I could barely see Mr. Pottinger in the increasing gloom. He was just a shadow under the sagging porch roof. And his voice was muffled by the snow, which was falling faster, when he answered me.
“I really don’t know where he belongs,” he said. “And I don’t know, now, if I ever want to see him again. I love that dog, but I think he just brings . . . death!”
Chapter 61
It was dark by the time I crested the small rise at the trailhead and Tail Waggin’ Winterfest came into view. There was only one evening left to enjoy the festival, and the grounds were crowded. The cute blue shacks were all busy with patrons, and dogs romped in the snow amid the glowing lanterns.
I was starving, and as I released my boots from the skis’ bindings I debated whether to buy another funnel cake.
Although I’d promised Mr. Pottinger that I wouldn’t contact the police before we went to the station together the very next day, I also kept trying to decide whether I should talk to Jonathan. He was taking care of Bernie, and he probably deserved to know that I’d located the dog’s last caretaker, even if Max also considered Bernie a lost dog and wasn’t sure he wanted to see him again.
“I think I’ll just sleep on that information,” I muttered. “It’s not like Jonathan will hike into the woods tonight to return the dog.”
As least, I didn’t think he’d do that.
Then, as I bent to pick up the skis, I started thinking again about everything that Joy had probably gained now that Lauren was out of the way.
A promotion. Freedom from an irascible boss who stifled her creativity. And almost certainly a raise.
But was there still a chance that the whole thing had been an accident?
The result of a plan that had been flawed to begin with, and had gone awry in a cold, crowded lake . . . ?
I was still deep in thought when I realized that my cell phone was pinging in my coat pocket, alerting me to messages that had probably been delayed while I’d skied in the remote forest, where I doubted there was service.
Dropping the skis again, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and tapped the screen, being careful to shield it from the falling snow.
The first text was from Piper, who had, of course, typed in her precise, grammatical, and perfectly punctuated way.
I took Socrates and Artie back to Plum Cottage.
Tinkleston seems to have behaved in your
absence. Nothing appeared to be broken.
“Well, that’s good,” I muttered, as my stomach growled loudly.
Ignoring my hunger pangs, I opened the next message, from Moxie, who had texted me a photo of Sebastian, wearing a tiny cowboy hat and a vest.
“Well, I’ll be,” I said, smiling. “He actually looks kind of cute!”
Then I closed out that text and tapped the screen one more time. Whoever had sent the message wasn’t in my contacts, and I wasn’t sure I recognized the number. But I could easily identify the sender based upon context.
You didn’t respond re: dinner. Offer still stands.
And, just to make sure I knew that he wasn’t upset or offended, Gabriel Graham had added an emoji.
A bright yellow smiley face with a very devilish wink.
Chapter 62
“Are you hungry, Daphne?” Gabriel asked, grinning. He was laughing at me because I had just crammed half of a basil spring roll with hoisin peanut sauce into my mouth, after polishing off a plateful of lemongrass tofu skewers. I had agreed to join him at Bamboo, a little Thai restaurant on the outskirts of Sylvan Creek. From the outside, Bamboo looked like a shack. But whenever I stepped inside, I felt like I’d been magically transported back to Thailand. The walls were hung with elaborately patterned tapestries featuring elephants and lotuses, brightly colored paper mobiles dangled from the ceiling, and candles glowed on each of the teakwood tables. The food was also amazing and, starving after my day of skiing, I couldn’t seem to stop eating. “Easy, there, Daphne,” Gabriel cautioned when I gobbled up the second half of the spring roll. His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Don’t choke!”
I didn’t mind that he was teasing me. I knew that I was eating with too much gusto. But, as I wiped my fingers on a deep red cloth napkin, I couldn’t help thinking that Gabriel always seemed to be making fun of—and provoking—me.
I leaned forward, folding my arms on the table and looking him in the eye. “Can I ask you something?”
He set the sweet chili chicken wing he’d been eating onto his plate and wiped his fingers, too. He seemed guarded. “I suppose.”
“Why have you asked me to dinner twice? And invited me to take the tour at Big Cats of the World? Is it because you think I’m in some competition with you to solve Lauren Savidge’s murder, and you want to pick my brain?” I felt my cheeks getting warm, because if he had no romantic interest in me, I was probably about to embarrass myself. Still, I asked, “Or do you have a more personal reason for asking me out?”
“I did want to ask you about everything that happened during your second visit to Breard’s zoo,” he admitted. “And I’d like to know why you went back there alone. I’m sure you were following up on something you noticed when we took the tour.” He smiled again, but it was an out-of-character, almost sheepish grin. “But I also just like you, Daphne Templeton. You stand up to me, which most people don’t do. And I think you’re uniquely pretty and uniquely . . . you.” He rested his arms on the table and leaned forward, too, growing more serious. “I thought I’d made my interest in you pretty clear.”
In a way he had. He’d taken me to Sylvan Creek’s most romantic restaurant, and I was pretty sure he’d tried to kiss me on two separate occasions. But he’d also acted like a schoolboy who pulls a girl’s pigtails by printing that awful photo of me in the Gazette and sparking one real argument.
And, although I couldn’t deny that I found Gabriel attractive—he looked very handsome that night in a cream-colored sweater that accentuated his dark skin and eyes—I didn’t like that I couldn’t trust him. I would’ve liked to tell him all about my sad, frightening misadventure at Big Cats of the World, and everything I’d just learned about Bernie, too. I was pretty sure he’d be able to offer some interesting insights into Victor’s murder and Max Pottinger’s confession about being at the lake the night of Lauren’s death. But, while he hadn’t mentioned me in his article about Bernie’s collar, I still wasn’t convinced that Gabriel would keep everything that I could tell him about Mr. Pottinger, especially, in confidence. Nor was I sure that he was being open and honest with me about other things.
I’d already asked some pretty blunt questions, but all at once, I narrowed my eyes and leaned even farther across the table, the better to see his reaction when I inquired, point-blank, “What happened in Philadelphia, Gabriel? Why did you leave the Inquirer—and what, exactly, happened to the last woman you dated there?”
Chapter 63
“How much do you already know?” Gabriel asked. He averted his gaze for a moment while our server placed his entrée, red curry mussels, on the table. I thought he was relieved to have a moment to regroup. I seemed to have caught him off guard with my very direct questions. The waiter set my vegetarian curry in front of me, and I was also momentarily distracted by the sight of colorful carrots, eggplant, and peppers and the aroma of ginger, garlic, and Kaffir lime. I couldn’t wait to eat, and I picked up a fork as Gabriel pointed out, “You must have already done some digging, or you wouldn’t have asked that second question about my former girlfriend.”
“I did do some research,” I admitted, after swallowing a bite of the curry. The dish was just spicy enough, and the crisp vegetables were a bright contrast to the rich, creamy coconut milk in the silky orange sauce. “But only because you invited me to do that.”
He arched one eyebrow, like he didn’t believe me. Then he must’ve recalled our conversation, because his shoulders relaxed and he laughed. “Yes, I did say you should Google me, didn’t I?” He shook his head and poked a fork into one of
the mussel shells. “I should learn to keep my mouth shut.”
“Gabriel . . .” I set down my utensil, my appetite suddenly dulled. “Did you leave the Inquirer—and Philadelphia—because—”
“I left after Sarah Bankman’s murder,” he said, correctly assuming that I would recognize his former girlfriend’s name. He was staring down at his plate, possibly to hide his emotions from me. At least, I hoped that was why he wouldn’t look me in the eye. I hoped it wasn’t because he was hiding the truth. But when he finally did raise his face, I saw that he was genuinely sad, and maybe a bit angry. “When the case was deemed cold—unresolved, for now—I couldn’t take the suspicious stares of my colleagues anymore. And I wasn’t quite so enamored of the city anymore. Or my beat, covering crime.”
“You don’t have to say more,” I assured him. His mood had changed abruptly. He was agitated, picking at his food without eating anything. “I probably read enough—”
“To suspect me of murder,” he interrupted again. His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Funny how you can find bodies and nobody assumes you killed anyone. But I find myself alone with one victim, and suddenly I’m a killer.”
“I never had motive . . .” I started to defend myself; then I changed my mind. Gabriel didn’t really want to compare his circumstances to mine. I suspected that he wanted to tell his side of the story. Clear his name, at least with me. “Maybe you should talk to me,” I suggested gently. “I would like to hear the story directly from you.”
He’d finally taken a bite of his meal, and he watched me as he chewed. I got the sense that he was trying to decide whether I’d really listen, or if I’d already made up my mind about his guilt or innocence. And he must’ve seen that I hadn’t judged him. Yet.
“Fine.” He nodded and rested his fork next to his plate. “Sarah was a colleague of mine. And, obviously, more. We both covered crime in Philly. The worst stuff. Homicides, arson, domestic violence. Sometimes we even teamed up.” He smiled faintly at a memory. “Sarah was a relentless digger.” The smile faded. “At the time of her death, she was working quietly on her own, on a very hush-hush story. Something about the Harriman family.” He paused and raised his eyebrows. “You know the name, right?”
I nodded. “Yes, everybody in Pennsylvania knows all about the Harrimans. They’ve been prominent since the state’s coal mining heyday, more than a hundred years ago.”
“Prominent—and corrupt as hell,” Gabriel said. “They always have been, from the days they sent miners into unsafe holes in the ground, setting records for lives lost.” He lowered his voice, although no one was listening to us. “And today, they have sketchy connections everywhere, from Congress to every branch of the mob you can imagine.”
“So what, exactly, had Sarah uncovered?”
Gabriel shook his head. “I have no idea what her angle was. She would only say that she was on to something new—and big. But before anything could come of her investigation, someone silenced her. Killed her while I was out taking a walk late at night, cooling down—”
“Because you’d argued. I read that.”
He nodded. “We were both hardheaded people. We fought quite a bit. And one night, we argued loudly enough for the people in the neighboring apartment to hear. I stormed out, needing to calm down, and when I came back, the place was a mess, and Sarah was lying on the floor. Bleeding from the head . . .”
“I get the picture,” I promised him. I had to admit, I was also imagining Lauren Savidge, lying in the sand with a head wound. I hadn’t seen the blood, but Jonathan had. And although I would’ve liked Gabriel to explain himself more, I felt like I’d already pushed him pretty hard. His mouth was drawn down and his eyes appeared tired, like he was sick of the story and the emotions that telling it conjured in him. “It’s okay.”
But he wasn’t quite finished with his tale. “I was never able to find her notes about the Harriman story. And I knew she must’ve had notebooks full, as well as computer files. And, of course, the neighbors told the police about the argument.” I saw a flash of anger in his eyes. “Or someone paid them to tell their tale, because they conveniently didn’t hear me slam the door and storm down the hall—before someone ransacked the apartment.”
My eyes widened. “So you think her murder was part of a conspiracy?”
“I’m sure of that,” he said matter-of-factly. He picked up his fork again and began eating. He suddenly seemed to be starving. “I have no doubt. And that’s the other reason I left the Inquirer. Even after I was cleared, by the skin of my teeth, my editor wouldn’t let me really dig into Sarah’s murder. I decided it was time to run the whole show, even if I could only afford to do that in a small town. For now.” He smiled again, but in a way that told me he wasn’t really amused. “Funny that I got a murder to investigate, almost right away.”
I watched him closely. “Yeah, funny.”
Gabriel knew what I was thinking. “I know that Black and Doebler—and probably you—suspect me of killing Lauren and Sarah,” he said. “But I’m telling you, I’m innocent of both crimes.”
“Jonathan’s off the case,” I noted, neither confirming nor denying my suspicions.
Gabriel snorted. “Sure he is.”
I pushed some of the vegetables around on my plate. My stomach suddenly felt funny. “Did you and Jonathan know each other before you moved here?”
“No.” Gabriel’s tone was clipped. “I just know his type.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“The silent war hero, who probably has more secrets than I ever will.”
Jonathan did have lots of secrets. But I thought Gabriel was wrong to assume that people only hid things out of guilt or shame. Wasn’t it possible that some things were buried just because they were too painful to share? Or because the person was too humble to brag about good things he or she had done?
“I think people have all sorts of reasons for staying quiet about their pasts,” I observed. “Did you know that Victor Breard was once arrested for assaulting a poacher and did jail time?”
Gabriel was prying open a mussel, but he looked up at me, frowning. “No, I never even heard a rumor about that, and this town seems to thrive on gossip.”
“Like all small towns,” I said, defending Sylvan Creek. “Anyhow, Victor might’ve kept that quiet because he was ashamed—or, conversely, because he didn’t want to boast. For all I know, he thought his violence was justified. He did keep a clipping about his arrest.”
In the blink of an eye, I was the one under a microscope. “How did you end up at the scene of that homicide?” Gabriel asked, popping the mussel into his mouth. He covered his mouth with his hand, chewing while he talked. “You never did explain why you went back to Big Cats of the World.”
I took a sip of water from a pretty silver cup with a raised design, stalling while I decided how much to tell Gabriel. “He invited me,” I finally admitted, setting down the cup. “While we were all on the tour, and you were distracted, observing Joy Doolittle’s odd behavior—”
“You noticed that, too?” Gabriel interrupted. “The way Joy looked at Breard like a teenager with a crush?”
“Yes, I did see that. And they had dinner at Zephyr, too,” I reminded him.
He scowled, like he didn’t approve of May-December romances. “You don’t think . . . ?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged and speared some of the red and yellow peppers. “I wouldn’t find it odd or inappropriate, though. Age is just a number.”
Gabriel didn’t seem convinced. “Let’s get back to why Breard invited you to his compound,” he suggested.
“Oh, yeah.” I’d almost forgotten about our original topic. “I’d seen a picture of Victor at Lauren’s apartment,” I explained. “A torn clipping, from a magazine. He’d looked very unhappy in the photo. I mentioned the story during the tour, and Victor promised to tell me all about it. And, to my surprise, he did call. But when I got there, the magazine was on a table—and Victor was dead.”<
br />
“Wow. You couldn’t have missed the murder by too long,” Gabriel said, reminding me of a fact I kept trying to forget. We’d both finished our meals, and the server laid the bill on the table before clearing away our empty plates. I reached for the check, but Gabriel grabbed it first. “And the article was about the assault on the poacher?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
He watched me while he pulled his wallet from his pocket. “Did you notice anything else?”
I paused, then told him, “There was something weird about Victor’s golf cart. But I can’t figure out what was wrong. It’s like one of those puzzles where you try to find the differences between two photos. But the images are both only in my memory, and I can’t spot what’s changed.”
“If you figure it out, give me a call,” Gabriel urged, placing his credit card on the table for the server to retrieve. “I’m intrigued.”
I didn’t make any promises. I kind of feared I’d already told him too much, without clarifying that anything I said was off the record. And as I drove home, I rehashed his story about his former girlfriend’s murder over and over again, still not sure if I believed everything he’d told me.
In fact, I was so deep in thought by the time I reached Winding Hill Farm that I actually yelped with surprise when I hopped out of the van and heard Piper call to me from her dark porch, “Daphne, wait! I have a package for you!”
Chapter 64
I waited until I got to Plum Cottage and had brewed a cup of hot, fragrant Ceylon tea before I opened the package, although the moment I’d seen the return address, I’d started itching to see the contents.
“Please let this be what I hope it is,” I said, crossing my fingers and smiling at Socrates, Artie, and Tinkleston, who had obviously coexisted without incident while I was away. The dogs were by the hearth, enjoying the fire I’d just lit, and Tinkleston was curled up on the love seat. He yawned, showing his little fangs and letting me know that he didn’t care about the envelope that I was ripping open with eager fingers. Reaching inside, my hand met free-range yak hair, and I pulled out a tiny red sweater with white stripes and a bright yellow button, right on the chest. I held up the gift for the dogs and cat to see. “Is this adorable or what?”
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