Pawprints & Predicaments

by Bethany Blake

  “So, why did you hire Lauren?” I asked. “Because, just based on her appearance, she didn’t look like she fit the Stylish Life brand.” I didn’t mean to disparage Lauren, who’d cultivated an intriguing look, in my opinion, and I gestured to my old sweater and the ski pants I was still wearing. “Not that I know what it’s like to be ‘stylish,’ either!”

  “I think you sell yourself short, Daphne,” Elyse said quietly, looking me up and down. “I think you know that you’re very pretty, with your gorgeous curls and effortless Bohemian style that can’t be purchased off a rack. You either have it, or you don’t.”

  I didn’t really consider myself pretty, at least not in the traditional sense, like Elyse, and I wasn’t sure why she suddenly seemed unhappy.

  There was a moment of somewhat awkward silence, interrupted by Bernie’s deep snores. Apparently, our adventure had finally worn him out. He was sound asleep—and drooling—on the no doubt expensive rug.

  “So, why choose Lauren to head up America’s Most Pet Friendly Towns?” I finally repeated, ending the uncomfortable moment. “Had you worked with her before?”

  Elyse broke out of her reverie and shook her head again. “No, I hadn’t. But I’d heard very good things about her work for one of Stylish Life’s sister networks, Real Crime.”

  I cocked my head, surprised. “Those two networks have the same parent company?”

  “Yes.” Elyse had grown very serious during our conversation, but she couldn’t help smiling at my naïveté. She also seemed to warm to the topic of television, more than murder. “The global corporation that owns both networks doesn’t care if their content meshes. It’s all about the bottom line, and Real Crime is a moneymaker. The shows are cheap to produce, since most of them revolve around prison interviews, and viewers never seem to tire of peeking inside the hidden world of the cellblock.”

  I could imagine Lauren Savidge dealing successfully with inmates. She wouldn’t have let them intimidate her. In fact, I suddenly felt like I understood Lauren a little better. If she’d really worked in prisons all the time, she would’ve had to gain a tough exterior.

  “What was Lauren’s role at Real Crime?” I asked, forcing myself to take another bite of the salty muffin, just to be polite. I nearly chipped my tooth on a blueberry. At least, I’d thought the dark bits were blueberry. “What did she do there?”

  “She was field producer for a series called Life on Death Row,” Elyse said, idly pushing aside the plate of muffins that she couldn’t have tasted. If she had, she never would’ve offered one to a guest. “She’d visit maximum security prisons and get killers—the worst ones, who were sentenced to die—to tell their life stories and describe their crimes.” Elyse frowned, then shuddered. “Rough, ugly stuff. I can’t believe anybody wants to delve into that world. But the show has consistently high viewership.”

  I thought about Jonathan’s latest career choice. Had Elyse also failed to understand why a former Navy SEAL might be interested in investigating “ugly” homicides, when there were no doubt more aesthetically pleasing career options available to him? If so, that might help to explain their split.

  Elyse and I seemed to be gaining a rapport, but we certainly weren’t close enough for me to play marriage counselor, so I returned my attention to Lauren Savidge’s career.

  “I didn’t know Lauren that well, but it seems to me that she was way better suited to Real Crime than Stylish Life,” I noted. “So, why leave Life on Death Row?”

  Elyse answered me with a question of her own. “Wouldn’t you choose filming puppies over killers, given the chance?”

  Elyse obviously thought the question was a no-brainer, and I knew that I would also take that deal. But I was a sucker for animals. Lauren Savidge hadn’t seemed to particularly like puppies, the few times I’d met her. And, clearly, she’d had trouble making the transition to the less exciting network. I could honestly imagine that the woman who’d claimed to enjoy challenges like jumping into cold lakes might pick killers over cockapoos and kitty cats.

  Or big cats.

  I suddenly pictured Lauren’s corkboard and the photo of Victor Breard in a bull’s-eye, with the curious caption “Zookeeper Sen . . .”

  Might that last word have been “sentenced”?

  Victor had looked pretty upset in the picture.

  What if he’d been headed to prison, where he might’ve crossed paths with Lauren Savidge somehow?

  If so, and Victor was hiding some past wrongdoing for which he’d served time, he might have had reason to silence Lauren.

  “Are you sure Lauren never said anything about why she might want to ‘investigate’ Victor Breard and Big Cats of the World?” I asked Elyse, who was staring out over the lake, nibbling a fingernail lightly enough to protect her manicure. “She never gave a real reason?”

  Elyse returned her attention to me. She seemed confused. “No. Why?”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, not wanting to unnecessarily impugn Victor’s character. For all I knew, the magazine article had been titled “Zookeeper Sensational Hit in Vegas!” Although I doubted it. And I had a feeling that Lauren’s work with Real Crime was somehow connected to her murder. “Did anybody ever threaten Lauren when she was with Real Crime?” I ventured. “It seems like some people on death row might not want their stories to be told. Or, with her forceful personality, she could’ve easily rubbed some of her already homicidal subjects the wrong way.”

  I was just making guesses, and Elyse was unsure. “I have no idea,” she said. “I imagine that’s a risk one would take in that line of work. As I noted, Lauren—and her crew—weren’t exactly dealing with pleasant subjects.”

  I edged forward on my seat, intrigued by her mention of the television crew. “You don’t mean the same people who are here, right? The cameraman and the assistant, Joy?”

  But Elyse was nodding. “Yes, that was part of the deal to get Lauren. She insisted that we also hire her favorite cameraman, Kevin Drucker, and her assistant, Joy Doolittle. And that actually impressed me—until I realized that Lauren wasn’t acting out of loyalty. She mainly found Kevin and Joy easy to boss around and didn’t want to break in new minions.”

  I was about to ask her more about Joy and Kevin when a buzzer went off upstairs, and Elyse tilted an ear to the ceiling. “It sounds like your socks are dry.” She slid out from behind the table. “I’ll go get them.”

  I was pretty sure that I’d be dismissed once I’d exchanged cashmere for itchy wool, so I posed one last question as the greyhounds emerged from beneath the table.

  “What will happen to America’s Most Pet Friendly Towns now that Lauren is gone?” I asked, trying to choose the most delicate word possible. “Will the crew pack up and leave?”

  Elyse seemed surprised by the question.

  “No, of course not,” she told me. “I’ve already promoted Joy. She’s quiet, but actually seems quite capable. She can finish what’s left of the job.”

  Then Elyse, flanked by Paris and Milan, ducked under the tarp and disappeared into her huge, dark mansion, leaving me to ponder that revelation while I poured the remainder of my weak, cold tea into the sink and buried the muffin in a trash can.

  I had just closed the lid and was nudging Bernie awake when Elyse returned with my socks, which had shrunk three sizes, so I could barely pull them on. In fact, they slipped halfway off my feet while Bernie and I followed her to the door. Stopping in the renovated foyer, I said, “I know you don’t owe me any favors, but I’m going to ask one anyhow.”

  Elyse watched me warily. “And that is . . . ?”

  “Can I borrow some of your workmen for my pet bakery?” I requested. “I need to have my grand opening soon—so Joy Doolittle can film it before she leaves town forever.”

  Chapter 34

  “Come on,” I urged the VW, patting the dashboard as the van lurched into Sylvan Creek after coasting downhill from Elyse’s mansion. We rolled in fits and starts onto Market Street, managing to drif
t past Templeton Animal Hospital and my mother’s real-estate office, although the engine was making an alarming coughing sound. “You can do this,” I promised my semi-trusty vehicle. “Just a few more miles to Winding Hill!”

  We had slowed down to about three miles per hour on the dark, flat, largely empty street, and in my heart, I knew that my encouragement wasn’t going to be enough to power us up the daunting hill that lay ahead.

  Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed that my poor VW wasn’t feeling very well. As the van drifted to a stop conveniently close to Flour Power, someone stepped off the curb, knocked on the driver’s side window, and said, with a resigned sigh, “Let’s go, Daphne. I’ll give you a ride home.”

  Chapter 35

  “You honestly don’t have to walk me all the way home,” I told Jonathan, who was maneuvering his black pickup truck into a spot near Piper’s barn, after declaring my carburetor deceased and giving me a ride to Winding Hill. In retrospect, I was lucky that he’d been walking Axis and Artie in town. I glanced over my shoulder at Bernie, who was riding in the backseat with the other dogs. “I feel pretty safe on the trails, especially when I have a big dog like Bernie with me.” I faced forward again. “Plus, I took a class in Krav Maga when I was stuck in Israel for a few months.”

  Jonathan faced me in the dark. “I’m not even going to question why you were ‘stuck’ in the Middle East. I’m just going to assume that you lost your passport.”

  “Yes, in a kibbutz . . . !”

  I started to tell Jonathan that he was correct, but he continued talking.

  “However, I can’t help asking why you—a self-proclaimed peacenik—studied a particularly aggressive form of self-defense used by the Israeli Army.”

  “I thought I was signing up for a cooking class,” I informed him. “The brochure was a little misleading.” I shrugged. “And once I got there, I figured I might as well stay, since I’d spent quite a few shekels to register.”

  Jonathan didn’t seem to know how to respond. He stared at me for a long time in the darkness. Then he opened the driver’s side door. “Well, I’m going to walk you home, regardless,” he said, getting out of the truck and opening the back door to release Axis and Bernie, who both bounded down onto the snowy ground. As I exited the truck, too, Jonathan lifted Artie and set him down before slamming the door. “Bernie might be good in a water rescue, but I don’t think he’d do more than slobber on an assailant.”

  I drew back. “Why would there be an ‘assailant’ at Winding Hill? That’s an ominous word.”

  “You once again found a homicide victim, this time moments after the murder,” Jonathan reminded me. He took my elbow lightly in one hand and began to guide me toward the paths. The dogs were already running ahead. Axis and Artie were familiar with the route to Plum Cottage, and I hoped that Bernie would stick with them and not run off into the woods. I probably should’ve leashed him. “Maybe someone would like to see you out of the picture, too,” Jonathan added. “Someone who’s worried about what you might’ve seen that night.”

  Much as I hated to admit it, I realized that he might be right, and we grew quiet as we entered under the canopy of trees. We walked along in silence for a few minutes before Jonathan said, “You didn’t take my advice, did you?”

  I jolted, but he continued to hold my elbow. “What?”

  “Elyse called to tell me that you’d been at her house, asking questions. She was worried that she’d talked too much about Lauren and some of the other people who were at the scene of the murder.”

  “I didn’t seek her out,” I told him, defending myself. “We were both skiing at Bear Tooth forest, and she invited me to her house so I could dry my socks. I couldn’t help asking questions.”

  “Daphne.” Jonathan’s voice was even and his grip was firm. “I’m not going to lecture you again. I did the best I could to warn you about the risks of investigating a homicide. But I am going to ask . . . Why were you skiing in a forest where a mysterious Saint Bernard was recently on the loose? A dog who might be related to a murder?”

  “I thought Mr. Pottinger might know something about Bernie’s origins,” I admitted. “Or the missing barrel. But he claimed he didn’t know anything.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone there, Daphne.” Jonathan shook his head. “I don’t know exactly where Pottinger lives, but I know the house is remote. And he has a reputation for being eccentric.”

  “He was acting strangely,” I agreed. “I probably should’ve been scared to be at his decaying shack in the woods, but he was the one who seemed nervous. He didn’t want me to step inside, any more than I wanted to do that. And when I told him that Lauren’s death wasn’t accidental, he got very pale. Then he said this odd thing, about Bernie.”

  “What?” Jonathan’s tone was sharp, and he bent so he could see my face. “What did he say?”

  I stepped carefully over an icy patch on the trail. “When I asked Mr. Pottinger if maybe the dog had been released into the woods on purpose, as a stunt for Winterfest, he got shaky and mumbled, ‘No, it wasn’t like that.’ I got the sense that something had been planned—and gone wrong.”

  Jonathan finally released my arm and dragged his hand through his hair. He didn’t speak for a moment, and I could hear the dogs running ahead of us. “Daphne,” he finally said, as Plum Cottage came into view. The dogs were scrambling up on the porch. “I’m not on this case. If you have information, you need to tell Detective Doebler.”

  “I will,” I assured him. “But I’m honestly not sure if Mr. Pottinger was behaving strangely because he’s somehow involved in the murder, or if he’s just eccentric, as you noted. Because he said something really strange when I was leaving. Something almost spooky.”

  Jonathan met my gaze again. Even in the darkness, I could tell that he was worried. He spoke more softly. “What, Daphne? What did he say?”

  The temperature was below freezing, and I shuddered with cold and at the eerie memory. “Mr. Pottinger told me that, in the oldest versions of the legend, the Lake Wallapawakee Saint Bernard only showed up right before someone died.”

  Jonathan was quiet for a long time. Above us, the trees creaked more loudly as the wind picked up. I tried to gauge his expression, to figure out what he was thinking. It was often difficult to read Jonathan’s moods, and that task was almost impossible when I couldn’t really see his eyes. I was just about to ask him what was going on in his head when he broke the silence, saying, “I think you do need to talk to Detective Doebler.”

  “I will,” I promised. “I’ll contact him tomorrow.”

  “Good.” Then Jonathan looked at the cottage, where Axis, Artie, and Bernie were waiting patiently on the porch. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he added, muttering under his breath. “But I’m taking all of those dogs with me tonight.”

  Chapter 36

  “What do you mean, you’re taking Bernie?” I demanded, following Jonathan up onto my porch. Artie began twirling around, no doubt eager to visit with Socrates, while Axis and Bernie stood up and faced the door. The handsome Lab probably expected a treat, because I always gave him snacks when he visited, and Bernie seemed eager to get inside the cottage, too. “Bernie’s doing just fine here,” I said. “And I’m being paid to take care of him. He’s my responsibility until his rightful owner is found.”

  Jonathan was bending over to pick up Artie, who’d started scratching at his knees. “Yes, I know,” he reminded me, straightening. Artie wriggled happily in his arms, the dog’s mood in sharp contrast to his person’s. “You’ve been hired by Gabriel Graham. Which doesn’t reassure me, either.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Taking care of Bernie is helping me to pay my rent on Flour Power,” I told him. I reached down to stroke Bernie’s broad, soft head, and I couldn’t help smiling when the dog gazed up at me with his big brown eyes. “And I’m kind of fond of him now, to be honest. I want to keep him here.�
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  Jonathan lowered his voice. I looked up to see that his expression had softened, too. “There are just too many questions surrounding the dog, Daphne. What if he really is linked to Lauren Savidge’s murder somehow? And what if the killer decides that he or she would like to reclaim him?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s likely at this point,” I said, waving off his concerns. “Why would the killer want to claim Bernie now?”

  “You, at least, seem to think he’s a clue of some sort,” Jonathan pointed out. “And killers tend to eliminate clues. Especially if they get wind that an amateur detective has been poking around, asking questions, instead of letting sleeping dogs lie. No pun intended.”

  I started to protest that I’d only speculated about Bernie’s origins and possible involvement in Lauren’s murder with Piper. Then I realized I’d also spoken with Max Pottinger, Gabriel, and Moxie.

  “Okay, you have a point,” I conceded, feeling a little chastened.

  “Look, Daphne,” Jonathan said. “I believe that Bernie will be safer with me. And you’ll be safer, too, when he’s out of your house. So let’s just gather up anything he needs, and we’ll be on our way.”

  I appreciated Jonathan’s concern, but I still thought he was being paranoid. “Bernie is perfectly safe here,” I assured him. “And so am I.”

  Jonathan arched his eyebrows. “Really? Because you don’t ever lock your doors. And, not to denigrate your Krav Maga and kreplach-making class at an Israeli rec center—”

  “Actually, it was a senior center,” I corrected him. “And how did you know I thought we’d be making kreplach?”

  Jonathan ignored my question. “I’ve spent the greater part of my adult life learning how to protect myself and those around me,” he advised me. Then he cocked his head. “How long did you say you studied martial arts?”

  My cheeks got warm. “Umm . . . two afternoons,” I admitted. “But it was pretty intense. Some of the more frail seniors dropped out after the first day.”