He shook my hand, still smiling. “Thanks, Daphne.”
Then he turned to go back inside Peaceable Pets, while I opened the passenger side door to let Socrates lumber up onto the seat.
When I’d secured his harness and slammed the door, I was surprised to realize that Arlo was still outside, watching me from under the wind chimes.
“Do you want to know the real secret?” he asked.
I hesitated, suddenly uncertain again. “Umm . . . I guess so?”
“Kiwi,” Arlo said solemnly.
It took me half the ride to Sylvan Creek to figure out he’d been talking about the smoothie.
And as I pulled up to the police station, where I hoped to find Detective Doebler, I also realized that Arlo Finch had never told me his real name.
Moreover, although he’d protested that he was a “changed man,” he’d never directly denied murdering Lauren Savidge, either.
Chapter 41
“Well, Daphne, I’m pleased that you’ve finally taken the bull by the horns and have some men with boots on the ground, putting the finishing touches on your business,” Mom said, twirling around the small space with her eyes on the ceiling, like she was touring the Sistine Chapel, as opposed to surveying a still-under-construction pet bakery. A workman who was getting ready to sand the hardwood floor gave her a funny look, which my mother didn’t seem to notice. She stopped spinning, clasped the counter—because she’d obviously made herself dizzy—and did her best to focus on me. “You should be up and running in no time!”
“Wow, you just strung together quite a few clichés without hardly taking a breath,” I noted. I wiped some sawdust off the counter with a damp rag. “And one of them pertains to military operations. Not construction.”
I probably shouldn’t have mentioned any of that. And I probably should’ve confessed that Elyse Hunter-Black had grabbed the bull’s horns and put the boots on the ground, quickly making good on her promise to share some of her best contractors with me.
I had to admit, Elyse knew how to get things done. She’d even located an extremely old man named Salvatore, who’d fixed the Italian coffee machine and taught me how to use it.
“Don’t be critical when I’m complimenting you,” Mom scolded me. She absently picked up a bright green fish-shaped melamine platter, which would hold samples of cat treats, and turned it back and forth in her hands. “I am trying to encourage this endeavor—which, I will admit, I initially considered a fool’s errand, but which I now believe has potential.” She looked around again at Moxie’s mod, hand-painted pink flowers; the space-age 1970s starburst light fixture that Elyse’s electrician had suspended from the ceiling; and the olive-green cabinet that held my recently installed cash register. Then she set down the fish. “It’s a quite lovely space, which makes me harken back to my teenage years!”
I gave my mother a skeptical look. I was pretty sure she’d been past her teenage years in the 1970s.
“What brings you by here?” I finally asked, deciding not to challenge her asserted age, which was surely off by a good decade or so. Although I could never be certain. Even Piper and I weren’t allowed to know Maeve Templeton’s true birthdate. I spoke more loudly over the sudden whine of the sander. “Did somebody tell you that the coffeemaker’s working again?”
My mother’s eyes lit up. “No! But that’s wonderful news. I have sorely missed my evening cappuccino.”
“Actually, I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t mess around with the machine anymore,” I requested, giving up on wiping the counter, because the sander was kicking up more dust. I gestured for Mom to follow me to the kitchen, where things would be quieter. When we were in that small, bright room, which smelled of yeast and cinnamon, I explained, “I’m not sure how long Salvatore will be around to repair the thing if you break it again. He was definitely way older than a teenager, back in the seventies.”
Ignoring everything I’d just said, including my thinly veiled reference to her recent fib, Mom made a beeline to the shiny machine, which Salvatore had also cleaned. “Nonsense, Daphne,” she said, waving a dismissive hand at me. “I know exactly what I’m doing. And I didn’t break anything.”
I knew there was no arguing with her, and I watched helplessly as my mother proceeded to wrench the silver basket that I now knew was a portafilter from its housing, cram it full of ground espresso beans, and smash the powder down with three hammer-like blows from a heavy object called a tamper.
“So much for Salvatore’s suggestion that I treat my ‘priceless’ vintage Faema Urania ‘like a delicate woman,’” I grumbled, leaning against one appliance that still didn’t work: my despised, claustrophobic walk-in fridge. I crossed my arms over my apron. “I wouldn’t blame that poor machine if it really did teleport you back in time some evening, when you sneak in here.”
“I don’t know why you’re complaining, or what you’re talking about, using words like teleport,” Mom said, ramming the portafilter back into place and hitting random buttons. “We’re not on Star Trek.” The coffeemaker began to hiss, like it was upset. Mom ignored that warning, too. “And as for ‘sneaking in here . . .’” She finally managed to get the machine brewing and turned to face me. “You are the one who needs to quit creeping around in the dead of night. Which is why I stopped by today.” She placed her hands on her hips, which were straitjacketed in one of her many pencil skirts. A suitably espresso-powder-brown wool version that matched her Hermes equestrian-print scarf. Then Mom stared hard into my eyes and demanded, “What in the world were you thinking, outright breaking into poor, deceased Lauren Savidge’s apartment—again? And breaking the lock on the door?”
“I . . . But I . . .”
I had no idea what she was talking about. I’d only sneaked into the apartment once, and I’d confessed the whole episode to Detective Doebler, who actually seemed to appreciate my insights. I got the sense that he was foundering without Jonathan on the case.
“Well, Daphne?” Mom said, jutting her chin. “What do you plan to do about the property you destroyed? The lock is ruined!”
I was still confused and struggling to respond when someone else entered the kitchen.
Gabriel Graham, whose keen ears had apparently overheard everything, because the sander had stopped at the most inopportune time.
“I hope you’re not grounded, Daphne,” he joked, grinning first at me, then at Mom, like he was oblivious to the tension in the room. “Because, if you’ve read any of the texts I’ve repeatedly tried to send you, in spite of getting no response, you’d know that we’ve been invited somewhere today.”
Chapter 42
Big Cats of the World was located about two miles from downtown Sylvan Creek, but as Gabriel’s red Jeep Wrangler bumped off the main road and passed through a dark, wooden gate that was at least ten feet high, the familiar hardwood forest in the heart of the Pocono Mountains suddenly took on a menacing aspect.
“Did you see that?” I asked Gabriel, who was mainly focused on navigating the rutted road through the woods. I shifted in the passenger seat to peer out the window, searching for another glimpse of tawny, striped fur. “Was that a tiger?” My breath fogged the glass, and I wiped away the condensation with my sleeve, then narrowed my eyes, searching the trees. “Seriously, I’m pretty sure I just saw an honest-to-gosh tiger wandering in the forest!”
“Umm, this is a preserve for big cats,” Gabriel reminded me, sounding much less impressed than I was. “Didn’t you see the warning sign near the gate? ‘Do NOT touch or attempt to scale electrified fencing. Predators roam free over five acres. Proceed at your own risk.’”
Of course, I’d had plenty of time to read that sign while we’d waited for Victor Breard to buzz us through the gate, but somehow—having been disappointed by most zoos and preserves, where animals always seemed to be sleeping in dens—I hadn’t really expected to see anything more than a few squirrels scampering around the forest.
“I thought the sign was probably exag
gerated, to make visitors think they were going on a big safari,” I explained, locating another tiger, which stalked even closer to the Jeep, just beyond what I assumed was a deceptively skimpy-looking wire fence. The animal was majestic—almost magical. It strolled languidly through the woods on its massive paws, its muscular shoulders and haunches rolling with each step. When the great cat stopped and turned to stare at us, I saw snow in its whiskers—and an unnerving curiosity in its eyes. “Wow,” I whispered, in awe. “I kind of forgot how beautiful big cats are. This makes me wish I wasn’t banned from Kenya!”
“You’re banned from Kenya?” Gabriel asked. I heard laughter in his voice. “What the . . . ?”
I reluctantly turned away from the tiger, which remained still, observing us as we drove on. “It’s a long story that I don’t want in the Weekly Gazette,” I said. “Plus, if I ever tell it again, which I may not do, I think Jonathan Black gets first dibs on the tale.”
Gabriel, who wore a blue down vest over a plaid shirt on that unseasonably warm day—meaning temperatures were slightly above freezing—knit his dark eyebrows. “What does that mean?”
I waved off the question with a hand covered by a wool mitten, knit in a zigzag pattern. “Jonathan’s waiting on a whole anthology of travel anecdotes that we never have time to finish. We always get sidetracked talking about murder.”
The Jeep bumped over a deep rut, and Gabriel steadied the wheel with gloved hands. But he dared another glance at me. “Are you discussing Lauren’s murder with Black? Because I thought he was off this case.” I already knew why Jonathan had withdrawn from the investigation, but Gabriel explained, “Conflict of interest, since his ex is a prime suspect.” He snorted a laugh. “Although, I know some guys who’d frame their ex, given half the chance.”
“Jonathan’s not like that,” I told Gabriel. Then I realized that I probably shouldn’t risk saying anything about Jonathan, for fear of accidentally divulging something he’d consider private, and I shrugged. “I’m pretty sure that Detective Black is a very principled, trustworthy guy.”
Gabriel turned to me, arching one eyebrow, but speaking in a level, even tone. “Are you sure that your Detective Black is ‘principled’ and ‘trustworthy’? Are you positive about that?”
There was something unnerving about the question. Something lurking underneath the seemingly innocent query, like a tiger padding silently through a quiet forest, and I studied Gabriel’s dark eyes.
Was he trying to make me doubt Jonathan’s integrity for some reason?
Or did he know some secret about Jonathan that I wasn’t privy to?
I couldn’t tell, and a moment later, Gabriel faced the road again as we crested a small rise. Ahead of us, a cabin-like wooden structure came into view, under a bright green-and-yellow sign that announced BIG CATS OF THE WORLD in a vaguely African font.
“Have you done much investigating?” I asked, suddenly remembering Gabriel’s boast about solving the case before Jonathan. We were nearly at our destination, but I ventured, quickly, “Do you have any theories about Lauren’s murder?”
“Yes, I do,” he informed me.
“Really?” I scooched around on the leather seat to see him even better and caught a glimpse of his 35 millimeter digital camera with its distinctive plaid strap, which he’d tossed to the backseat when I’d gotten into the Jeep. I really wished he would’ve let me hold, and perhaps examine, that camera during our drive to the preserve. I would’ve liked to have scrolled through the archive of photos, to see what he’d shot the night of Lauren’s death. But for now, I would have to pry information out of him. “What have you learned?”
Gabriel wasn’t really listening to me. He was distracted, staring straight ahead and frowning. Then he muttered, more to himself than to me, “I thought this was supposed to be a private tour.”
I’d been focused entirely on Gabriel, looking for clues to his still-elusive character and trying to get his insights into the murder. But when he said that, I faced forward, too, and saw that Victor Breard had apparently invited other “media” to witness what happened behind the scenes at his enigmatic operation.
And while Gabriel might’ve been irked to have his scoop undermined, I was happy to discover that we’d be joined by cameraman Kevin Drucker and the new producer of America’s Most Pet Friendly Towns, who was obviously stepping right in to fill Lauren Savidge’s big Doc Martens, before Lauren’s body was even in the ground.
Chapter 43
“I don’t see how this tour is very ‘exclusive’ or informative,” Gabriel complained, speaking over the loud hum of a golf cart, which he was driving along narrow paths that wound through the extensive Big Cats compound. Not all of the animals were allowed to roam as widely as the tigers, and we made our way slowly past smaller, but still spacious, enclosures. These were all filled with climbing equipment and toys to entertain the lions, jaguars, and leopards that Victor had rescued from circuses and unlicensed, abusive zoos, if his introductory lecture, delivered back at the cabin-like gift shop and snack bar, was to be believed. Gabriel gestured to the gaudy, tiger-striped cart ahead of us, where Victor, Joy, and Kevin Drucker were deep in conversation. “I can’t believe he’s driving the TV people around—talking their ears off—while we’re stuck back here together.”
“Hey!” Acting purely on reflex, I lightly slugged his shoulder, my mitten further softening the blow. “What do you mean, you’re ‘stuck with’ me?” I asked incredulously. “You’re the one who insisted that I come along!”
“Sorry.” Gabriel rubbed his arm like I’d really clubbed him and nearly crashed into the cart ahead of us. Victor had stopped abruptly, mid-path, under a thick canopy of trees that obscured the sun. We bumped to a halt, too, and the camera that I still wanted to see slid on the pleather seat between us. I grabbed the Nikon, which was surprisingly hefty, before it fell to the floor of the cart. Then I reluctantly offered it to Gabriel, who was holding out his hand. Slinging the camera over his shoulder, he grinned sheepishly. “That came out wrong. The reporter in me is just frustrated to be missing out on a lot of information when Victor’s ridiculous bullhorn fritzes out.”
“Yes, his attempts to lecture us while moving aren’t working very well,” I agreed, glancing at the bullhorn, which Victor kept in a special holder on the side of his ostentatious, noisy vehicle, when he wasn’t using the balky amplifier. “I guess, if I hadn’t tagged along, this would be a lot more productive for you. There was room for one more in Victor’s cart.”
“No, Daphne.” To my surprise, Gabriel reached over and clasped my wrist. “I am very happy that you joined me today. Please believe that. And I’m sorry if you were hurt by my offhand comment. I should edit my speech as carefully as I edit my articles. But don’t think for a second that I’m not glad you agreed to come here with me, after my attempt to impress you with dinner went so wrong.”
I didn’t accept his apology right away, mainly because I was a little confused by his almost vehement, if brief, speech, and by the feel of his hand on my arm, not to mention the way he was looking at me right then. He’d grown serious, and there wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in his tone or the usual mocking glimmer in his dark eyes. In fact, I almost thought he was regarding me with genuine appreciation. Maybe even something more . . .
“It’s . . . it’s okay,” I stammered, feeling my cheeks get warm. I averted my gaze, gently pulled my wrist free, and picked at a loose loop of yarn on my knit scarf. “I’m sorry I punched you,” I finally apologized, too. “That was completely out of line. Especially since I normally eschew violence, on principle.”
“Daphne.”
I stopped babbling and looked up to see that Gabriel was still very solemn. But there was warmth in his eyes, which were searching mine. He was always a good-looking guy, but I thought he became downright handsome when he lost the arrogance and cynical attitude. Even his goatee came across as less devilish.
“What?” I asked, getting sort of nervous.
; Had he leaned closer?
Yes. Yes, he had.
But did I want him to do that?
Especially at an animal shelter, while we were on a tour?
My gaze flicked to the camera.
Did I want that anywhere, given that I wasn’t sure I trusted him completely?
Not to mention other conflicting, confusing feelings I sometimes suffered . . .
I drew back, and my voice sounded squeaky when I repeated, “What? What’s up?”
Gabriel didn’t answer me. He just leaned a little closer, and I wasn’t sure if I was disappointed or relieved when we were interrupted by a Frenchman, who bellowed into a bullhorn that was obviously working again, “Daphne, Gabriel . . . Please, join us to meet my very best friend, le très magnifique Genghis Khan!”
Chapter 44
The lion with the imposing name Genghis Khan must’ve weighed 450 pounds. His mane was like a thick brown thundercloud swirling around his massive head, and he blinked at us with eyes that reminded me of the strange yellow color the sky had turned, right before I’d nearly been caught in a tornado while crossing Oklahoma on the back of a motorcycle. Which was a really bad idea, because Oklahoma is not only windy, but pretty dusty in August.
A worse idea, in my opinion?
Standing inside an enclosure with a gigantic male lion and absently hand-feeding the great beast chunks of raw beef from a large bucket.
I loved animals—was even bonding a tiny bit with Sebastian over our shared love of cheese—but I had to keep stifling the urge to beg Victor Breard to get the heck out of that pen before he was nothing but a meaty memory.
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