Gabriel didn’t make any promises. He didn’t even look up at me.
“Tell me again how you found this,” he urged, using the pencil to spin the collar, so he could see it from a different angle. “Was it really just lying on the counter?”
“Yes, I found it behind the spider plant . . .” I started to answer him, but all at once, I thought about how Gabriel had found Bernie in the woods. And although he’d claimed the dog hadn’t been wearing anything unusual, I narrowed my eyes at him, suspiciously. He could’ve been pretending to be surprised by the discovery of the collar. In fact, he’d acted pretty strangely when he’d first entered the apartment. “When’s the last time you were at Lauren’s, before this morning?”
Gabriel raised his face again and smiled at my less-than-subtle question. “If you’re trying to ask me if I planted the collar at Lauren’s—and I’m pretty sure you are—the answer is, no, I’ve never seen this thing before, outside of a few photographs.” A shadow crossed his face. “I haven’t been to Lauren’s place in quite awhile, before today.”
Given how tense things had seemed between Gabriel and Lauren on the night of her death, I was pretty sure I believed that last statement at least. I also realized that, for better or for worse, a potential clue to the crime was right in front in of me, waiting to be examined. I finally took a seat in the metal chair and joined Gabriel as he resumed poking at the cask, like it was some sort of bomb that might go off.
However, under close inspection, the barrel wasn’t very impressive. In fact, it wasn’t even made of wood, just thick plastic, made to look like wood grain and looped with some kind of cheap, tinny metal. There was a curious slit on one end, and a black rubber stopper, plugging a hole in the plastic, on the other end. The end with the stopper was covered with a lot of thick, dried-up glue.
“Isn’t the hole supposed to be on the side of the barrel?” I asked, knitting my brows. “Wouldn’t all the whisky pour out the bottom the moment you pulled out the cork?”
“I really don’t know much about crafting barrels,” Gabriel said. “But I don’t think whoever made this one intended it to hold liquid—unless whisky suddenly becomes currency. Which wouldn’t be a bad idea, in my opinion.” He smiled at his own joke. “Distill your own dollars!”
He was laughing, but I had no idea what he was talking about. And he clearly saw that I was confused.
“This is a bank, Daphne,” he informed me, using the pencil to spin the barrel. “Coins go in the narrow slot. And you can shake them out the bottom, after you remove the stopper. I had one of these when I was a kid.”
He resumed peering closely at the keg, and I was glad he was distracted. My face had to be beet red. Of course, the cask was a child’s novelty bank. If I’d dared to touch the barrel, back at Lauren’s, I probably would’ve figured that out. And I would’ve noticed another small hole that Gabriel was pointing out, slowly spinning the cask again so I could see a dark spot in the plastic. A spot that glittered, like glass.
Dark, polished glass . . .
All at once, as I stared into what looked like a tiny, gleaming eye, I sucked in a sharp breath. Then Gabriel and I announced, at the same time, “This thing is also a camera!”
Chapter 51
“That’s why the glue job on the bottom is so bad,” Gabriel noted, both of us bent down again, even closer to the cask. We were circling like vultures—or members of an actual bomb squad, both eager to understand the mechanism and half afraid the whole thing would blow up in our faces. At least, I was kind of afraid. “Somebody must’ve cut off the bottom, put a camera inside, and sealed the thing back up.” He nodded in an approving way. “Homemade spy—or nanny—cam. I like it. Much more original than the standard teddy bear on a shelf.”
I wasn’t so sure I agreed, and I gave him another suspicious glance. “What’s so great about surreptitious surveillance?”
Gabriel laughed. “What’s not?”
I drew back, even more wary. “Are you sure you’ve never seen this . . . ?”
“Relax, Daphne.” He nodded to his trusty Nikon, which was also on the desk. “I’m pretty up front when I take photos. I’m not a fan of lawsuits.”
And yet, I thought he tempted that fate all the time, with his barely-this-side-of-the-truth articles and his not quite misleading photos.
I stared at the hefty digital 35 millimeter.
And what sort of images waited in that black box . . . ?
“The big question is, who created this thing?” Gabriel noted, so I returned my attention to the biggest mystery on his desk. “And why?”
I suddenly remembered the picture that Lauren had snapped of me, without my knowledge or permission. And the photo of Piper locking her door. I was pretty sure my sister had no idea that image existed.
“Maybe Lauren,” I suggested. “She wasn’t above undertaking the occasional covert camera operation.”
“Yes, she wasn’t too squeamish about violating privacy rights,” Gabriel said, leaning back on his chair. The old springs squeaked. I sat back, too, but my chair didn’t give. “However, I don’t see Lauren doing a craft project.” He waved at the barrel, almost dismissively. “And she wasn’t the cloak-and-dagger type.” Then he smiled wryly. “Well, she was the dagger type. But she wielded them pretty directly.”
I could’ve sworn Gabriel admired the ruthless aspects of Lauren’s nature.
So why did he have the slightest bit of interest in me?
Not that he was acting like he’d ever tried to kiss me, right then. His gaze was trained on the cask again. Then he looked at me, briefly. “Of course, Lauren wasn’t the only person with some professional expertise regarding video equipment.”
I leaned forward. “You mean Joy Doolittle? And—or—Kevin Drucker?”
He nodded. “Especially Kevin. The silent observer with the omnipresent camera perched on his shoulder. . . Think about it.”
Gabriel had a point.
“But why?” I asked. “Why stash a camera in a barrel? And put the barrel on a dog. And let the dog loose in a forest. Then find the dog, steal the barrel from his collar, break into Lauren Savidge’s apartment, and ditch it there . . .” I shook my head. “It seems like a lot of effort for . . . what?”
“That’s what we’re hopefully going to find out, by busting this thing open—”
Gabriel was actually reaching for the retrofitted bank, and I leaped out of my chair and grabbed his arm, stopping him. “What in the world are you thinking?” I demanded. I realized that I was starting to sound like Jonathan, but I kept protesting. “This is evidence. I keep telling you. We have to turn it over to Detective Doebler. We can’t destroy it!”
“I’m not going to destroy anything,” Gabriel promised. I was still clutching his wrist, and he looked up at me, his eyes all innocence, but his grin pure devilment. “I’m just going to see if there are any images captured on the camera, reassemble everything, then turn the whole thing over to the police.”
That still sounded like a bad idea to me, and I broke the rules all the time. I released his arm and pulled out my cell phone. “I’m sorry, but I’m calling Detective Doebler. Now.”
“Go ahead,” Gabriel said, grinning. “I work pretty quickly. By the time he gets here, I’ll be ready to write a story about our discovery for the Gazette.”
Chapter 52
“Do you think Gabriel really would’ve tampered with possible evidence?” Moxie asked, as I whipped up some batter to make a test batch of Woofles waffles for dogs. We were video chatting, and I had my phone propped against an old cookbook on the kitchen counter at Plum Cottage. Moxie was at her apartment, painting her nails an unusual shade of green. Stirring a big bowl full of rice flour, eggs, and cinnamon, I glanced at the screen to see that she was frowning. “Or do you think he was just pushing your buttons by threatening to take apart the barrel? Because that wouldn’t be very nice.”
“I think he honestly wanted to see the camera,” I said, dropping some batter on
to the surface of my hot waffle iron. I’d picked up Artie and Socrates from Piper’s house early that morning, and Artie was dancing around, licking his chops. Socrates was waiting patiently for his snack. “But we still had a few tense moments before he agreed that we should call Detective Doebler.”
In fact, Gabriel and I had ended up having a pretty big argument, which I’d won. Not that I felt a great sense of triumph. Gabriel, who had insisted upon being there when the police took apart the barrel, had recently called me to apologize for being overzealous in his effort to get a scoop. He’d also informed me that no images had been found on the small, but high-quality, video camera that had been discovered in the cask. As things stood, Detective Doebler didn’t really think the barrel was a clue to solving Lauren’s murder.
“How would somebody even work a camera that was stuck in a barrel?” Moxie mused. I looked over to see her holding up her nails, examining her Martian-colored fingertips. She blew on her hand, appearing satisfied. “Would, like, an elf crawl inside to take the pictures?”
Was it strange that I honestly wasn’t sure if she was joking?
“According to Gabriel, it’s easy to connect most cameras to a remote control,” I told her, flipping the ancient cast-iron waffle iron. “Anybody with even a little technical know-how could do it, then videotape from a pretty fair distance from the camera.”
“But why . . . ?” Moxie sounded baffled.
“I don’t know.” I opened the waffle iron and saw that the Woofles were perfectly golden brown. Artie started jumping up and down, his tongue hanging out, and even Socrates moved closer, his nose twitching at the scent of cinnamon. “I guess it doesn’t matter,” I added with a shrug. “Detective Doebler doesn’t think the camera will help solve the case.”
“I still think the whole thing is weird,” Moxie said.
I had to agree. I still believed that the plastic keg was connected to Lauren’s murder. Why else would it have gone missing after the crime, then show up in her apartment?
I also couldn’t stop thinking about two people who could easily connect a remote control to a camera: Kevin Drucker and Gabriel. . . .
“Why were you even at Lauren’s apartment again?” Moxie asked, interrupting my thoughts. “Are you trying to make your mother—and Jonathan—angry?”
“No!” Using a knife, I gently pried the warm Woofles, which had the perfect amount of crisp on the edges, out of the waffle iron and set them onto two plates. Then I spread peanut butter into the crannies, so it would melt and get gooey, and topped both treats with “whipped cream” yogurt, sweetened with honey. Artie started popping around like a cork, nearly knocking his plate out of my hand before I could set it on the floor. And Socrates was licking his chops. I had a feeling Woofles would be a hit at Flour Power. As the dogs dug in, I straightened and wiped my hands on my apron. “I had hoped to see Lauren’s corkboard, with all the photos, one more time,” I told Moxie. “I didn’t intend to touch anything. But I happened to see a dying plant, and I couldn’t just walk away without at least watering it.”
“That sounds like you, Daphne,” Moxie noted. “All my plants would be dead if you didn’t stop by now and then.”
That was true. Moxie had a good heart, but she never watered the few ferns and the ficus she kept in her apartment. I guessed some people weren’t as fond of plants as others....
“Daph, are you listening?”
I’d been drifting off again, my mind still struggling to connect a bunch of dots that seemed random, but which I knew would reveal a picture of Lauren Savidge’s killer, if I could just draw the lines between them.
“Look at your phone,” Moxie said, summoning my attention again. “I want to show you something.”
I stepped over to my phone and bent down. “What’s that?”
Moxie picked up her own cell and swung it around, so for a second, I got queasy when the colorful, mismatched décor in her eclectic apartment swirled like paint dumped on an old spin art toy. Then she stood still and pointed the camera at a very authentic-looking, if somewhat small, stagecoach standing in the middle of her cramped living room.
“Oh, Moxie!” I cried. “It’s perfect!”
“You really like it?” I heard pride in her voice as she moved her phone around so I could see the cardboard vehicle from all angles.
I got a little seasick again, but forced myself to check out the sled’s glossy red paint and yellow wagon wheels, which were mounted onto Moxie’s vintage skis, so Bernie could pull the contraption across the snow. Moxie had also crafted a rear-facing “rumble seat” in the back, where I presumed Artie—in character as Julia Bulette—would sit, surprising the crowd as he glided by in his velvet dress.
There was even an upholstered seat for a driver....
I turned to look hopefully at Socrates, who’d finished his Woofle. He shook his head and growled under his breath. The sound wasn’t vicious, by any means. He was just putting down his substantial paw.
“Oh, fine,” I told him. “You don’t have to take part.” I turned back to Moxie, whose face was on-screen again. “How can I ever thank you enough? Because the stagecoach was supposed to be my responsibility.”
“We’re best friends, Daph,” she reminded me. “I know your priority has to be the bakery right now.” I was basking in the warm glow of friendship when she also noted, “Plus, you were really wrecking the refrigerator box. It was like you’d never held a craft knife before!”
I supposed that honesty, even the brutal kind, was a good quality in a friend, too.
“Well, thanks,” I said. “That is a load off my mind. I can’t wait for the Iditarod!”
“Me, neither.” Moxie waggled her fingers, signing off. “In the meantime, I’ve got to go fit Sebastian for his cowboy vest and boots.”
“Vest?” I asked uncertainly. “And boots? For a rat? But why . . . ?”
Moxie was nodding with enthusiasm. “Yes! I’ve decided he’ll make a perfect Little Joe Cartwright!”
I seriously doubted that anyone would understand that a rodent in a cowboy outfit and a hyper dog in a velvet dress were supposed to be an ill-fated couple from a 1960s TV show. I was also trying to figure out how Moxie would put boots on a rat when a white face with a wriggling pink nose and bright pink eyes popped up on the screen, obliterating my view of Moxie.
“Sebastian!” I rested one hand against my chest. “Don’t video bomb! It’s rude!”
I didn’t think Sebastian heard me, because, all at once, an even ruder black cat darted out from his mini-jungle and pounced on my new phone, ending the call—and sending a bunch of plants crashing to the ground.
I opened my mouth to scold Tinkleston, then froze in place, staring at the poor, battered herbs on my floor. And as I stood there, my thoughts flashed back to Lauren Savidge’s apartment. I remained still for a long time, my brain again struggling to make those connections that stayed just out of reach.
What was odd about the spider plant?
Chapter 53
“You had been doing so much better since Bernie’s been out of the house,” I told Tinkleston, as I set the potted herbs back on the windowsill. The little cat, who had reclaimed his spot, was blinking up at me, like he didn’t even realize that he’d made a mess. But I saw a hint of self-satisfied defiance in his orange eyes. Picking up a cracked terra-cotta planter that overflowed with fragrant lavender, I dusted some dirt off the rim. “I am going to ban you from this hiding spot, if you can’t behave . . .”
I wasn’t done scolding Tinks, but as I held that clay pot, I again pictured the spider plant that had been wilting next to the sink at Lauren’s apartment. If Moxie had been there, she would’ve walked right by it....
I felt like I was finally on the verge of a revelation, when all at once my cell phone rang.
“Darn,” I muttered, thinking Moxie had probably forgotten to tell me something. But when I picked up the phone, I saw an unfamiliar number on the screen. However, I immediately recognized the ca
ller by his accent and unusual greeting.
“Bonsoir, Daphne!”
Chapter 54
“Will you please stop looking at me like that,” I asked Socrates, who rode shotgun next to me in the VW on the dreariest winter day I could remember. It wasn’t snowing. Snow would’ve been pretty. The morning was just dark, the sky filled with low, churning, nearly black clouds that seemed to press down from above, like a cracked and slowly collapsing ceiling. I flipped the switch to turn on my unreliable headlights. But the dim glow they produced did little to help offset the gloom, which deepened as I turned onto the forested road leading to Big Cats of the World. “I really don’t think this is a mistake,” I told the basset hound, who was warily scanning the trees. “I’m sure Victor just wants to talk. And it’s not like we’ll be all alone there. He said the shelter is open to the public today, and might even be busy.”
Socrates rolled his eyes and huffed, softly, to let me know that he thought I was being potentially dangerously naïve.
And, the truth was, he was probably right.
But how could I resist Victor’s suggestion that we meet, especially since I’d seemed so eager to hear all about the mysterious article the first time I’d visited his rescue? We’d shared that strange moment of mutual understanding....
“Woof!”
I’d been lost in my recent memories, but Socrates’s deep, unexpected, and rare bark brought me back to reality.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, shooting him a worried look. I knew he wouldn’t speak up unless something was really troubling him. That definitely concerned me, given that we were headed toward a preserve filled with some of the world’s biggest predators. In fact, although I’d seen Victor’s extensive security system firsthand, I’d still left Artie at Plum Cottage. He was just too friendly, impulsive—and perfectly snack-sized—to be anywhere near a beast like Genghis Khan. Steering using only my peripheral vision, I kept watching Socrates. “What’s the matter?”
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