Pawprints & Predicaments

by Bethany Blake

  Something about his tone made me feel like I was responsible for everything. The broken gate. Victor’s death. The potential destruction of majestic animals. “I’m sorry. . . .”

  He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table and tenting his fingers, the better to peer into my eyes. “What were you doing here, Daphne?” He wasn’t one to get carried away by emotion, but there was an edge of frustration in his low, soft voice. “Why are you—again—the first to find a body?”

  “I came here at Victor’s request,” I defended myself, searching around for Socrates, as if he could back me up, but the sagacious basset hound had made himself scarce. He was not a fan of confrontation or firearms. I reluctantly faced Jonathan again. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  Jonathan spoke evenly. “Why did Victor invite you?”

  I tucked some of my curls behind my ear, growing nervous, because I’d suddenly realized that I was being interrogated. This was a new murder, and while I’d assumed the two recent killings were related, that probably hadn’t been established yet. “You’re not off this case, are you?”

  “Not at this point,” he advised me. “Now, please, tell me why you came here today.”

  It seemed like he was growing more distant with every second, putting up that wall between his personal and professional personas. I couldn’t read anything in his eyes, and that made me even more uneasy. I took a deep breath, trying to focus, then told him, “When I took the tour with Gabriel, Joy Doolittle, and Kevin Drucker the other day, I mentioned an article about Victor that I’d seen on Lauren’s corkboard—”

  “The piece that was torn out of a magazine,” Jonathan interrupted. I’d forgotten that he would’ve seen the story, too. “With half the headline missing.”

  I nodded, then pointed to the table that held all the papers. “A copy of the article is right over there, with some other documents.”

  Without a word, Jonathan rose and went to the table that held the magazine and Victor’s citations. He quickly found the article, which was on top of the papers, and skimmed it. Then he returned and sat across from me again. He didn’t say anything about what he’d just read. He just nodded and said, “Continue. Please.”

  I licked my lips, nearly squirming under his coolly professional gaze. “Well, Victor acted strangely and said he’d like the chance to explain that story. I didn’t really expect him to call, but he did. And I was curious, so I took him up on his offer to talk.”

  Jonathan sat back and crossed his arms, observing me closely. “Did you get a chance to have this ‘talk’?”

  I felt my eyes grow wide. “You don’t really think I killed Victor . . . ?”

  He didn’t respond. He just kept watching me. He was no longer irritated, but completely dispassionate. And that was somehow worse.

  My cheeks got warm under his level stare. And although I knew that he could—and probably should—logically have doubts about my involvement in Victor’s death, I was stung by his failure to assure me that he would never believe me capable of murder.

  Then I felt a pang of guilt, because I had experienced moments of doubt about Jonathan, ever since Gabriel had asked me if I was sure Jonathan was trustworthy.

  But I’d never suspect him of murder.

  “I don’t think I want to talk anymore until I call my lawyer,” I finally said quietly, trying not to let him know that I was hurt. I was also keenly aware that I had no lawyer to call. And Jonathan probably knew that the threat was empty.

  Still, he told me, “Fine, Daphne. That’s your prerogative.”

  I stood up to leave, but I didn’t get three steps before Jonathan rose, too, and clasped my shoulder with his hand. I hadn’t even heard him push back the chair to stand up.

  I started to pull free; then I saw the apology in his eyes, and I stopped tugging.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly, although we seemed to be alone in the building. Piper had left at some point, and Socrates had probably gone outside to watch the remaining officers search Khan’s pen. “I don’t really believe that you killed Victor Breard. Although I probably shouldn’t admit that to you.” He took his hand off my shoulder, then closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed them. “I’m just very frustrated. . . .”

  He didn’t finish that thought, but I knew what he meant.

  He was unhappy to be off a case that he probably could’ve solved by now. Plus, I was nosing around in another homicide investigation and had found another body.

  “I’m sorry, too,” I apologized. I wasn’t angry anymore and regretted my rash comment about hiring a lawyer. “If you have more questions for me, I really don’t mind answering. I think we both know that I don’t have legal counsel.”

  “Thanks, but I think we’re done for now.” Jonathan stepped away from me to reclaim the rifle. He hesitated, then added, “You’re lucky, Daphne. Things could’ve really gone wrong today for you and Socrates.”

  That was an understatement, and images that I’d shoved to the back of my mind came flooding back in vivid detail.

  My mad dash to shut the gate . . .

  My ragged breath as I’d run to the gift shop . . .

  Socrates, jumping an object that had rolled away, revealing a distinctive label . . .

  “Oh, my gosh!”

  I hadn’t even realized I’d spoken until Jonathan asked, “What? What’s wrong?”

  I’d started getting excited when I’d realized that Socrates had almost stumbled over what might be a clue to solving both Lauren’s and Victor’s murders. Then, as I calmed down and considered how the possible evidence might impact Jonathan, I felt terrible. But I had to show him what I’d found.

  “Just come with me,” I urged, lightly tugging his sleeve.

  He drew back. “Why?”

  “Because . . .” I hesitated. Then I took a deep breath and told him, “A potential weapon in Lauren’s murder—an object I hadn’t even considered before—has shown up, out of the blue, and is rolling around just outside the door.”

  Chapter 58

  “Well, Daphne, I honestly think this place might be a success,” my mother said, sipping coffee while I used ribbon to tie my newly printed business cards to little carob-dipped peanut-butter Barkin’ Good Bones that I planned to hand out at the Cardboard Iditarod. Mom and Piper had stopped by Flour Power, which was ready for its grand opening in two days, and I couldn’t help feeling proud of the space. The retro sunburst light fixture glowed over the cash register, the hardwood floors were gleaming, and the glass case was nearly filled with treats. Artie kept jumping up to sniff the display, leaving drool marks that I needed to wipe off, and I caught Socrates surreptitiously checking out the tempting selections now and then, too. “It’s very nice, dear,” Mom added, looking around and nodding with approval. “Evocative of the early seventies, without being kitschy or cliché.”

  Piper and I exchanged surprised glances, and I didn’t even dare to thank Mom, for fear that she’d realize she’d offered me a compliment and quickly find something to criticize.

  “I can’t believe you’re running two businesses,” Piper said, joining me at the counter and picking up one of the promotional cards. Although she probably also meant to compliment me, her comment was a bit disparaging. “And one of your enterprises isn’t run out of a van,” she added, flipping the card back and forth. One side featured Flour Power’s logo, and the other advertised Lucky Paws. “I guess you’re really settling down.”

  The thought of being tied to one place—even a place as great as Sylvan Creek—sometimes caused my chest to tighten, the way it did when I was in any enclosed space, but I was also happy to be putting down roots. Still, I reminded Piper, “I’m only leasing this space. I didn’t buy the building. And Lucky Paws is still my primary business.” I glanced at my one admittedly kitschy piece of décor: a classic 1970s clock shaped like a cat, with rolling eyes and a swinging tail. “I have to walk Martha Whitaker’s bloodhound this afternoon, and I’ll be taking care of Mayor Hol
tzapple’s Pomeranian, Pippin, again next week, too.”

  “Oh, that silly little dog.” Mom sniffed derisively.

  I suspected that Mom’s disdain was still directed more toward the mayor than her pet.

  “Speaking of dogs, how is Bernie doing with Detective Black?” Piper asked, wisely changing the subject before our mother could start complaining about Sylvan Creek’s leadership. “And has there been any progress in finding his home, now that his collar’s turned up?”

  “No, no one has claimed Bernie yet,” I said, tying yet another card to one of the bones, which were made with peanut butter and whole wheat flour. “And I guess he’s getting along with Jonathan. Although Bernie’s slobber is a bit of an issue, from what I understand.”

  “That is so strange about the camera in Bernie’s barrel,” Piper noted. “I read the article in the Gazette.”

  My hands, trying to knot yet another ribbon, froze in place. “Gabriel ran a story already?”

  “Yes,” my mother confirmed. Apparently, reading the Gazette was becoming a habit for my mother and sister. I held my breath, waiting for Mom to snap at me about entering Lauren’s apartment again. But she simply said, “It was a rather interesting article.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Obviously Gabriel hadn’t written anything about me, and I made a mental note to thank him for honoring my request.

  “I was more interested in his coverage of Victor Breard’s murder,” Piper added, reaching for one of the treats and a piece of ribbon. She’d already helped me assemble a few of my giveaways, and her knots were, not surprisingly, surgically precise. “I’m still ambivalent about Gabriel, but it’s kind of nice having a real journalist in town, writing about actual news.”

  I’d been so busy that I hadn’t picked up the latest issue of the Gazette. But I was curious about his coverage of the recent homicides. “Did he report anything new about either of the murders?”

  “Only that Vonda Shakes has decided that Victor wasn’t killed by Khan,” Piper said. “The official cause of death is blunt force trauma, just like in Lauren’s case.”

  I accidentally snapped one of the fragile dog cookies in two and dropped the pieces down for Artie, who gobbled them up. “That’s pretty interesting.”

  Piper must’ve seen the wheels turning in my head as I linked the two murders, because she was quick to add, “Detective Doebler hasn’t said that the two crimes are related.” She shrugged. “Beyond that, Gabriel’s recent coverage mainly recounted the events that took place at Big Cats of the World, the day of Victor’s death.”

  “That was a nice quote from you, Piper,” Mom said with a smile, patting my sister’s hand. “You were very well-spoken when you explained how you tranquilized that beast.” She turned to me, adding glumly, “And, of course, there was a brief mention of how you found another body.”

  I didn’t even acknowledge her comment, or remind her that Socrates and I could’ve been killed that day. I was too shocked to learn that my circumspect sister had agreed to speak to Gabriel on the record.

  “Gabriel interviewed you?” I asked Piper. “And you let him?”

  “Yes.” Piper answered both questions with one word. She placed a neatly tied card and bone on the growing pile of treats. “I knew he’d mention that I was at the scene, and I wanted to explain my role in my own words. I didn’t need him printing something about how I ‘shot’ Khan. I can’t have my reputation as someone who protects animals compromised.”

  I understood Piper’s concern. And, I had to admit, the fact that she’d felt compelled to make sure Gabriel didn’t sensationalize her actions again undermined my fragile trust in Sylvan Creek’s new reporter.

  I was also surprised that Gabriel hadn’t tried to convince me to talk, since Socrates and I had found Victor’s body. But I was okay with being overlooked.

  “Did the article say anything about a bottle?” I asked, picking up a pair of scissors and cutting a few more pieces of ribbon. “A blue water bottle?”

  The puzzled expressions on Piper’s and Mom’s faces answered that question.

  “A bottle?” Mom echoed me. “Why in the world would he mention a bottle? Victor Breard wasn’t poisoned!”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, averting my gaze. Piper was peering at me, and I could tell that she knew I was withholding information. I started to gather up the treats. “Forget I said anything.”

  “Well, it’s too late for that now,” my mother noted. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  I hesitated. “If I tell you, you can’t tell another soul.”

  Piper didn’t bother making any promises. She never spread rumors.

  And Mom drew back, clearly insulted. “I don’t go about gossiping, Daphne. A Realtor must be incredibly circumspect.”

  My mother had more faults than she had silk scarves in her walk-in closet, but she was discreet.

  I checked with Socrates, who shook his head, like he nevertheless thought I should stay quiet.

  I ignored his advice, because I really wanted to hear what Piper, in particular, would say when I told her and Mom, “When Socrates and I ran from the van to Victor’s gift shop, Socrates jumped over a very distinctive blue bottle, which somebody had dropped in the parking lot.”

  Piper knit her brows. “And this is significant because . . . ?”

  “The water is a special imported brand called Eau de Vaucluse.” I felt kind of guilty, but I explained, “It’s only available at Epicure, and I’ve only seen one person around here drink it.”

  “Who?” Mom asked. I could tell that she was still skeptical.

  “Elyse Hunter-Black,” I said quietly, although there was no one around. “I saw her drink it at her house—and at the lake, the night of Lauren’s murder.” I pictured the blue glass. “And the bottle looks pretty hefty. . . .”

  Piper’s eyes widened. “You think Elyse could’ve hit Lauren over the head with a bottle?”

  My mother waved her hand dismissively. “That’s ridiculous, Daphne. Elyse Hunter-Black is a successful, composed, and charming woman. She would not go around knocking people out with imported water.”

  “I don’t really think so, either,” I agreed. “I just think it looks bad for Elyse. But you’re right. I don’t believe she’s a killer.”

  Piper, always rational, wasn’t so quick to overlook hard facts. She spoke thoughtfully. “And, yet, the presence of an unusual bottle at two murder scenes is strange.”

  I knew that Jonathan agreed. I’d seen his face grow pale, for the first time I could remember, when I’d shown him the discarded bottle of Eau de Vaucluse, which he’d immediately recognized as the brand Elyse drank. Then he’d reluctantly gone to tell Detective Doebler. . . .

  I was getting lost in that memory, when all at once Artie ran to the door and started to yip like crazy. Looking through the glass, I saw that someone was standing outside Flour Power, his hand cupped around his eyes as he tried to see into the bakery.

  “It’s pretty obvious I’m not open yet,” I noted, even as I rose to open the door. I looked down at Socrates, who also seemed confused. “Can’t he see the sign, with the hours?”

  Then, before anyone could answer me, I gently nudged aside Artie, spun the lock on the door, and swung it open, only to discover not a customer, but a delivery man from the local florist’s shop, Betty’s Bouquets.

  “Are you Daphne Templeton?” he inquired, stepping backward, because Artie was bopping up and down at his feet, trying to get his attention.

  “Yes . . . ?” I sounded uncertain about my own identity. I wasn’t used to getting flowers.

  “Here.” He handed me a colorful bunch of daisies and chrysanthemums, arranged with lacy sprigs of baby’s breath.

  “Thank you,” I said, as he hurried back to his van, probably to escape Artie.

  “What a lovely gesture,” Mom said approvingly, after I’d closed the door and turned around. “Flowers are always an appropriate way to wish a new business owner success
.”

  “I guess so,” I agreed. To be honest, I wasn’t a huge fan of cut flowers. I set the vase on the counter, finding room among the scattered dog treats. Then I stepped back and cocked my head. “They are pretty, I suppose.”

  Piper reached out to grab a card that was tucked into the bouquet. “Who are they from?”

  Socrates was also intrigued. He’d inched closer and raised his muzzle to give me a curious look.

  “Here, let me.” I plucked the envelope from Piper’s fingers. Not that I thought the message would be private. In fact, when I took out the card, I read aloud. “Best wishes for success with your new business . . .” Then I skipped a line and went straight to the slanting signature. “Gabriel.”

  “Well, that’s very nice,” Mom said. I could tell that Gabriel Graham had just risen a few notches in her estimation.

  Artie also seemed to approve of the gesture. His tail whipped back and forth.

  However, Piper still seemed skeptical. And Socrates wandered off, clearly not won over by Gabriel’s gift. Which was exactly why I hadn’t read the second line. “Join me for a pre-opening celebration dinner tonight?”

  Sticking the card in the back pocket of my jeans, I lifted the vase again and began to carry the bouquet to the kitchen. “I guess I should make sure these have enough water. . . .”

  All at once, as I thought about the futility of watering flowers that would die in a few days, at most, I jerked to a halt, my mind racing.

  The spider plant on the counter in Lauren’s apartment.

  A houseful of well-tended “friends.”

  A gnawed bone in a home without a dog . . .

  “Could you please watch Socrates and Artie for a while?” I asked Piper, seemingly out of the blue. “I need to go somewhere. Right away.”

  My mother and Piper both gave me quizzical looks. “What is the rush?” Mom demanded. “Where are you going?”

  “Skiing,” I told her and Piper. “I need to go skiing again. Now!”

  Chapter 59