I wasn’t much better on skis the second time around, but I did have the good sense to stop by the Bear Tooth State Park ranger station and pick up a trail map—after finally getting myself one of those Snow-Capped Funnel Cakes with vanilla pudding and powdered sugar, to fuel my adventure. The fact that I didn’t have a Saint Bernard deliberately misleading me all over creation probably also helped me arrive at the top of Big Drop trail’s aptly named hill within a reasonable amount of time.
“Here goes,” I muttered, resisting the irrational urge to close my eyes as I pushed the tips of my skis over the lip of the steep rise.
Moments later, I was flailing, falling, and ultimately skidding on my butt—while screaming—as I hurtled downward, the pine trees on either side of me whizzing by in a green blur.
“Help!” I cried to no one in particular, right before I did shut my eyes tight. Wincing, I braced for impact with a tree or rock, only to feel myself gradually slow down when I veered off the trail into deeper snow near the bottom of the rise. Then, still sitting on my skis and dragging my poles, I skidded to a very ungraceful stop and fell backward, grateful to be alive.
A few moments later, I dared to open my eyes and realized, with a start, that someone was standing over me. A person who looked down with an expression of concern on my behalf, mingled with fear and maybe a touch of guilt.
“Hey, Mr. Pottinger,” I said, without even trying to rise. I wasn’t sure if I’d broken anything yet. He didn’t greet me, so I added, “You probably know that I’m here to ask you why you broke into Lauren’s apartment, right?”
Chapter 60
“How did you know it was me?” Mr. Pottinger asked as we walked through the woods toward his house. I’d left my skis right where I’d crash-landed, and I limped along in Piper’s boots, while Mr. Pottinger seemed oblivious to the fact that snow had to be getting into his old brown shoes, which were full of holes. He shifted to look at me quizzically. “Even if you knew how to find fingerprints, I tried to wipe ’em all off the collar.” He frowned. “Did them kids finally say something . . . ?”
That was the second time he’d mentioned “kids,” and I still didn’t know whom he was talking about. “Kids?” I asked. “What kids?”
“Nobody,” he muttered, looking down at his feet. “Just tell me how you figured out I had somethin’ to do with the camera.”
“I was mainly guessing, based upon what I observed when I went to Lauren’s apartment,” I admitted. I probably should’ve been scared to confront him, but I was pretty sure that he was harmless. Mixed up in a bad situation, somehow, but not violent himself. “Clearly, whoever had planted the collar—no pun intended—had taken time to water the spider plant. I started thinking about how you called your plants ‘friends’ and took such good care of them.”
“Lots of people take care of plants,” Mr. Pottinger reminded me.
We’d reached his shack, and as I stepped up onto the sagging porch, I noticed that he’d left his door open again, no doubt because the woodstove was cranking out an excess of heat. Peeking quickly inside the house, I saw the tangle of well-tended foliage. “Not many people love plants quite as much as you,” I observed. He gestured for me to take a seat on one of the overturned buckets, and I obliged, happy to rest for a few minutes. “I kept thinking about Bernie, too. How he ran right to your house and seemed so excited to see you. So comfortable to be here. And you had that half-chewed bone, too, just waiting for a dog . . .” I shrugged. “I put that all together and figured Bernie really does belong to you.” I watched Mr. Pottinger as he sat down on the other makeshift seat. He moved slowly and shakily, his age showing. “You must miss him.”
“I do miss Bubba,” he said, surprising me by using a different name for the Saint Bernard. I’d come to believe he’d always been “Bernie.” And Mr. Pottinger shocked me more when he added, “But he’s not really my dog.”
I cocked my head. “No?”
“Well, I have been taking care of him for a few weeks,” he said. “Since he showed up, out of the blue, back in December.”
I nearly fell off my wobbly seat. “Are you saying that a Saint Bernard materialized in the woods near Lake Wallapawakee—just like the legend says?”
Mr. Pottinger nodded. “Yes, at first I was half scared, thinking a ghost had come to life. Because I have seen the ghost dog.” His leathery, lined face grew pale. “I thought it was a bad omen. That someone. . . maybe me . . . was gonna die.”
He still looked spooked by the memory, and I had to prompt him to keep talking. “But . . . ?”
He shrugged. “Time passed, and nothing happened. I started to think maybe somebody dumped Bubba in the woods, to get rid of him—and as a joke. He can make a mess, and what better place to get rid of a Saint Bernard than in a forest known to be haunted by one?”
“Yeah, I see what you mean,” I agreed. “He does drool, and he takes up a lot of space. And somebody with a twisted sense of humor might have gotten a kick out of stirring up the old legend.”
Mr. Pottinger smiled crookedly. “You know, Bubba’s really a smart dog. He knows all kinds of tricks. Fetch, sit, stay. I even taught him how to retrieve a duck or a rabbit, so he could help me when I went hunting.”
I was impressed, because Saint Bernards weren’t traditionally hunting dogs. However, I wasn’t there to talk about Bernie’s hidden talents. “Um, was Bernie . . . er, Bubba . . . wearing the collar with the barrel on it when you found him? And why haven’t you come forward to claim him?”
Mr. Pottinger grew guarded. “I don’t know if I should tell you. I don’t want to get in trouble.”
I’d skied a long, treacherous way in hopes of solving the mysteries surrounding Bernie, and I was practically dying for answers. “Just tell me the rest of the story,” I urged. “I promise, I won’t go to the police, unless you tell me, outright, that you killed Lauren Savidge.” He jolted, clearly alarmed, and I raised a hand, trying to calm him by quickly adding, “But I don’t believe you did that. You looked far too shocked when I told you she’d been murdered.”
“I wasn’t shocked,” he said softly, looking off into the woods. “I was just sick. I’d hoped it was an accident. . . .”
My heart started racing. “The dog, the collar, and the murder . . . They really are tangled up together, aren’t they?”
“I think so.” Mr. Pottinger’s face was ashen, and his voice trembled when he whispered, “It was all supposed to go differently. . . .”
“What was?”
Mr. Pottinger finally looked me in the eye again, and I saw that he was miserable. “It all started when those kids, Joy Doolittle and the cameraman . . .”
“Kevin Drucker,” I reminded him, leaning forward. It was cold outside, but my palms were getting sweaty. I tried to calm down. “What about them?”
“One day, when I was helping set up for Winterfest, they showed up at the lake, saying that Lauren Savidge wanted them to film me. Wanted me to tell the legend for that show they’re making.” He shrugged again. “I don’t know much about TV—don’t even own one, like I said. And I’d already told Ms. Savidge, right to her face, that I wasn’t interested.”
It was difficult for me to imagine Joy Doolittle being forceful, but I ventured, “Joy wouldn’t take no for an answer, though, huh?”
Mr. Pottinger shook his head. “No. She told me she’d be in big trouble if I didn’t ‘help her out.’ And she’s such a wee, timid thing, while Ms. Savidge really did seem like somebody who’d lose her temper . . .”
Was Joy really timid? Or did her shy persona mask a manipulative side? I was starting to wonder. I couldn’t speculate right then, though, and I let Mr. Pottinger continue.
“Well, I told the story, just the way I always do,” he said. “But Ms. Doolittle still wasn’t happy. Not so much with me, I guess. But with her boss. She kept complaining that there was no ‘footage,’ and that it wouldn’t make sense to just show an old man talking.” He laughed. “She called me that, right i
n front of my face. Not that I don’t know I’m old!”
“So what happened?”
The brief flicker of amusement that I’d seen in his eyes disappeared. “Both her and Kevin started grumbling about Lauren. Talking about how she thought she was still at something they called ‘Real Crime,’ and mumbling about how she was going to mess up their chance to work at a better network.” He shook his head. “It was mainly gibberish to me. But I understood that they wanted to get film of the ghost dog, to show during my story. I’ve seen TV, even if I don’t own one.”
My heart was pounding in my chest. He’d just told me that Joy, especially, had even more motive to kill Lauren. As part of Lauren’s team, Joy might’ve lost her job, too, if Lauren had gotten fired for failing to create a show that fit the Stylish Life brand. But with Lauren out of the way, Joy’s job was not only safe, she’d earned a promotion.
And Kevin had obviously been unhappy with Lauren, too.
I edged my seat closer to him. “You offered to let them film Bubba, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he told me, rubbing his hands on his stained pant legs. A nervous gesture. “I almost didn’t say anything ’cause I was thinking that maybe I’d keep Bubba a secret until Winterfest. Then use him during my walks. I was sure I could train him to show up if I whistled, then disappear again.”
“Surely somebody knew about Bubba,” I said, interrupting his story. “Somebody must’ve seen him before.”
“Nope.” Mr. Pottinger shook his head. “I only go into town a few times a year. Hadn’t left the woods from Christmas until it was time to set up for Winterfest. I always help with that.”
He jerked his head, gesturing inside the house. “Got most of what I need to live right in there.”
I could believe that. I could see all of his canned goods, and he’d mentioned hunting, too.
“You can imagine that Joy and Kevin were pretty happy when I told them about Bubba,” he continued. “They wanted to come all the way here to meet him.” He grew thoughtful, his focus turning inward. “And when they saw how smart he was, and how I’d trained him, they came up with this plan. . . .”
I was pretty sure he’d forgotten I was there. “What plan?” I prompted, nearly falling off my seat again.
Mr. Pottinger snapped back to reality. “They thought it would be ‘great TV’. . .” The phrase sounded funny coming from his mouth. “To actually show the ‘ghost dog’ rescuing somebody, with some of the video taken from a dog’s-eye view.” He frowned at the memory. “It sounded loony to me. But, like I said, what do I know about TV?”
I fought to keep my voice low and even. “What did they ask you to do?”
“They wanted me to keep staying quiet about Bubba for a few more days. Until the night of the crazy swim at the lake. Then, that evening, they would give me a special collar to put around his neck.”
“Did you know it would have a camera?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “I was supposed to put the camera on him and bring him to the edge of the woods. Get as close to the water as possible without being seen.”
Mr. Pottinger was starting to sound hoarse and haunted, like the story was strangling him. But I let him keep telling it.
“Joy was signed up for the plunge,” he continued. “She was supposed to go in with Lauren, while Kevin filmed dogs that took part. At least, that’s what Lauren thought.”
“But Kevin wasn’t really focused on the few dogs who swam that night, right?”
Mr. Pottinger twisted his gnarled hands. “No. The plan was, once everybody ran into the water, Joy would thrash around and call for help.”
“What was supposed to happen next?” I asked.
Mr. Pottinger frowned. “I’d release Bubba, commanding him to retrieve.”
I was confused. “How would Bubba know where to go, in a crowded lake?”
“We’d worked on it, one day, right here,” he explained. “Trained Bubba to run to Joy and pull her to ‘safety’—out of a snow bank—at the cues ‘help’ and ‘retrieve.’ He caught on right away.” Mr. Pottinger beamed with pride for a moment. “I’d told Joy and Kevin that Bubba knew how to get ducks in water, and was sure smart enough to ‘save’ a person in a lake. To be honest, I didn’t even think I’d have to give a command. Bubba’s a protective dog. I fell in the woods once. Twisted my ankle, bad. And he helped me home. Wouldn’t leave my side. I knew that, if Joy really acted like she needed help, he’d rescue her. The whole thing seemed harmless enough.”
I was dying to hear what happened next, but a question kept nagging at me. “And Lauren honestly didn’t know about this plan?”
Mr. Pottinger blanched again. “No. Joy said, if it didn’t work, Lauren would never let her live it down. Maybe even fire her. From what I gathered, Joy had gotten in trouble before for trying out different ideas.”
“I see,” I muttered, thinking that now Joy would be able to think outside the box whenever she wanted. Try new things all the time. Then I forced myself to focus on the conversation and asked another question that was bugging me. “Who was supposed to turn on the camera?”
“Me.” Mr. Pottinger pointed to himself. “Kevin gave me a little black doohickey. I was supposed to press a button, right before I released Bubba.” He swallowed thickly. “But everything went wrong.”
I scooched back farther, giving him more room. I was pretty sure that he was about to name Lauren Savidge’s killer, and my heart was in my throat, but I tried to sound casual. “How so?”
“The swimming party . . . It was more crowded than I think anybody expected. I couldn’t even find Joy and Lauren when everybody rushed into the water. I couldn’t see what was happening. But Bubba—and me—heard someone cry for help, above all the other noise. And it didn’t sound like Joy.”
I wondered if that person had been me.
“Like I’d expected, I didn’t even give him a command,” Mr. Pottinger continued. “Bubba just tore free of me and went running. I didn’t click the doohickey, either. I could tell that something had gone wrong when other people started screaming, too, and I dropped the little device in the woods. My fingers just fell open when I saw Bubba drag that poor girl out of the water, and I started to back away, not sure what I’d just been part of . . .” His voice was a thin whisper. “When Bubba ran back to me, I took the collar and, as soon as the sun came up, shooed him away, thinking he really did bring death to the forest.” He buried his face in his hands. “What have I done?”
“What happened to Lauren—that wasn’t your fault,” I assured him, although he had exercised bad judgment, teaming up with Joy and Kevin for a risky stunt. And he shouldn’t have pushed poor Bernie away. But I didn’t think he’d done anything criminal. Unless he’d seen more than he was telling me, the night of the plunge. Because I could imagine Joy running into the water, and suddenly seeing an opportunity to eliminate a boss who’d verbally abused her, dismissed her ideas and stood in the way of her possible promotion. Edging closer to Mr. Pottinger again, I rested one hand on his shoulder until he raised his eyes to meet mine. “You’re sure you didn’t see anything?”
He shook his head, which was covered by a threadbare knit cap. “Not a thing. It was crazy at the lake. You know how it was.”
Yes, I remembered the scene all too vividly.
“Why did you really do it?” I asked, with a glance at his home. He lived so simply, and he seemed content with his solitude. It was hard to imagine the old man who sat across from me being lured by money or the “glamour” of television. “Why would you even take part in their stunt?”
Mr. Pottinger hung his head. “I didn’t think any harm would come from it. And they said they could help me get my book published, too. That they had lots of connections.” His voice was almost a whisper. “I want my story told, Daphne. I am an old man, and I don’t have long here.”
My heart was breaking for him, but he needed to do the right thing. I dared to reach out and squeeze his hand. “You have to tell the polic
e everything you just told me. You know that you do.”
He drew back, his expression guarded. “I don’t like the government. . . .”
I shook my head. “No, you have to come forward.”
“It’s not just the government,” he said, pulling free of my grip. All at once, I saw fear in his eyes again. “What if those kids killed that young lady? What if they lied to me, and planned all along to murder her, and get it on film. I know some people make movies like that! What if I turn them in and they come after me?”
I wasn’t sure how a man who lived alone in the woods knew about snuff films, but he was genuinely scared. And, I had to admit, as I thought about Joy and Kevin’s plan, I couldn’t help wondering if Joy, at least, had ended up doing more than just fake an accident, that night.
“If you honestly suspect that Joy or Kevin might’ve committed murder, you really need to talk to the police,” I told Mr. Pottinger. “You know it’s the right thing to do. Your conscience is eating at you. If it wasn’t, you would’ve just tossed the collar in the woods. Made it disappear forever. But you left it somewhere it would be found.”
His voice shook. “I couldn’t give it back to those kids. I don’t want to see them again. But you’re right.” He buried his face in his hands again. “I feel so guilty every day. I was afraid if I tossed that collar in the woods, I’d never feel at peace here again.”
I stood up to go. “Then tell the police. Go to Detective Doebler. He’s pretty nice.” I hesitated, then offered, “I could even go with you.”
Mr. Pottinger raised his face, and I saw that he was near tears. “You’d do that?”
“Sure.” I already had a pretty packed schedule, but I smiled encouragingly. “I’d be happy to.”
We took a moment to figure out a time that we could both go to the police station; then I stepped off the porch into the snow. I was a little bit worried about my legs, which had gotten stiff while I’d been sitting awkwardly on the low bucket. And a light snow was falling as the sun began to set. I’d need to hurry home. But as I went to retrieve my skis, I asked Mr. Pottinger one last question. “So you really don’t know where Bubba came from? He really just showed up, out of the blue?”
Pawprints & Predicaments Page 23