Socrates, who’d stood up when I’d entered the cottage, groaned and collapsed, his eyes rolling back in his head, while Artie spun like a gleeful canine tornado, his toenails clicking merrily on the wooden floor.
Tinkleston merely yawned again.
“Well, Artie, I’m glad you share my excitement,” I said, kneeling down. He ran over to me, his eyes practically popping out of his head, and shivered with happiness as I put his little paws through the armholes. When he was all dressed, I chucked him under his recessive chin. “You look wonderful.”
I watched him trot off to model his new duds for his less-than-eager audience; then I stood up and took the package to the kitchen. Sitting down at the table, I shook the bubble-wrap envelope until a piece of paper fluttered out. Squinting at Arlo Finch’s shaky, slanted handwriting, I read the note.
Daphne,
Enclosed please find a sweater I knitted for Artie, during rest stops on my long drive. I used vivid colors to match his bright and multi-hued aura, which radiates like a pulsating rainbow. Although the gift is for the irrepressible Chihuahua, I’m sending it to thank YOU for believing in me. Your trust stayed with me during my whole journey to Arizona, and will buoy me as I begin my new life here. While I miss Sylvan Creek, I have to say that this climate and its vibe suit me well, too. I look forward to spotting my first alien!
I drew back, not sure if he was kidding. Then I finished reading what little was left of the note.
Namaste, Daphne Templeton!
P.S. I would’ve gladly knit something for Tinkleston and your most dignified companion, Socrates, too.
But Tinkleston will never be tamed enough to wear a sweater. And Socrates . . . Only a toga would suit the reincarnated spirit of an ancient Greek philosopher!
I folded up the letter and looked over at Socrates, who had his nose in the air, pretending not to notice that Artie was strutting around the room, putting on a one-dog fashion show. I also didn’t know if Arlo had been joking about Socrates being reincarnated, but I agreed that my favorite canine curmudgeon had an old soul.
Rising, I yawned and stretched, my muscles aching from skiing. Then I glanced at the clock. It was nearly eleven p.m., and I had a big day tomorrow, debuting my treats at the Cardboard Iditarod and making sure that Artie and Bernie were dressed and ready to go at the appointed time—after I took Max Pottinger to the police station.
“Come on, everybody,” I said. “Time for bed.”
A few minutes later, we were all in the loft, where Socrates lumbered over to his purple velvet pillow and lay down. Artie insisted upon sleeping in his sweater and curled up on a smaller cushion I’d placed near Socrates’s bed. When the dogs were settled, I finished getting ready and climbed under my warm down comforter. The night was supposed to be exceptionally cold, with snow arriving after midnight, and I wriggled far under the covers before reaching out one hand to turn off my bedside lamp.
Almost immediately, I felt something land at the foot of the bed, and I started. Then I smiled in the darkness. “Good night, Tinkleston.”
He didn’t reply, and my home grew quiet, except for the crackling of the fire downstairs and the occasional creak of the cottage’s old roof as the wind rose ahead of the storm. Before long, I found myself drifting off to sleep, even though my mind was whirling with questions.
Do I believe Gabriel is innocent?
What was wrong with Victor’s golf cart?
Why was the blue bottle at Big Cats of the World?
I had no answers, though, and I was so tired that I soon fell asleep to the sound of the plum tree knocking at the window, telling me that the weather was changing.
And when I awoke, I thought the tree was still rapping—until I realized that the morning was overcast but still, and the knocking noise was coming from outside my door.
Chapter 65
Max Pottinger had arrived at my house at the crack of dawn. But by the time I’d taken him to the police station and he’d given a long statement to Detective Doebler, I was running late to get to Tail Waggin’ Winterfest, where Moxie was already preparing for the Cardboard Iditarod. And I still had one task to complete before I could head for the spot near the woods where the entrants were assembling.
“I hope Moxie has everything under control,” I told Socrates and Artie, as I hoisted a big basketful of Barkin’ Good Bones onto a counter that used to hold cute hand-knit pet sweaters, until Arlo Finch had fled town. I’d contacted Mayor Holtzapple, who’d been nice enough to let me use Arlo’s vacant booth for the last day of the festival, so I could advertise Flour Power. Along with attaching business cards to the bones, I’d made some flyers announcing my grand opening, and I arranged those near the basket, next to a sign that urged people to help themselves to the pet treats. Then I stepped back, frowning at my display, which looked skimpy. I’d left some of the ribbon-wrapped bones at the bakery, so I’d have something to hand out at my opening event, too. Gnawing my lower lip, I looked down at the dogs. “I also hope I brought enough bones.”
Socrates and Artie weren’t paying attention to me. Artie was still trying to convince Socrates, with a series of yips and twirls, that dogs should, indeed, wear sweaters, like the colorful one he was still sporting that morning, after sleeping in it all night.
Someone was listening, though.
A person I’d sort of hoped not to run into, after hearing Max Pottinger practically accuse her of murder, in his conversation with Detective Doebler.
I felt my spine stiffen and my stomach drop to my toes when Joy Doolittle stepped up behind me, telling me, “I think those bones will go fast. And I can’t wait to film at your bakery tomorrow!”
Chapter 66
“I didn’t realize you planned to film tomorrow,” I told Joy, who wore her professional-looking wool coat again. Only, this time, she stood a little straighter, so she didn’t appear to be drowning in the garment. And her eyes seemed brighter, too, probably because she was wearing eyeliner and eye shadow. Joy had also dusted a touch of pink blush across her normally pale cheeks. It was almost like she was maturing into her new role as field producer in just a few days. And more than her appearance had changed. Joy was acting kind of pushy, too. “No offense, but I don’t know if I want you and Kevin at my grand opening,” I added, pulling my wool cap down over my ears. The day was pretty cold. “I’m going to be nervous enough without a camera following me around, and the place is small. I want to make sure the customers I hope will show up have room to look around.”
“Oh, we won’t be a nuisance.” Joy smiled brightly and gestured for me to look over my shoulder. I turned and saw Kevin Drucker crouching on the ground, getting footage of Artie, who was running circles around one of the ice sculptures, showing off his sweater. Kevin was blocking the footpath, and people looked annoyed as they stepped around him. Joy didn’t seem to notice that Kevin was clearly in the way. “See?” she said, as I faced her again. “He’s practically invisible when he’s behind the camera. You won’t even notice us when we are at Flour Power tomorrow.”
Joy wasn’t being abrasive, like Lauren had been, but she was acting very differently from the girl I’d seen trembling on the lakeshore, and I took a moment to look past her makeup and into her eyes. Then I glanced down at Socrates, who was watching Joy with his head tilted, like he also didn’t understand how someone could change so dramatically over the course of a week.
I met Joy’s gaze again.
Which was the real person?
Had this more assertive Joy been hiding herself, just biding her time until she got her opportunity to be in charge?
Or was the newfound confidence an act, born out of necessity, as Joy tried to fill Lauren’s shoes and prove herself?
“It must be a lot of pressure, trying to finish a big project that your boss started and make a bunch of TV executives happy,” I said sympathetically, stepping aside so someone could take one of the treats I’d made. I was mainly focused on Joy, but out of the corner of my eye I saw
the man read my card and nod approvingly before walking away. “You must be under a lot of strain to wrap up the filming quickly and move on to your next venue, huh?”
The words were barely out of my mouth when I saw the real Joy: a shy, overwhelmed young woman who was trying hard to be a leader, after having her confidence undermined by a tough, abrasive employer.
“It is hard,” Joy admitted, speaking more softly. She tucked her hands into her pockets, rounding her shoulders, and the coat suddenly seemed oversized again. She turned pleading, almost desperate, eyes on me. “Can we please film tomorrow? Because the network is breathing down my neck. They say we’re going over budget here. And I don’t even know what our budget is!”
I still didn’t want a camera at my grand opening, but I felt sorry for Joy. I wasn’t too good with budgets, myself, and employed a newly minted accountant, Fidelia Tuttweiler, to keep my books.
“Sure,” I said, as two more people took treats from the basket. I looked over at Kevin, who was still blocking the path, filming while Artie jumped up at the camera, trying to get his close-up. I turned back to Joy and told her, reluctantly, “You guys can come whenever you want.”
“Oh, thank you,” Joy said, smiling in a more genuine way. “You’re doing me a huge favor.”
I knew that I should get Artie over to the Iditarod course, which was really just a big circle tramped down in the snow, but I took a moment to study Joy again.
Could she really have killed Lauren?
Because it didn’t seem possible, right then—although she’d certainly had motive.
And what sort of relationship had she shared with Victor Breard . . . ?
“Is everything okay?” Joy asked. I must’ve been staring at her for too long. Her eyes grew round with concern. “You’re not changing your mind, are you?”
“No, no,” I assured her, with another quick glance at Socrates. He seemed to think I was making a mistake, but I couldn’t go back on my promise. I addressed Joy again. “I was just thinking about how, the last time I saw you, we were at Big Cats of the World, and Victor was alive.”
The moment I mentioned Victor, all of the color drained from Joy’s face, and every last bit of her false front fell away. “Yes, I can’t believe he’s gone,” she said softly.
I knew that Joy’s relationship with Victor was none of my business, but I said, “I saw you two at Zephyr. And you seemed to have a special connection, during the tour. Were you two . . . ?”
Two bright red spots formed on Joy’s fair cheeks, and I thought she wasn’t going to answer me. But she must’ve been eager for someone to confide in—someone who wasn’t a silent cameraman—because she told me, nervously and quietly, “We met that first time, right after Lauren’s death, because he wanted a favor.” She licked her lips and looked around herself, to see if anyone was listening. When she was convinced that no one was paying attention to us, she added, “Lauren had learned some stuff about his past. About him being arrested for assault, and some other shady things he’d done in the name of rescuing animals. Lauren wanted to make his history public.”
I frowned, confused. “How would she have used any of that information in a show about pet-friendly towns?”
“I don’t think she could’ve,” Joy agreed. “Lauren was just fascinated with crime. Digging up dirt on people was like a hobby for her. She never should have taken a job with Stylish Life.”
“Yes, I get that impression.” I tilted my head. “So, did Victor convince you to ignore his past?”
Those little spots of red formed on Joy’s cheeks again. “Yes, of course. And by the end of that dinner, we were actually having a really nice time.” Although I hadn’t said anything disparaging about Victor, Joy seemed to feel the need to defend him. “He was a hero, to animals. He did some things illegally to save them. But his heart was in the right place.”
“You really liked him, didn’t you?” I asked.
She nodded slowly, like her attraction for the older man confused her. “I didn’t know him for that long, but, yes, I had developed some feelings for him.”
I didn’t know what to say. Then I realized that I should probably offer her my condolences. But before I could say anything, Detective Doebler emerged from the crowd, seemingly coming out of nowhere and announcing, quietly but firmly, “You need to come in for questioning, Ms. Doolittle. Now.”
I would never forget the shocked, terrified expression on Joy’s face as Detective Doebler led her away, followed by Kevin Drucker, who’d been summoned, too. Kevin acted like his usual placid self, but Joy looked back over her shoulder at me, her eyes huge, pleading with me to help her. “What’s going on?” I heard her ask, right before she, Detective Doebler, and Kevin were swallowed up by the crowd. “What’s happening . . . ?”
All at once, I flashed back to the night of Lauren’s murder, when Joy had stood trembling on the lakeshore, and I could finally recall the then-cryptic, muffled phrases she’d kept repeating.
“Bubba and ME . . . It was supposed to be me . . . Bubba and me . . . What’s happening . . . ?”
I looked down at Socrates and Artie, who both seemed to understand that something serious had just occurred. Artie was no longer jumping around. He stood stiffly next to a very grave Socrates, both dogs looking up at me for an explanation.
“She’s definitely in trouble,” I told them. Then, speaking just from my gut instinct, I added, with a confidence that surprised even me, “But I don’t think she killed anybody. I think Joy just needs to tell Detective Doebler the truth about the night Lauren died and she’ll be fine.”
Artie still looked baffled, but Socrates dipped his head twice, like he agreed.
Then the somber mood was broken by the sound of Mayor Holtzapple’s cheerful voice over a loudspeaker.
“The Cardboard Iditarod will begin in fifteen minutes!” she announced. “Please join us at the snow track for this favorite Tail Waggin’ Winterfest tradition!”
“We’d better hurry,” I said, quickly checking my basket of treats. A few more of the bones had disappeared while I’d been absorbed in conversation with Joy, but there was nothing I could do. Moxie was probably going crazy, wondering where Artie was. “Come on,” I told both dogs. “Let’s get a move on!”
Artie and I trotted through the crowd, while Socrates took his time. I knew he’d catch up with us, and I bent down and scooped up Artie, thinking we could move even faster if I carried him. Plus, he liked to hitch a ride. He bounced happily along in my arms, his mouth hanging open and his tongue flapping over his chin.
It only took us about a minute to reach the track, which was surrounded by a crowd.
Pushing my way through, I quickly found Moxie, who was conversing with Jonathan and Piper next to the cardboard stagecoach, to which Bernie was hitched, like a horse.
I was pretty impressed with our entry—until I spotted another sled that practically made my jaw drop.
Chapter 67
“I’ve seen a lot of interesting spectacles in my travels, but this is truly . . . something,” Jonathan observed, as a parade of costumed pets and people made their slow way around a snowy track. As usual, only a few dogs were actually pulling sleds. Most of the canines were being dragged along by their owners. Jonathan crossed his arms over his chest and tried to frown, but his eyes were twinkling with amusement. “I don’t know if this is more humiliating for the dogs—or the humans.”
“I’d say the humans,” Piper noted. “Tom and Tessie Flinchbaugh look ridiculous!”
I had to agree that the proprietors of Fetch! pet boutique and the Philosopher’s Tome looked a little silly in their matching mime costumes. And their ancient, beret-wearing poodle, Marzipan, seemed ashamed to sit on a piece of cardboard next to a really bad replica of the Eiffel Tower. But, for the most part, I found the event charming.
“It’s all in good fun,” I reminded Jonathan and Piper. “And Moxie looks adorable!”
I waved to my best friend, who wore a plaid shirt,
a circle skirt with about ten petticoats, and a white cowboy hat. She waved back as she led Bernie around the track. Sebastian sat on top of the stagecoach, looking cute in his cowboy suit. I’d helped to dress him, and after a few minutes, I’d forgotten about his tail. He was kind of a charmer. And Artie, of course, was winning over the crowd in his outfit. I knew that the Chihuahua would make the front page of the Weekly Gazette. Gabriel was following the carriage around, half bent over and holding his big camera up to his face as he snapped picture after picture of the preening pup.
“I guess I will finally dare to ask why Artie is wearing a blue velvet dress,” Jonathan said, looking down at me. He was still trying to act like he disapproved, but he was very close to laughing. “Who is he supposed to be?”
“Julia Bulette, a character in an obscure episode of the old TV show Bonanza,” I informed him.
Jonathan sighed and shook his head. “Of course.”
Then we all resumed watching the Iditarod, just as Elyse Hunter-Black entered the course with her two greyhounds, Paris and Milan. I’d thought Moxie was bound to win best overall entry—until I’d seen Elyse’s jaw-dropping entry, when I’d first arrived at the track.
Was the fairy-tale coach—a crystal-encrusted, pumpkin-shaped vision straight out of Cinderella—even cardboard?
And how had she attached white flowing manes and tails to the already equine-looking dogs who pulled the sled?
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