Pawprints & Predicaments

by Bethany Blake

  I felt my ears get warm again. Then I tried to picture the scene at the lake before everything had gone crazy. And I quickly realized that the other plungers had actually worn quite a variety of outfits.

  Elyse had wisely donned a wet suit, which had hugged her tiny frame. Even if I’d suspected her of killing Lauren, I couldn’t imagine where she’d hide anything in her neoprene body glove. Joy Doolittle, meanwhile, had worn running shorts and a T-shirt. She was small, too, and the outfit had been baggy on her. Maybe loose enough to hide a weapon. And Arlo Finch . . .

  I sucked in a sharp breath, and although I’d honestly believed Arlo was innocent when I’d spoken with him at Peaceable Pets, I blurted, “Arlo wore cargo shorts! With big pockets!”

  But Jonathan shook his head. “I don’t think Arlo Finch is currently guilty of anything but crimes against canine fashion.”

  I wouldn’t break my promise to keep Arlo’s past a secret, but I had to drop a hint. “You know, just because Arlo loved wind chimes, incense, and tie dye doesn’t mean you should just assume that he couldn’t act on impulse. He was . . . is . . . human. Wherever he is.”

  “Sedona, Arizona,” Jonathan said flatly. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I expect that he’ll be happy there among the UFO watchers, psychic channelers, and spiritual questers. Although, I imagine that there’s a lot more competition for business in Sedona, if you’re a holistic pet therapist.”

  I knit my brows. “How do you know where Arlo went? And why don’t you think he killed Lauren, given that he left Sylvan Creek pretty hastily?”

  “I’ve been keeping an eye on Samuel Beechey ever since I saw the note about him on Lauren Savidge’s vitriolic corkboard, which I assume you also saw at her apartment,” he said. “I had a chance to examine it before I took myself off the case. And I quickly followed up on the mug shot—and the note linking Beechey to a federal penitentiary.”

  Of course, Jonathan had deciphered the initials under Arlo’s photo. But I didn’t understand how he’d figured out that the terrible picture of Arlo had been taken by the police.

  “How did you know the photo was a mug shot?” I asked, speaking over Bernie’s snores. Both dogs were sound asleep by the warm oven. I knew that I was delaying my own slumber by discussing the homicide instead of baking or cleaning, but I couldn’t resist picking Jonathan’s brain. “Arlo wasn’t holding a placard with numbers. I just thought it was an unflattering portrait, taken on a bad hair day.”

  “Not all mug shots look like the ones you see on TV,” Jonathan explained. “But the bland background, the blank stare, and the plain orange shirt, reminiscent of scrubs . . .” He shrugged. “I’ve seen enough photos like that to know that Arlo had been arrested, at some point. And the tattoo on his wrist, which I saw at the plunge, not to mention the ridiculously made-up name—”

  “You saw the clock with no hands, too?” I interrupted. I didn’t know why I was so surprised. Jonathan observed everything. I slouched as I thought about how I’d had to research the clock’s meaning. “And, of course, you knew what it symbolized.”

  Jonathan nodded. “Of course.”

  I could’ve saved a lot of time and effort by asking Jonathan about Arlo instead of poking around at Peaceable Pets. I sighed, figuring I might as well get the whole story. “And Arlo’s name, which never struck me as unusual . . . ?”

  Jonathan grinned. “Really, Daphne? A holistic healer whose first name just happens to pay tribute to one of the nation’s greatest folk singers—an icon best known for using music to fight for social justice? And whose last name is taken from To Kill a Mockingbird? It’s clearly a name created by someone hoping to reinvent himself as a paragon of virtue. Which made me very curious about what Mr. Finch’s past held. Especially since Elyse had once mentioned Lauren’s work on Life on Death Row.”

  I cocked my head. “So, if you know all that about Arlo, why would you ever rule him out as a suspect?”

  “I’m not ‘ruling’ anyone in or out,” Jonathan reminded me, setting his empty mug next to the plate. “That’s up to Detective Doebler. But I do have a lot of experience with inmates, and ex-inmates, and I don’t think Finch would risk going back in prison. Not when he beat the odds to get out.” Jonathan grew somber as he recalled the night of the murder. “I also worked with him, trying to resuscitate Lauren. I saw the look in his eyes when I told him to stop CPR.” He shrugged, but he wasn’t making light of the memory. He was trying to shake it off. “I suppose my belief that he’s innocent is based solely on my gut instincts, but I trust them. It’s up to my partner to figure out if I’m right or wrong.”

  “I also believe Arlo’s innocent,” I said, rising and carrying the empty plate and forks to a big silver sink. “I just wish I’d gotten his recipe for stinky smoothies before he left town.”

  “Stinky smoothies?”

  I turned to see that Jonathan was giving me a funny look.

  “Yes,” I said. “The secret is kiwi.”

  Jonathan stood up, too. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you might be spending a little too much time with Moxie.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably true,” I agreed, bending down to scratch Bernie, who’d left a sticky puddle of slobber on my floor. That might violate some health codes, even in a pet bakery. I looked up as Jonathan took his overcoat down from the hook. “And speaking of friends . . . How are you and Bernie getting along? Do you want me to take him back?”

  “No.” Jonathan shrugged into his overcoat. “He’s fine with me, for now. Although my housekeeper is threatening to quit.” He glanced at the Saint Bernard, who was rousing, jostling Axis with his big paw, so the Lab woke up, too. “Hopefully, this thing gets solved soon.”

  I followed Jonathan and the dogs to the door. I knew that Bernie was in good hands, but seeing the Saint Bernard’s confused look, as he tried to figure out if he was going with Jonathan or staying with me, tugged at my heartstrings. “Yes, and I hope Bernie gets back to his home, if he even has one.”

  Jonathan stopped at the entrance to Flour Power, which now featured the same logo as my mugs and advertised my hours of operation. And when he turned to face me, I saw that he appeared uncharacteristically uncertain.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked, with a worried glance at Bernie. “Did you learn something about Bernie’s owner?”

  “It’s not about the dog,” he said. “I just want you to be careful around Gabriel Graham. At least until Lauren’s murder is solved. Because he was there, and had a past with Lauren. Not to mention a history in Philadelphia—”

  “Are you on this case or not?” I teased, because, along with checking into Arlo’s past, he’d obviously done some digging into Gabriel’s history, too. “Shouldn’t you be kicking back with a good book? Or investigating some old cold case?”

  Jonathan didn’t respond right away. In fact, he looked away for a moment and rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture that told me he was uncomfortable. Then he admitted, “My research into Graham’s life was more personal than professional. The night of your open house at Plum Cottage, back in October, he mentioned being an award-winning crime reporter for the Inquirer.”

  I could recall the conversation Jonathan was describing. I’d seen the two men talking at a small gathering I’d held to celebrate my new home.

  “Back then, I was curious about why somebody with Graham’s—let’s be honest—substantial ego left that job to run a weekly paper with such a small circulation,” Jonathan continued. “And when Lauren was killed, that curiosity turned to suspicion—and finally concern, when you started spending time with him. Enough that I did a little research.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. “You . . . you were mainly worried about me?”

  He smiled in a way that told me he couldn’t believe what he’d just said, either. “Yes, Daphne. Worrying about you seems to be becoming a hobby of mine.”

  In the past, when Jonathan had tried to protect me, I’d always promised him that I could look
out for myself. But that night, I simply said, “Thank you, Jonathan.” Then, to reassure him, I added, “I’ve done a little research into Gabriel’s past, too. I know about his work for the Inquirer—and what happened to his former girlfriend.”

  I could tell that Jonathan was relieved not to have to say more and risk impugning Gabriel’s character, when the facts surrounding Gabriel were murky. He nodded. “Good.”

  “Thanks again for looking out for me,” I repeated, reaching down to stroke Axis’s smooth fur and rumple Bernie’s big head. Both dogs were waiting patiently at our feet. “It was nice of you.”

  I was tempted to stand on tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek, but I resisted the urge. He seemed to be holding something back, too. But he finally said, “Good night, Daphne.” Then he opened the door. I noted that he didn’t clip a leash onto Bernie’s collar, and the big dog followed him outside, looking back once at me. I felt a surge of guilt, as if I’d abandoned Bernie. Jonathan glanced over his shoulder, too. “I suppose I’ll see you at the Iditarod, if not before.”

  I smiled, although I got a knot in my stomach just thinking about that messed-up cardboard box. “Yes. You won’t be able to miss us!”

  I saw Jonathan grin as he turned away, and I watched him and the dogs walk down the dark, wet, shimmering street until they were out of sight.

  Then I closed the door, turned around, and exhaled with a whoosh to see all of the work I still had to do, from cleaning pretty much every surface to baking and stocking the shelves.

  As I worked, I thought about Detective Doebler’s assertion that the killer had probably picked up a rock, on impulse—in a swimming area where rocks were few and far between. And about how few of the plungers could have carried concealed weapons.

  So what, exactly, had been used to commit the murder?

  The question kept my mind occupied while I labored until nearly dawn, at which point, exhausted, I put away my cleaning supplies and grabbed my coat from a peg in the kitchen.

  But, although I was tired, I didn’t head right home.

  I had one quick, secret stop to make before the sun rose.

  Chapter 48

  My mother was normally on top of maintenance at her various properties, so I crossed my fingers as I mounted the exterior steps to Lauren Savidge’s former apartment, hoping that Mom hadn’t yet hired someone to repair the lock that she’d accused me of breaking.

  And, luckily, at least for me, when I reached the efficiency’s small, covered porch, I discovered that the doorknob was hanging loose and silver duct tape covered the faceplate.

  Forgetting that I should probably avoid leaving fingerprints, I grasped the wobbly knob and pulled. The door swung right open, and I stepped into the kitchen, which wasn’t much warmer than the outdoors.

  My thrifty mother was probably keeping the thermostat on a setting that would just barely keep the pipes from freezing. I flipped the switch near the door, and the kitchen’s overhead light came on.

  “Wow . . .”

  The place seemed more disturbed than my mother had led me to believe.

  In fact, the entire corkboard was gone.

  Then I realized that Detective Doebler had probably taken the pictures and sticky notes, maybe even before my mother had reported the break-in.

  Regardless, I was disappointed. I’d hoped to examine that board one more time, just to make sure I hadn’t missed or forgotten anything.

  “Oh, well,” I sighed, spinning on my heel to survey the rest of the spare space, which still held some things that I assumed were Lauren’s, like an olive drab cap that sat on the kitchen counter, next to a microwave that was probably furnished by my mother.

  Scanning the counter, I continued trying to separate Lauren’s possessions from those supplied by Maeve Templeton.

  The four-piece canister set with the clamp top lids? That screamed Mom.

  But the half-empty bottles of wine and the case of bottled water had obviously been purchased by Lauren.

  I checked the label on the water, noting that it was generic and packaged in plastic bottles. Then I thought about Elyse Hunter-Black’s Eau de Vaucluse, which she drank from heavy blue glass bottles that looked like works of art.

  “Weird how water can be a status symbol,” I whispered, although no one was around to hear me.

  Feeling a tickle in the pit of my stomach, I glanced at the broken doorknob. At least, I hoped I was alone in the apartment. Anyone could come and go. Then I reassured myself that the place was so small that a person would have to hold his or her breath to go undetected.

  Moving away from the water, I next noticed a wilting, half-frozen spider plant that sat next to the sink.

  I wasn’t sure who had purchased that.

  I couldn’t imagine my mother supplying a tenant with a houseplant. Nor could I imagine Lauren Savidge buying something to nurture during her brief time in Sylvan Creek. I could only assume that the plant had been left behind by some previous tenant.

  “You poor thing,” I told the sprawling, spiky mess of foliage. Then, forgetting that I had no right to take anything from the apartment, I reached for it, planning to take it home with me and nurse it back to health. But as I lifted the terra-cotta pot, I discovered that the soil was actually damp. The plant was mainly suffering from the cold, not from lack of water. Still, I didn’t intend to leave it behind. “You are coming with me—”

  All at once, that promise froze in the chilly air as I spied something that had been hiding behind the planter.

  A dog collar.

  With a barrel attached.

  Chapter 49

  The sun wasn’t yet peeking over the horizon as I stood bleary-eyed in Lauren’s former, temporary home, studying the barrel and trying to figure out what to do next. I didn’t want to leave the collar in the unlocked apartment, for fear that it would disappear as mysteriously as it had shown up. Because I was pretty sure the cask on the leather strap hadn’t been in the kitchen the first time I’d been there. I was almost certain that the plant hadn’t been near the sink, either.

  Why—and how—had the collar materialized on Lauren’s countertop?

  I really wanted to take the barrel home with me, get some sleep, then call Detective Doebler at a more reasonable hour.

  Actually, I wanted to call Jonathan right then and wake him up. But I knew that he’d first be groggily irritated, then angry to learn that I’d entered the apartment again, before telling me that the collar was Detective Doebler’s problem. Assuming that the barrel was even related to the murder.

  I again looked between the spider plant and the collar.

  Was there a chance that the plant and the cask had been in the kitchen all along?

  Had I just not noticed either thing, somehow . . . ?

  All at once, I jumped, and my heart started racing, because I heard something outside. Heavy footsteps, clomping up the stairs to the apartment.

  I instinctively moved toward the door, but this time, there was no way to lock myself in. The knob was just hanging there.

  The footsteps got louder, and closer, and my heart began to pound so hard that I swore I could feel it thudding against my rib cage.

  “That’s not Mom,” I muttered nervously, my eyes fixed on the door. It sounded to me like the person was wearing clunky shoes, like boots. My mother never wore heavy boots, even in snowstorms.

  Backing away again, I reached into my pocket to get my phone so I could call for help.

  But before I could even tap the screen with my shaky fingers, the door swung open and in walked Gabriel Graham.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded, too loudly. I rested my free hand against my chest, trying to calm my thumping heart. “You scared me half to death!”

  Gabriel ignored my questions and my complaint.

  In fact, he didn’t say a word. He just frowned and stalked farther into the apartment. Closer to me. But his gaze was fixed on the countertop. And I didn’t know why his voice was so low—almost threaten
ing—when he ordered me, “Tell me how—and where—you found the collar, Daphne. I need to know now.”

  Chapter 50

  “I have disturbed quite a few crime scenes, and I’m telling you, you shouldn’t have taken the collar from the apartment,” I told Gabriel, who was hunched over his desk, poking at the barrel.

  He hadn’t been kidding when he’d told me that he worked odd hours. He’d been headed to his office before dawn to fire up the old presses for the next edition of the Gazette when he’d seen the light I’d turned on in the efficiency. Curious about who would be in a murder victim’s rental in the wee hours, he’d hurried to investigate. And when he’d seen the collar, he’d practically pounced on it, over my objections, then taken it back to his office, with me trailing behind, protesting the whole way.

  I knew that I was going to get blamed for messing up any fingerprints if the collar turned out to be significant.

  “Seriously, I don’t think you should touch that,” I said nervously, as Gabriel continued to peer at the keg. “You’re going to get me in trouble!”

  “I’m not touching anything with my hands.” He paused in poking at the collar with a pencil to look up at me. I was standing on the other side of the desk, too worried to take a seat. Even by my loose standards, he’d gone too far by taking the collar from the apartment. “You saw me use my handkerchief to pick it up,” he reminded me. “And I’ve covered plenty of homicides. I know what I’m doing.” He sat back and shrugged. “Plus, for all we know, the barrel has nothing to do with the murder.”

  I shook my head, disagreeing. “I feel like it does.”

  Gabriel grinned, then bent over the desk again. “To be honest, I do, too. And I’d like to write a story about the mysterious whisky cask that went missing after a murder, only to show up in the victim’s apartment. And I’d like to run it today.”

  I stifled a groan. My mother would no doubt read that article. Not to mention Jonathan. “Please, keep my name out of the story,” I begged. “My mother thinks my involvement in murders is bad for her business.”