Death by Chocolate Lab

by Bethany Blake

  “Yeah, I know about it,” I’d told her. Then I’d cut right to the chase. “What do you need?”

  “Treats for at least twenty dogs. From your pet bakery.”

  She always acted like I had a storefront, and I always corrected her. “Um, I just cook for fun, at home. I don’t really have a bakery. . . .”

  Miss Flynt had answered the way she always did. “Well, get to it, Daphne! What are you waiting for?” Then she’d nodded briskly to Socrates, nearly dislodging her wiry, gray hair from its bun. “Good day to you, wise Socrates!”

  A few moments later, Miss Flynt had moved on down the street, and I’d stood there with Socrates, both of us needing a second, as usual, to recover from the very direct, almost curt, exchange. Yet, I admired Miss Flynt. She had a different approach from me, but she was a big supporter of Fur-ever Friends.

  “It is odd that she’s not here micromanaging,” I told Piper, as I removed containers of homemade goodies from the bin. Prying the lid off one tub, I began to place Tricky Treats on a platter. The snacks were “tricky” because they looked and tasted like peanut butter cups, but I’d substituted dog-friendly carob for the chocolate, which could be lethal to canines. “Where do you think she is?”

  “I have no idea,” Piper said. “And, as if things aren’t bad enough, when Tamara Fox went into the house to get some matches, she accidentally let Lillian’s prized Persian cat, Tinkleston, run out the door. Now we can’t find him.”

  Moxie and I shared a look, then we both started snickering.

  “What is so funny about a missing cat?” Piper demanded. “Especially since I’m sure I’ll get blamed for his disappearance.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, slipping Socrates a Tricky Treat. He feigned disdain for a few moments, then accepted the sweet from my fingers. “But what kind of name is ‘Tinkleston’?”

  “It’s a horrible name for a horrible cat.”

  We all turned to realize that we’d been joined by none other than Tamara Fox, who made a mock shudder, so I got the impression that she wasn’t upset about the feline’s disappearance.

  Tamara—whom we’d all known since high school—didn’t bother to really greet us. Kind of like she’d snubbed us back in school, too. Tossing her long, dark hair over her shoulder, she gave Moxie and me a skeptical once-over, then didn’t ask about the costumes, either. It was almost like she assumed we’d misread—or lost—our invitations, like I had done.

  In my defense, though, who wouldn’t assume that a “gala” held in late October at a haunted mansion would at least be costume optional?

  “Have you seen the cat?” Piper asked Tamara. “I’m dreading telling Lillian that he’s gone.”

  “I hope I never see that beast again,” Tamara said. She adjusted a large tote that was slung over her shoulder, and her adorable little Maltese, Buttons, poked her beribboned head out just long enough to blink. Then she disappeared back into the bag, like something was spooking her. “I swear that cat was stalking Buttons and me, the whole time we were inside.”

  “Most people think cats are aloof, but they actually like company,” I told Tamara. I felt like I had some authority on the subject, since I was a professional pet care expert. “He was probably just lonely in that big, dark house and wanted to be friends.”

  Tamara shot me a dark look that said she wasn’t interested in my credentials or my opinions. “There’s nothing friendly about that animal. It’s evil.”

  Giving her hair one more dramatic toss with a hand smothered under heavy rings, Tamara took her leave of us without another word. We all watched her sashay off with the same hip-swaying stride she’d had back in her cheerleading days. Soon after graduation, she’d surprised all of Sylvan Creek by marrying much, much older—and very, very wealthy—attorney Larry Fox. Tamara hadn’t worked a day in her life and was considered heiress-apparent to Lillian’s informal title of “professional volunteer.” On days Lillian wasn’t in the Gazette, Tamara could usually be found smiling for the camera.

  “What does she have against cats?” asked Moxie, who had a wide-eyed kitten tattooed on her wrist. “They’re adorable!”

  “Actually, Tinkleston—nee Budgely’s Sir Peridot Tinkleston—is a difficult animal, to put it mildly,” Piper informed us. “I’ve had to give him shots, and I have the scars to prove it.”

  I didn’t think it was fair to judge a cat based upon his behavior while getting stuck with a needle, but I didn’t mention that to Piper.

  “We’ll keep an eye out for the runaway—and finish setting up the table,” I promised, waving my fingers to dismiss my sister. “You go oversee everybody else.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Piper said. “I actually need to track down an old CD player Miss Flynt promised we could use to play spooky music. That thing’s missing, too.” My sister eyed the table warily as she backed away. “You two do a nice job, okay?”

  I didn’t dignify that with a response. I just started arranging Batty-for-Pumpkin Cookies on a plate—a task that absorbed me until Moxie tapped my shoulder.

  “Hey, look,” she said. “Somebody else dressed up, as a priest!”

  “That’s not a costume,” I corrected Moxie. “That’s Pastor Pete Kishbaugh, the guy Piper was just talking about. He always wears a black shirt and a clerical collar. Don’t you know him?”

  “No,” she said. “He’s completely bald. How would I know him?”

  Moxie was the owner of Spa and Paw, Sylvan Creek’s unique salon, which catered to people and pets. She seldom met anyone who didn’t have hair. Or fur.

  “He’s kind of cute,” Moxie noted. “Some guys can pull off the shaved head.”

  “He’s also involved in a scandal right now,” I whispered. “You’ve probably heard the rumors about his church, Lighthouse Fellowship.” Moxie might not have recognized Pastor Pete, but she was the motor that turned Sylvan Creek’s busy gossip mill, and I knew she’d at least be familiar with the stories surrounding him. “I don’t know the details, but I heard something about embezzlement, or misappropriated funds.”

  “Oh, he’s that minister?” Moxie mused, just as Pastor Pete—thirty-something, with a gleaming white smile and kind eyes—noticed me and waved. I sometimes watched his golden retriever mix, Blessing, while Pete was on mission trips. He was a very peripatetic man of the cloth. “Yeah, I’ve heard about that mess,” Moxie added. “That’s probably going to be fall’s big story. I can just tell.”

  Feeling guilty, because the subject of our discussion was still smiling at us, I told Moxie, “You know, Socrates—the logician, not the dog . . .” I often quoted the ancient Greek scholar, who’d been central to my doctoral dissertation, so I was always making that clarification. “. . . Socrates once said, ‘Strong minds discuss ideas’—not people. I kind of wish I hadn’t even brought up the rumors.”

  Moxie waved off my concerns with a gloved hand.

  Why had I believed, for a minute, that she wasn’t in costume?

  “I’ve seen pictures of that old philosopher,” she informed me. “He could’ve used a haircut. And I bet he would’ve dished on Plato for hours, if he sat in my chair.”

  At my side, the canine Socrates was rolling his baleful eyes, like he disagreed. At least, it appeared that way. Or maybe he was just sniffing the air, which smelled wonderful. The night was crisp and the breeze off the lake was fresh, but tinged with the bittersweet aroma of falling leaves. Somewhere inside the mansion, a fire was burning in a fireplace, too. The smoke, coiling from the chimney, gave the air a distinctly autumnal tang. Raising my slightly upturned nose, I sniffed, too, and I was pretty sure I could also identify the scents of apple cider, cinnamon, and pumpkin.

  “Do you think we could take a little break and wander over to the table with the people food?” I asked Moxie. I glanced at my bin of treats, which was still pretty full, while the waiting trays were mostly empty. “We wouldn’t be gone long.”

  “I could go for something sweet,” Moxie agreed. She was already he
ading across the lawn. Passing under a crabapple tree, she ducked and placed a protective hand on her blond bouffant while warily eyeing one of the ravens Pastor Pete had wired to a branch. Then she called back to me, “I’m pretty sure I see cookies for humans.”

  What could I do but follow, with Socrates in my wake?

  “You know, I’m actually surprised Lillian threw this shindig,” I said, when we reached another table that was completely stocked with an array of very clever treats, including meringue ghosts, chocolate cookie “spiders” with licorice legs, and cheese sticks decorated to look like severed fingers, with almond-sliver fingernails and marinara-sauce blood. That was sort of gross, but I took one, anyhow, adding, “I know Miss Flynt loves animals, but I can’t recall her ever opening her house up for a party.”

  “She doesn’t love all animals!”

  Both Moxie and I started at the sound of an indignant, almost angry, voice, right behind us.

  “Hey, Mrs. Baumgartner,” I said, taking a step backward and greeting the head of the local cats-only shelter, Whiskered Away Home. Bea was also active with Fur-ever Friends, and carried a plastic-wrapped plate. “We didn’t see you there.”

  Now that Beatrice Baumgartner was upwind, I could smell her. She carried the faint odor of a litter box that needed emptied. I didn’t understand that. I’d worked in lots of homes with multiple cats, and that smell was avoidable. It kind of put me off my cheese finger, and I had no intention of trying one of the chocolate-chip cookies she was unveiling from under a crinkled sheet of plastic, either.

  Moxie’s nose was wrinkling, too, but she wasn’t dissuaded from eating the meringue ghost she’d chosen. “Miss Flynt loves stray dogs, and she must love cats, too,” she said, pausing to bite off the specter’s head. “We were just talking about Tinkleston, who is supposedly on the loose.”

  For a woman dedicated to saving felines, Bea didn’t seem overly concerned about a missing prize Persian.

  “Lilllian is no friend to cats—except purebred show animals,” she said, crossing her arms over an ample bosom. She had to be in her late sixties, and, while I was definitely the least appropriately dressed person at that party, Bea wasn’t exactly up-to-code, either. She wore stained khaki pants that I was pretty sure came from the men’s department and a frayed sweatshirt that featured an applique of a black kitten sitting inside a pumpkin. I supposed I could at least give her credit for making an effort to honor the holiday. The expression on her deeply lined face was also suitably scary. “I am positive that Lillian only agreed to host this fund-raiser to get herself noticed by the media—again.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d call the Weekly Gazette “media.” It was delivered free, whether anyone wanted it or not, and it only reached about two hundred homes. As I made my pet-sitting rounds, I found a lot of copies on floors in houses where dogs were being house trained. However, I didn’t argue that point with Bea, who was excusing herself, anyway. She nodded at me, Moxie, and Socrates. “Enjoy the party.”

  “Well, that was awkward,” Moxie observed, when Bea was out of earshot. All at once, her eyes gleamed. “And while we’re on the subject of uncomfortable situations, what are you going to do if Dylan and Detective Black both show up tonight?”

  She was referring to one guy I sometimes dated—and another I hadn’t seen since I’d solved a murder for him, after numerous clashes.

  I really didn’t want to discuss either of those men.

  I was also suddenly distracted by something I could see inside the mansion, over Moxie’s shoulder.

  A shadowy figure, who stood at one of the tall windows, observing the party preparations from behind a curtain.

  I blinked twice to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me, then I got a funny, nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  What was that person doing there?

  Notes

  1 If you are a perfectionist like Piper, you can make cute bone shapes by pouring the batter into cookie cutters placed on the griddle or skillet. And if you’re really clever, you can form the bones freehand with a piping bag. Although she didn’t do a great job painting my van, artistic Moxie is pretty good at free-forming pupcake batter.