Pawprints & Predicaments

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Pawprints & Predicaments Page 15

by Bethany Blake


  “I’m taking the dog,” Jonathan informed me firmly. He set down Artie. “This is no longer up for debate.”

  Without giving me a chance to object again, he opened my door, which, needless to say, wasn’t locked, and before we even stepped inside Plum Cottage, I cried out, “Tinkleston! No!”

  Chapter 37

  “First you break a lamp, then you attack another guest,” I chided Tinkleston, who was glowering at me from beneath the small table, just inside my front door, that used to hold a lamp. The light was now on the floor, broken by Tinks when he’d launched himself, claws out, at Jonathan. “Unfortunately for you, Jonathan Black actually knows martial arts.”

  I heard snuffling coming from near the fireplace, which was giving off a cheerful glow and warming the room, and I turned to see that Socrates was trying to stifle his amusement. He was laughing at the recollection of Tinks getting caught in midair and plunked down onto his butt. Or maybe he was amused because Artie had just fallen over while trying to chase his own tail, in a surprisingly successful attempt to entertain the normally reserved basset hound.

  “Thank you for getting along with everyone,” I told Artie, whom Jonathan had left behind so Moxie and I could design his sled for the Cardboard Iditarod. We were running out of time, and so far, the taco theme was still Moxie’s best idea. I turned back to Tinks. “You could learn a lot about being friendly from Artie.”

  The diminutive, flat-faced Persian clearly disagreed, because he suddenly darted out from his hiding spot and plunged his teeth into my calf.

  “Ow!” I cried, sinking to the floor as Tinkleston beat a hasty retreat to the loft.

  And as I sat there near the broken lamp, rubbing my leg, I noticed a crumpled plastic sack, which Tinkleston had also knocked off the table.

  Grabbing the bag, I smoothed it out and saw a telephone number printed on the plastic.

  Reaching into my back pocket, I retrieved my cell phone and, checking the number one more time, dialed the seven digits.

  Almost immediately, someone answered, which was surprising, given that it was pretty late for a business to be open, and I inquired hopefully, “Do you have any appointments available tomorrow?”

  A few minutes later, when the call was ended, I stood up and moved to slip my phone back into my pocket. Then I changed my mind and tapped the screen again, calling up a search engine and typing in “clock with no hands tattoo.”

  As the results popped up, each link offering the same interpretation of the strange symbol, I figured out why Lauren might’ve written USPT 2016 under Arlo’s picture, and I sank to the floor again, whispering, “No way!”

  Chapter 38

  Arlo Finch’s holistic therapy center, Peaceable Pets, was located in a heavily forested area just outside Sylvan Creek, accessible only by a twisting, unpaved lane that was so narrow I feared the trees might scrape against Piper’s Acura, which I’d borrowed while my van was in the shop for the day, getting a new carburetor.

  My sister would not appreciate a scratch on her pristine sedan, which had already suffered one mishap that day, when Tinkleston, who was sulking behind me, had reached his little paw through the air holes in his carrier and snagged the upholstery.

  Luckily, Piper seldom used the backseat, where Artie was also riding—and drooling.

  Of course, Socrates was behaving himself up front, next to me. He stared straight ahead, quietly studying the bumpy path, while I dared a quick glance in the rearview mirror to check on Tinks. And, sure enough, a black puffball with claws darted out of the carrier and felt blindly around for something to ruin.

  “Keep your paws to yourself,” I urged the irritable Persian. “Stop that!”

  Then I quickly looked forward, just in time to steer the car through a particularly tight bend in the lane.

  And when we rounded that curve, I gasped with surprise as Peaceable Pets came into view.

  “This is so cute,” I told Socrates, Artie, and Tinks, although the cat couldn’t see anything from his carrier. “It’s like a gingerbread house in the woods!”

  Tinkleston yowled, like he understood that he was missing out on the view, while Artie strained in his harness, trying to see out the window. Socrates, meanwhile, rolled his eyes. He was a fan of spare architecture, and I knew that he thought Peaceable Pets was a little over the top.

  “I disagree,” I said, parking the car in a waiting spot, next to a blue van that was almost as old and derelict as my VW. The vehicle’s back doors were wide open, and I saw boxes stacked inside, like Arlo had either just ordered a bunch of yak yarn—or was in the process of moving. Then my attention was drawn back to the building, which was about the size of a large shed, but trimmed with elaborate, Victorian-style woodwork and painted in a soft rainbow of pastel hues. A rooster weathervane spun cheerfully at the peak of the pitched roof, and colorful wind chimes made from glass and wood and old forks and spoons dangled from the eaves, creating merry, yet soothing, music. As I opened the door and got out of the car, something at my feet caught my eye, and looking down, I discovered that dozens of whimsical, if crudely made, statues of frogs and bunnies and gnomes were tucked around the property, their heads poking out of the snow. Arlo had posted some hand-painted signs, too, urging visitors to FOLLOW YOUR BLISS! and LIVE FREE, LOVE LIFE!

  “It looks like Arlo tried every free arts-and-crafts class offered at the Sylvan Creek rec center and only knitting took,” I admitted to Socrates, in a whisper, when I let him out of the car. “While I like the building, most of his handiwork is kind of bad.”

  Dropping to the ground on his big paws, Socrates woofed softly in agreement.

  Opening the sedan’s back door, I also released Artie, who bounded out of the car. When he darted past my feet, I paused to again read that second sign, about “living free,” and I suddenly got a cold feeling of apprehension in the pit of my stomach.

  Does that sign have special meaning to Arlo?

  Does he know what it’s like to be denied freedom?

  Standing in the snow, I suddenly debated skipping the appointment I’d made the night before.

  Unfortunately, it was too late to hop in the car and return to Winding Hill.

  As Artie darted toward the colorful building, the pink door swung open, and Arlo stepped out to greet us.

  “Welcome, Daphne and friends,” he said, without smiling. Although he was carrying a bulky cardboard box, he freed one hand and gestured behind himself to the open door, adding, “Please, won’t you come in out of the cold?”

  Chapter 39

  The few times I’d met Arlo Finch, I’d always found him to have a very soothing, peaceful vibe, befitting a man whose mission was to help stressed-out and reactive animals become calm and centered. But on the day of Tinkleston’s appointment, Arlo was the one who seemed agitated.

  “Are you sure you have time today?” I asked for at least the third time, as Arlo knelt to open the carrier that I’d set on the floor of Peaceable Pets. The room where Arlo held therapy sessions didn’t seem too “peaceable,” either, although I suspected that the space had been quite tranquil before Arlo had started packing it up. A deep pile throw rug, in soothing, natural shades of rust and moss green, covered the floor; a small stone fountain still gurgled in a corner; and the scent of citrus-and-sage incense hung in the air. But I felt a jarring sense of impermanence and haste as I stepped around a box that held a bunch of office supplies. I looked down at Arlo, who fiddled nervously with the latch on the crate’s gate. “If you’re busy, we could reschedule.”

  Arlo didn’t answer, and I glanced first at Artie, who was running around the room, sniffing all the cartons, then at Socrates, who swung his big head toward the door, indicating that we should all leave. I doubted he cared that Arlo seemed tense. I was pretty sure Socrates objected to the idea of holistic cat therapy in general, and thought Tinkleston would benefit more from some old-fashioned punishment. The quiet-loving basset hound was also likely irritated by the relentless sound of wind c
himes outside.

  “Can you please help me with this?” Arlo requested, still jiggling the latch with fingers that shook just enough to be noticeable. Although Tinks kept swiping at Arlo’s hand, I didn’t think that Arlo was worried about getting clawed. From what I understood, he’d handled everything from dysfunctional Dobermans to former bomb squad dogs with PTSD. I couldn’t imagine that he was unnerved by a little cat. Yet I swore I saw fear in his gray eyes when he looked up at me, requesting my assistance again. “If you don’t mind, Daphne.... The latch really seems to be sticking!”

  I knelt down beside Arlo—healer of troubled pets, knitter of free-range yak-hair dog sweaters, and hanger of cheerful wind chimes . . . perhaps too many wind chimes, in retrospect. Although I knew that I was taking a big risk, I rested one hand on his wrist, where he had a strange tattoo under his tie-dyed shirt, and tried to calm him, while getting some information, too.

  “Arlo,” I said very quietly, looking straight into his eyes. “Are you leaving town because you’re afraid you’ll be arrested for murder—again?”

  Chapter 40

  “Lauren Savidge knew you’d spent time in a penitentiary for murder, didn’t she?” I asked Arlo, who was offering me a clay tumbler full of green juice that he called Soothing Serum. As I warily accepted the pungent beverage, he gestured for me to take a seat on the carpet remnant. I wasn’t sure if I should get too comfortable in the presence of a killer, but he was already sitting down, and it would’ve seemed rude to keep standing there, so I sank down, too, being careful not to spill my drink. Then I awkwardly crossed my legs, while Arlo, whose lined face and graying ponytail told me that he was at least twice my age, easily twisted himself into a full lotus position. Although the day was very cold, he wore battered Birkenstock sandals and a pair of ratty old cargo shorts that revealed his knobby, but apparently flexible, knees. The moment Arlo was settled, Tinkleston, who’d been lurking behind some boxes, jumped into his lap and began to purr. That was kind of irritating, given that I’d spent months trying to befriend the sulky cat. However, Tinks’s behavior was actually my secondary concern right then. “Lauren met you when she was working for Real Crime Network, didn’t she?” I asked Arlo. “Maybe while profiling another inmate for her show Life on Death Row?”

  Arlo nodded, looking miserable, and not just because he’d taken a sip of the stinky smoothie. “Yes, that’s exactly what happened, about two years ago,” he confirmed, setting down his drink and absently petting Tinkleston, whose eyes were getting glassy. Artie trotted over to Arlo, too, and offered his good ear for a scratch, which Arlo provided with his free hand. “Lauren and her crew—Joy and the cameraman, Kevin—were interviewing one of the guys in my cellblock, at the federal pen in Tucson—”

  I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I suddenly pictured Lauren’s corkboard, and I snapped my fingers. “Tucson! Of course! That’s the t in USPT! United States Penitentiary–Tucson!”

  Arlo gave me a funny look. “What . . . ?”

  Something told me not to mention Lauren’s display, and I tucked some of my curls behind my ear, fibbing nervously. “Nothing. I was doing this crossword puzzle, and the clue was USPT. . . . It’s really nothing.”

  That made absolutely no sense. But Arlo didn’t seem to care. He was wrapped up in his own story, which he’d kept locked away for nearly two years, until Lauren, and now I, had uncovered it.

  All at once, I got even edgier, although Arlo seemed oblivious. He continued to pet Tinks and Artie, who were both getting glazed-over eyes. Only Socrates, who’d edged closer to me, was also tense. I could tell by his alert expression and the way his ears were slightly less droopy than usual.

  “How did you know I did time for murder?” Arlo asked, peering at me more closely. “Did Lauren tell you? Because I don’t think she was certain. I kept telling her that she was mistaken, and we’d never met. I don’t think she’d even tracked down my real name . . . yet.”

  That word yet hung out there ominously.

  Had Arlo, or whatever his real name was, silenced Lauren before she could dig deeper?

  I got an icy feeling in the pit of my stomach, and although I wanted to untwist my legs, I couldn’t quite get them to work.

  “Lauren didn’t tell me anything,” I said. “I just saw your tattoo at the plunge, and I got curious. So I did a little research. And I learned that the clock with no hands is usually worn by lifers, because time becomes immaterial when you’re never getting out of prison.”

  I shouldn’t have used prison slang in front of a former inmate. I was pretty sure I’d sounded stupid. And had I really needed to explain the tattoo to a man who had the mark permanently displayed on his body?

  But Arlo didn’t even crack a bemused smile. He remained deadly serious. “I knew I should’ve kept my arm covered, like I usually do,” he muttered, more to himself than me. “If there’s one thing I should’ve learned in prison, it’s never to let your guard down. But I got so comfortable here, and most folks are so nice. . . .”

  He sounded wistful, not angry, and I let him sink into a pensive silence that made the tinkling wind chimes seem even louder.

  Then Arlo met my gaze again, and the pain in his eyes took away my fear.

  “People make mistakes, you know,” he said, his voice tight with emotion. “And they can reform.” He stopped stroking Tinks long enough to point at his own chest. “I reformed. I learned that I was really good with the therapy dogs that came to prison. I liked them, and they liked me. I worked hard to prove that I deserved a second chance. . . .” He looked down at the tattoo that was peeking out from under his sleeve. “A chance I once believed I’d never have.” Then he raised his face again, and I saw guilt and misery written in every deep line. “I’ve dedicated what’s left of my life to making the world a more peaceful place,” he told me. “I can’t bring back the life I took, but you have to believe that I am a different—better—person than I used to be.”

  I pictured Arlo standing on the beach at Lake Wallapawakee, his expression tranquil as he looked out over the water, and recalled how he’d rushed to help Jonathan perform CPR on Lauren. Then I glanced at the normally intractable cat and hyper Chihuahua, both of whom remained half hypnotized by a man who also knit adorable sweaters to keep pets warm.

  I met Arlo’s gaze again. “I believe you,” I assured him honestly. My legs finally seemed to work and I stood up, nearly knocking over my drink, which I still hadn’t tried. Bending down, I picked up the tumbler. “And I won’t tell anyone about your past. I promise. Not that I even really know what happened. I only looked up the meaning of the tattoo. I don’t know anything more, and I don’t need to.”

  “Thank you, Daphne,” Arlo said. His eyes were actually watering, and his voice was a little choked. He gently pushed aside Artie, then cradled limp and dazed Tinks in one arm and stood up, too, with surprising grace and strength. “I’d like folks around here to remember me as a nice guy who tried hard to help their pets.”

  “Arlo,” I ventured, uncertainly, “you didn’t do anything. But it might look like you did if you take off in a big hurry.”

  “That’s a risk I have to take,” he told me, slipping Tinks into the carrier in one smooth motion, before the cat even had a chance to yowl in protest. When Arlo had latched the gate—this time with steady fingers—he bent to pick up his own drink and straightened, frowning. “You don’t understand what it’s like to have a record, like I do.”

  Actually, I did know what that was like. I had been advised never to return to Kenya after being wrongly accused of shoplifting at a fair trade shop in Nairobi. But I didn’t mention that to Arlo. I didn’t think he’d consider our pasts comparable.

  “The police are already asking questions,” he added. “I’m sure they’ll figure out the truth soon and try to pin Lauren’s murder on me, since I have a record and motive.” He looked around the room, his thin shoulders caving, like he was suddenly aware of everything he was leaving behind. “But I’ll be long gone
by then,” he told me sadly.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond, and I stood there in silence until Arlo raised his tumbler and smiled wanly. “To yet another new beginning!”

  His cheer was forced, but I raised my cup, too, and clinked it against his. Then I reluctantly sipped the “serum,” which was surprisingly delicious. I tasted kale, ginger, celery, and apple, along with some other stuff that I couldn’t identify, but which added up to a pretty yummy drink.

  In fact, I downed the whole thing in two more gulps, then picked up the carrier that held Tinks, who immediately began clawing at me. Holding him at arm’s length, I led Socrates and a still groggy, wobbly Artie to the door.

  We all went outside, and although I was pretty convinced that Arlo was reformed, I still felt a rush of relief when the cold, fresh air hit me.

  “I’m sorry that I didn’t really help Tinkleston,” Arlo noted, following me to Piper’s car. “I hope you can figure things out with him. Because he seems like a good cat, at heart. Just a little jealous of the other animals in your life, if my instincts are correct.”

  I loaded Tinks into the car, still being careful to avoid his claws, which were swiping at me. “You really think so?”

  “Yes,” Arlo said. “He didn’t really want me to pet him at first. He mainly wanted your attention, and to make you jealous.” Arlo cocked his head. “Do you have any new animals in the house?”

  I nodded. “Yes, the Lake Wallapawakee Saint Bernard has been staying with us recently.”

  Arlo smiled with what looked like genuine amusement. “I’d say that’s your . . . or his . . . problem.”

  “Well, thanks,” I said, holding out my hand. I glanced quickly at his van, which was nearly filled with boxes, and debated trying again to convince him to stay in Sylvan Creek. I also wondered if I was obligated to tell Detective Doebler that one of the potential suspects in Lauren’s murder was fleeing town, because I did plan to talk with Jonathan’s partner that very day, as I’d promised. But I had a feeling that, even if I went directly to the police station, Arlo would be gone before Detective Doebler could do anything. I was pretty sure that Arlo would hit the road the moment I drove away. He wouldn’t have risked telling me that he was leaving if he wasn’t ready to take off. So I simply said, “Good luck, Arlo. I wish I could’ve bought a few more sweaters at Winterfest. You have a real gift for knitting.”

 

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