I found them in front of the window, resting against each other, shoulder to shoulder, quietly watching the snow fall outside.
I didn’t have the heart to disturb them, and I gave them another moment while I checked my phone, which had been buzzing the whole time Ivy Dunleavy had been considering shooting me.
Checking my voice mail, I held the phone to my ear, and I hoped the dogs didn’t hear the message that made my heart sink even lower.
“Daphne Templeton? This is Joyce Jervis, one of the attorneys handling CeeCee French’s estate. We’re prepared to dispose of the poodle. . . .”
Chapter 56
“So, you have no idea where Snowdrop is?” Piper asked, tearing into silver wrapping paper that covered a small box. My sister, Moxie, Mom, and I were crammed into my living room, gathered around my new, if needle-challenged, tree for our annual girls’ gift exchange, on a cold, clear night. Piper and Mom sat on the loveseat, Moxie was on the rocker near the fireplace, and I was moving around the softly lit room, distributing presents while the Bakelite radio played its magical medley of Christmas songs past. Pulling the lid off the box, Piper held up a version of the silk scarf Mom gave us every year, although none of us ever wore scarves.
It seemed that hope sprang eternal for my mother.
Then, since the gift wasn’t exactly a surprise, Piper continued the conversation while she tucked the pricey accessory back into the box from whence it came. “How can a poodle just disappear?”
I gave Socrates, who lay by the hearth, a sympathetic glance. Of course, he was being stoic about Snowdrop’s absence, but I knew he missed her terribly. Closing his eyes, he pretended to sleep, because he didn’t like pity—although he was allowing Tinkleston to curl up with him on his favorite rug.
I firmly believed Tinks understood that Socrates was feeling glum and wanted to be of some comfort. Not that the surly Persian would admit that. When I smiled at him, trying to silently express gratitude, he flattened his ears and twitched his tail with disapproval.
Looking away, so he wouldn’t dart off, I returned my attention to the humans in the room.
“The lawyers handling CeeCee’s estate won’t say anything about Snowdrop’s whereabouts,” I told everyone, searching around for my scarf. Moxie had already unwrapped hers, so mine had to be lurking under the tree’s bristly boughs, which were laden with enough lights and ornaments to hide the many bare spots. I didn’t see a silver-wrapped gift for me anywhere under the straggly pine, though. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. My mother and I didn’t always have the warmest relationship, but she’d never overlooked me at Christmas.
Grabbing a different present marked for me, from Moxie, I looked up at Mom, who’d supposedly enlisted her attorney contacts in the search for Snowdrop, after I’d spent a good half-hour begging for help. I didn’t believe my mother was committed to the effort to track down the poodle, but I told my sister, Moxie, and Socrates, “I’ve been assured by Mom that a crack legal team is trying to find some answers.”
“I told you, the lawyers I contacted are doing the best they can,” Mom said, her chin lifted and one hand fidgeting with a tasteful strand of pearls that glowed against her crimson, holiday-casual cardigan. “You have to understand that they specialize in property law, Daphne!”
“Well, Snowdrop is definitely being treated like property,” Moxie noted, watching me closely as I struggled to keep most of the wrapping paper she’d used intact. She was clearly worried about my clumsy fingers and sounded distracted when she muttered, “Poor thing!”
For as long as I could remember, Moxie Bloom had used the same 1940s paper, which featured a repeated pattern of snowmen and snowwomen riding old-fashioned toboggans. Moxie was also the only person I knew who collected all the paper from the gifts she gave, so she could take it home for use the following year.
I did my best to pull the box from the fragile wrap and, handing the paper to Moxie, lifted the cardboard lid.
“Oh, Moxie!” I cried softly. “Wow!”
“What is it?” Piper sounded skeptical. Maybe even worried. Like my mother, Moxie tended to buy themed gifts, so a version of whatever I’d received was likely to soon be unwrapped by Piper and Mom, too.
I carefully removed the gingerbread version of Flour Power, and a matching replica of my Lucky Paws van, from a nest of cotton and held both things up for inspection. “These are amazing, Moxie!”
“You don’t have to be quite so gentle with the cookies,” she said, absently petting Sebastian, who’d climbed onto Moxie’s lap to rest on her bell-shaped, red-and-black tartan skirt, which she wore with a fitted black sweater. The rat looked fat and happy after snacking on a potato wedge I’d set aside for him. The rest of the russets were paired with a roasted broccoli and cheddar dip that I’d served, along with my mother’s favorite merlot, on the steamer trunk coffee table. “I shellacked the pieces of the village I saved when I dismantled it, so you can have your storefronts for years,” Moxie informed us, as I handed Mom and Piper their gifts from my b
est friend, too.
My mother and sister knew the rules about the paper and, although Mom rolled her eyes, both worked carefully. Piper, being a precise surgeon, was first to hold up her miniature animal hospital. “Thanks, Moxie. It’s really lovely.”
She sounded sincere, while Mom, who’d finally handed over her sheet of wrap and opened her box, peered skeptically inside. “How . . . droll,” she noted. “I certainly never expected to see an edible version of my enterprise.”
“Oh, gosh, don’t eat it!” Moxie warned, while I studied the tiny VW, which featured a dog that was misshapen in exactly the same ways as the one on my actual van. “You’ll chip a tooth and poison yourself.”
“I wasn’t about to . . .” Mom started to explain, but I silenced her with a shake of my head. Instead, she smiled benevolently and set aside the box. “Thank you, Moxie, for a unique gift.”
Checking under the tree one last time, I saw that the only remaining presents were from me, for Socrates and Tinkleston, and I’d hand those out later. I’d already given Moxie an original poster advertising the movie White Christmas, signed by Bing Crosby, which had nearly made her cry. Mom had tolerated a turquoise necklace I’d found on a Central American fair-trade site, and practical Piper had appreciated an embroidered lab coat and three months back rent, tucked into a Christmas card. Her gifts to me had been a book and a similar card, with a note saying I was forgiven for two additional months.
Scooching over to the trunk, I dipped a potato into the dip and asked Moxie, “Wasn’t it difficult to tear apart something you worked on so hard? You spent hours recreating the town!”
“It was kind of sad—although I had no trouble crushing Ivy Dunleavy’s little shop to crumbs,” Moxie admitted. “And I felt like the tiny town had served its purpose by helping to solve a murder. I knew that taking all those Polaroids would be worth the effort!”
Mom and Piper exchanged glances that said they would’ve used their time otherwise, but I grinned at my best friend. “Yes, if you hadn’t recaptured every detail, I wouldn’t have thought twice about Ivy’s comment regarding the lights in her shop. That was definitely one of the clues that helped me put the whole story together.”
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