Pawprints & Predicaments

by Bethany Blake

  I shot Gabriel a worried look. But, like Joy Doolittle and Kevin Drucker, he was focused on the spectacle unfolding on the other side of a fence that I knew surged with electrical current, but which still seemed too skimpy to contain the animal Victor affectionately called Khan. Ducking down to get a better angle, Gabriel raised his Nikon to his face and snapped a few pictures, his camera making faint clicking sounds as the images were recorded.

  I continued to watch Gabriel for a moment, wondering if Detective Doebler had thought to take a look at Gabriel’s photos from the night of Lauren’s death.

  Then I returned my attention to Khan, who was accepting another hunk of beef from Victor’s fingers. And out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Kevin Drucker. He hadn’t said three words since we’d all hopped out of our carts, but he also had his camera on his shoulder, filming Victor as the wiry man told us all about Khan’s past.

  “It is hard to believe that such a beautiful creature could be considered, how do you say . . . ?” Victor set down the bucket, which was empty, and scratched the cat’s forehead with what had to be a sticky hand while he searched for the right word in English. “Expendable!” He glanced down at Khan, and the lion raised his face to look up at his “best friend.” I had to admit, the two seemed pretty chummy. “Can you believe that, after many years spent dutifully jumping through fiery hoops—a terrible activity for any animal,” Victor continued, with what I thought was genuine outrage over a practice that I agreed was cruel. “After years of loyal service with a circus—one of renown, which I shall not name—poor Khan is considered worthless! Or, should I say, worthy . . . of destruction! Until I pled to bring him here, where he is ‘retired’ in peace!”

  It was obvious that Victor had given this spiel many times, and the way his chest puffed with self-congratulation was kind of obnoxious, but the tale was powerful, and he told it with passion.

  Was there such a thing as a sincere huckster?

  It seemed possible. Or maybe I was just falling under the spell of a gifted and charismatic storyteller. If so, I wasn’t alone. Joy Doolittle was also captivated by Victor’s speech.

  She stood next to me, wearing a navy wool coat that I assumed was supposed to make her appear “professional,” but which was a touch too big on her size zero frame. She reminded me of a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes. And Joy’s sympathetic sigh, on behalf of the lion who was lying down at Victor’s feet, was soft and childlike, too. Shivering slightly, she turned to me, her fair cheeks rosy with the cold and sorrow in her pale blue eyes.

  “Poor Khan!”

  I opened my mouth to agree that the lion’s past plight was sad, but before I could say anything, I flashed back to the beach at Lake Wallapawakee, where I’d also stood next to Joy while Jonathan had tried to resuscitate Lauren Savidge.

  Joy had been trembling and speaking softly then, too. Not talking to me, but to herself, muttering into her shaking hands.

  Was she really a fragile waif?

  Or did her appearance and mannerisms mask— perhaps somehow aid—an ambitious, grasping agenda?

  Because Joy was surviving in a very competitive industry.

  Not only surviving, but moving up at Stylish Life Network, now that Lauren Savidge was out of the way.

  And what had Joy said, over and over, that night at the beach . . . ?

  “What did you say, Joy?” Victor Breard asked, so for a second I thought he’d been reading my mind. Then I snapped out of my reverie and realized that he was walking closer to the fence, his clean hand cupped behind his ear. The lion, behind him, was still reclining, but watchful. Victor, no doubt used to being vulnerable to Khan, seemed oblivious to what I thought was real danger. Especially given that Victor’s other hand was freshly stained red with blood that was making my vegetarian self queasy, but which was no doubt a lip-smacking temptation to a carnivore. I exchanged glances with Gabriel, who was no longer taking pictures. He also seemed to think that Victor was crazy to turn his back on a predator that still had blood on its muzzle. But Gabriel shrugged, as if to say, “Not my problem!” Or, perhaps, “This will make great copy!” I noted that he kept his Nikon at the ready, no doubt in case he had the chance to get some action shots. But Khan continued to lie still while Victor stepped even closer to the fence. “You had a question, Joy?”

  “No, no.” She smiled and tucked some of her ash-blonde hair nervously behind her ear. “I was just sympathizing with poor Khan’s plight.”

  “You have a kind heart,” Victor said softly. I got the sense that, if there hadn’t been about five thousand volts between them, he would’ve patted her hand. At least, I hoped there were at least five thousand volts. “Just remember that, thanks to the generosity of caring people like you, Khan has a safe home now.”

  Victor managed to make a subtle pitch for a donation and successfully flirt, if I was reading the signs correctly. And I thought I was.

  I looked between the older man and the much younger woman, remembering the night I’d seen them together at Zephyr, the most romantic restaurant in Sylvan Creek. But they’d appeared to be at odds that evening.

  What was really going on with Victor and Joy?

  Then I stole a glance at the guy who’d taken me to Zephyr, and who was also observing the unlikely couple with unabashed curiosity. I could tell that Gabriel also believed there was a story behind Victor’s odd smile and the increasing flush on Joy’s cheeks.

  And speaking of stories . . .

  “You must get a lot of media attention when you rescue a lion like Khan, who starred in a circus,” I noted, not certain where I was headed with that comment. I just hoped to steer the conversation toward the magazine article I’d seen on Lauren’s corkboard. And, since I wasn’t sure what to say next, I decided to take the direct route. “I remember seeing an article about you once. There was a picture of you, wearing a dark suit and very interesting gold tie. And you looked incredibly unhappy, like maybe a rescue hadn’t worked out. . . .”

  My voice faltered, because, in the course of about one second, I saw at least four emotions flash through Victor Breard’s eyes. First, there was recognition. He knew what I was talking about. Followed by surprise. And a hint of concern. Then . . . anger?

  At me?

  Or at someone else, like Lauren, who might’ve brought something unsavory from Victor’s past to light again, just like she’d tried to do with Arlo Finch?

  “What was that article about?” I inquired, meeting Victor’s gaze, which was locked on mine, although his expression was already neutral again. I doubted that anyone else had even noticed the rapid-fire barrage of emotions I’d just witnessed. Even Gabriel, who was perceptive and always on the alert for potential news, seemed unaware. He was looking past me, still observing Joy, like she was the story. And maybe she was. “Do you know what I’m talking about?” I asked Victor, more quietly. “It seemed like a pretty big article, in a glossy publication.”

  “Yes,” Victor said, forcing a smile. The slightest twitch of his lips. He continued to meet my gaze, but I wasn’t sure, at that point, what he was trying to convey. “Perhaps we can discuss the article at another time?” he suggested. “For it is une histoire longue.”

  He’d just told me that the story was a long one. I could translate that phrase in about ten languages, because I used it quite a bit myself, as Jonathan Black could attest.

  “I’d like to hear it sometime,” I said softly. “I really would.”

  Victor nodded. “D’accord.” Then he broke the odd tension between us by stepping back, grinning his showman’s grin, and asking Gabriel, “Do you have questions for me? I am, today, an ‘open book’!”

  Gabriel finally stopped staring at Joy and retrieved his notebook from the back pocket of his jeans. “Yeah, I do have a few questions.” He clicked open a pen that he’d tucked in the thin pad’s spiral wire binding. “Let’s start with funding,” he suggested, peering closely and somewhat suspiciously at Victor, who remain
ed separated from us by the fence. I believed we should move the interview to a safer place, but Victor didn’t seem in any rush to leave Khan’s enclosure. And the lion remained at ease, his long, sinewy body stretched out on the cold ground. “Did you say this place is funded entirely by donations?” Gabriel asked, poising his pen over the paper. “Or do you get government support? Maybe state or local tax dollars?”

  Victor had fully recommitted to the role of pitchman, and he smiled more broadly. “Mayor Holtzapple is one of my biggest supporters,” he informed us. “But only on a personal basis. I am afraid that this entire rescue operation is financed by individuals who donate directly or pay the modest fee to tour the property, and the occasional corporate sponsor.”

  “Interesting,” Gabriel said, scribbling. He jerked his head toward the carts that waited on the paths behind us. “I wasn’t sure I heard you right, when you explained your funding sources, while driving ahead of me and Daphne.”

  Gabriel was lodging another not-so-subtle complaint about the golf cart situation, but Victor didn’t seem to notice. Although he did apologize, if only for a technical glitch.

  “I am sorry,” he said, with an exaggerated frown. “I tried to use my bullhorn, as I often do during tours like this. But she is no longer fiable . . . reliable . . . since the terrible night at the lake. I believe she got some water in the electrical parts, during le chaos.” He made a motion like snapping something in two. “There is a crack, and I must buy another, with my limited money.” His frown dragged down to his shoes. “Which is better spent to feed poor Khan and friends.”

  I hadn’t realized that the faulty, handheld loudspeaker he’d been trying to use all afternoon was the same one that had been at the lake the night of Lauren’s murder.

  And had he just begged us all to outright buy him a new one?

  How much would that even cost?

  Gabriel and I once again exchanged glances, silently asking each other if we should hand over some cash.

  I had a huge soft spot for animals, and I was definitely feeling pressured to make a contribution. In fact, I was reaching into one of my coat’s pockets for the wallet that I was actually carrying that day, when all at once, silent Kevin Drucker spoke up from behind the camera that was still on his shoulder, noting drily, “I think that lion’s gonna eat for free, if you don’t get out of that pen in about seven seconds, Mr. Breard.”

  Chapter 45

  “I can’t believe you almost saw someone get eaten by a lion on your second date!” Moxie marveled. At least, I was pretty sure that’s what she’d said. Her lips were clamped around straight pins that were making me nearly as nervous as Khan, when he’d crept up behind Victor Breard on silent, stealthy paws. Well, not quite that nervous. But I was still glad when Moxie spit the pins into her palm so she could speak more clearly from her spot on the floor of Piper’s spacious living room. We’d met there a few days after my visit to Big Cats of the World to work on Artie’s and Bernie’s cardboard sled, because Plum Cottage was too small to accommodate the old refrigerator box I was carving up. Moxie shook her head ruefully. “That would’ve been a disaster!”

  “For Victor, or Daphne and Gabriel?” Piper asked sarcastically, without looking up from her laptop. She was, as usual, working on her bookkeeping that icy evening, although she’d moved from her traditional seat at the kitchen counter to an overstuffed chair near the fireplace. Socrates also sat by the fire, glumly watching me cut up the box with a utility knife, while Moxie hand-stitched Artie’s costume. The Chihuahua seemed to grasp that the frilly bonnet and velvet dress were being crafted for him. He spun happy circles around Moxie, a string of drool hanging from his mouth. The spittle made me miss Bernie, who was probably leaving puddles all over Jonathan’s home, vexing the cleaning lady. “And was this really a date, Daphne?” Piper inquired, reaching for one of the mugs of Belgian hot chocolate with homemade marshmallows I’d whipped up to thank her for allowing us to mess up her house. I’d also brought a batch of still-warm peanut butter oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies, half of which were already gone. “Have you figured out Gabriel’s intentions yet?”

  “Intentions?” I laughed, avoiding her questions. I knew that Piper, whose boyfriend seemed like an uncomplicated, genuinely nice guy, wouldn’t like to hear the truth, which was that Gabriel would’ve kissed me goodbye if I hadn’t insisted that I was freezing and ducked inside Plum Cottage. Kneeling, I began to cut what I hoped would look like a window into the box. “That’s a really old-fashioned word,” I added, shaking off the memory of Gabriel’s and my awkward parting. “You sound like you’ve been watching Stagecoach!” I glanced quickly at my best friend. “Which is a brilliant theme for a sled featuring a horse-sized dog and a pint-sized pup like Artie. He’ll be such a cute ‘passenger’ in his little western outfit!”

  Moxie stopped sewing lace onto the bonnet long enough to give me a quizzical look. “Stagecoach?”

  “Um . . . yeah,” I said, also confused. “You said the theme is Stagecoach, right? As in the classic movie from the 1930s?”

  “Oh, that was a great film!” Moxie agreed, resuming her work on the bonnet. “But I said we’re making a stagecoach—to reenact ‘The Julia Bulette Story,’ which, as you probably know, is an episode from the first season of the 1960s television show, Bonanza.”

  Piper and I exchanged puzzled looks, while Moxie held up Artie’s dress. “Artie will be the gold digger, originally played by Jane Greer, who attempts to seduce Little Joe and steal the Cartwright’s family fortune.” She frowned at me and Piper. “I really thought it was all pretty clear from the context clues.”

  Piper rolled her eyes, and Socrates covered his muzzle with his paws and groaned.

  “Oh, it’s all very clear now,” I said. Sometimes it was just easier to play along. “At least I understand why he’s wearing a dress instead of, say, a cowboy hat and tiny chaps.”

  “I did think about dressing him as Little Joe,” Moxie said, patting the tiny, excited dog on his shaky head. “But Julia Bulette is the one who arrives by stagecoach, and I was afraid people wouldn’t get the reference, if we weren’t as true to the story as possible.”

  “Nobody’s going to—”

  Piper started to argue with Moxie, but I cut her off, sitting back on my heels and changing the subject entirely. “You know, it really was scary, when we all realized that Khan—the lion—was sort of stalking Victor. Although he insisted that the cat just wanted a scratch behind the ears.”

  “He’s being a fool,” Piper declared flatly. “I don’t care how experienced he is with big cats. In fact, people who work too closely with them often get lulled into a false sense of security. The caretakers grow fond of the animals and think that feeling is reciprocal. Which may be true. But a lion isn’t like a dog. It doesn’t have centuries of domestication hardwired into its brain. At any moment, its natural instincts could override any genuine affection it has for a human.”

  “Maybe even domestic cats have a dual nature,” I said, giving up on cutting out the window, which so far looked like a jagged-edged, three-dimensional Rorschach test. Heading to the kitchen, I retrieved a plate that held four dog-friendly, chocolate-free peanut-butter oatmeal Off the Leash treats I’d also made and set those on the floor. I trusted that Socrates would divide the snack equally. Then I picked up my mug of hot chocolate and one of the ooey, gooey, melty cookies, which had the added bonus of a full bag of chocolate chips, and curled up on Piper’s deep, cozy sofa. Outside, sleet pelted the dark windows of the snug 1800s farmhouse. “Even though I’ve made progress with Tinks, he still takes a swipe at me now and then,” I noted. Then I shrugged. “Although Arlo thinks he has a good heart.”

  Piper had resumed working, but she gave me a quick, sharp glance. “You took Tinkleston to see Arlo Finch?”

  “Yes,” I told her, not sure why she was so surprised. I’d made my positive opinions about holistic medicine pretty clear. “But he was packing to flee town and couldn’t really do more t
han serve me a delicious, if stinky, smoothie.” Piper appeared baffled by everything I’d just said, so I added, “The secret ingredient was kiwi.”

  My sister didn’t seem to know what to say, while Moxie, of course, had latched on to the incriminating phrase I’d accidentally used.

  “Arlo was ‘fleeing town’?” she asked, clearly not interested in the smoothie recipe. I looked down to see her struggling to tie the sweet little bonnet under Artie’s recessive chin, while the dog was still chewing his treat. “Why was he ‘fleeing’?”

  I normally shared all of my secrets with Moxie, but I had no intention of breaking my promise to keep quiet about Arlo’s past, and I changed my tune slightly. “He was just moving out quickly,” I fibbed reluctantly. Socrates shot me an accusing look, which made me feel even worse. Cringing, I tried to cross my fingers while holding a mug. “I guess ‘fleeing’ was the wrong word.”

  Piper could tell I was prevaricating. She continued to observe me with a shrewd, skeptical eye. “Were you trying to help Tinkleston, or investigate Lauren Savidge’s murder?”

  “Maybe a little bit of both,” I admitted, uncrossing my fingers. I spoke pointedly to Moxie. “And I honestly don’t think Arlo was involved. So please don’t spread any rumors around town.”

  “I won’t say a word,” Moxie promised. She held the dress up to Artie’s chest, so the outfit’s lacy frill was right under the dog’s chin. He really was going to be adorable, although I could already imagine Jonathan’s negative critique. “My lips are sealed!”

  “Thanks, Moxie.” I dipped my cookie into the hot chocolate and took a bite, savoring the perfect combination of fluffy marshmallow, sweet peanut butter, and warm chocolate layered upon warm chocolate. Licking my fingers, I added, “I do have to say, there is a lot of weird stuff going on, and I have a feeling that, if I could piece it all together, I’d solve the crime.”