Pawprints & Predicaments

by Bethany Blake

  “Elyse created quite an entry,” Piper observed, voicing my thoughts. She tucked her gloved hands into the pockets of her warm down jacket. A light snow was beginning to fall from the leaden sky. “Wow.”

  “Elyse plays to win,” Jonathan said. His gaze was trained on the carriage. “No doubt about that.”

  His expression was suddenly grim, and although I knew it wasn’t the right time or place, I tugged his sleeve, compelling him to look down at me again.

  “Did you ever hear anything more about the bottle?” I asked quietly. I didn’t want Piper to overhear. Not that she was nosy. “Were there fingerprints—?”

  “I don’t know anything, Daphne,” Jonathan interrupted me, also speaking softly. I could tell that he was worried about his ex-wife. “I haven’t spoken with Detective Doebler about that since I showed him the bottle. And if Elyse was questioned, she didn’t tell me about it.”

  “Oh.” I glanced down to see that Socrates had finally joined us. He’d definitely taken his time, probably hoping that he’d miss the whole event. He got a pained expression on his face when Artie and Sebastian drifted by again, led by Moxie, who did a little do-si-do in front of us. I returned my attention to Jonathan. “Did you know that your partner just led away Joy Doolittle, to question her?”

  “No,” he said again. “I’m telling you, I have no information about either of the murders. I’m completely out of the loop.”

  “Then I should probably tell you that Max Pottinger has been keeping Bernie—whom he calls Bubba,” I said, with a quick glance at the Saint Bernard. “He took care of him for weeks, before Lauren’s murder.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jonathan demanded, still whispering. But there was an edge to his voice. “The dog is Pottinger’s?”

  “Yes. And he was part of this scheme, with Joy Doolittle and Kevin Drucker. But I don’t think they really did anything wrong . . . I have a different idea. . . .”

  I was getting excited, and Jonathan rested a hand on my arm. He looked around, reminding me that we were in public. “This isn’t the right place. But we do need to talk. At the very least, I need to know what’s happening with the dog.”

  I was about to suggest that we go someplace more private, perhaps after stopping to buy one last Snow-Capped Funnel Cake before the festival ended, when someone interrupted us, squeezing my other wrist and telling me, in her enthusiastic way, “Daphne! Your basket of treats is completely empty!” Mayor Henrietta Holtzapple made a sad face. “Festivalgoers are walking away disappointed. Don’t you have any more of those adorable little bones?”

  “Um, yes,” I said, pulling free of both Mayor Holtzapple and Jonathan, who seemed unhappy about the interruption. I knew that he was dying to know why he’d been stuck with another man’s drooling dog for the last few days. “But the treats are back at my bakery.”

  “Don’t you think you should get some more?” Mayor Holtzapple suggested. “It’s such a wonderful opportunity to advertise, and I’m so eager for your bakery to be a success.” She smiled. “You know how I hate empty storefronts!”

  We were speaking in normal voices again, and Piper leaned around Jonathan, so she could see me. “I think you should listen to Henrietta. You can always give away something else tomorrow. This is an opportunity to market Flour Power to people from all over the Poconos.”

  I really wanted to stick around Winterfest and celebrate whatever trophy Moxie would win for her sled, not to mention talk to Jonathan, but I knew that Mayor Holtzapple and Piper were right.

  “Oh, fine,” I agreed. I turned to Jonathan. “We’ll talk soon, okay?”

  He nodded, and after giving Moxie an apologetic wave, I headed for my van with Socrates in tow. He seemed more than eager to leave the Cardboard Iditarod behind, although I doubted he’d ever get the image of Artie in the dress out of his mind.

  As I drove back to Sylvan Creek, I kept thinking about Joy Doolittle’s expression when she’d been led away, and the blue bottle that had been rolling around in the parking lot at Big Cats of the World—as well as Victor Breard’s golf cart.

  I hardly noticed how quiet the town was until I was opening the door to Flour Power. But as Socrates and I stepped inside the bakery, I got a little spooked. Maybe because the last time we’d been in a dark, silent building, Socrates had found Victor Breard’s body. And Sylvan Creek’s shopping district was completely, eerily empty on that snowy, late-Sunday afternoon. Even the windows at the Weekly Gazette office, across the street, were dark. Which made sense, since I’d last seen Gabriel at Winterfest.

  Fighting off the uneasy feeling, I closed the door behind me and Socrates, and the silence seemed even more oppressive. Not unlike the silence at Big Cats of the World, right before Socrates had trotted into the snack bar, compelling me to follow him to the window overlooking Khan’s enclosure.

  That hollow lack of sound had been in sharp contrast to my first visit to the sanctuary. As I went behind the counter to get more treats, I recalled how Gabriel had complained about the noise of the golf carts. We hadn’t been able to hear Victor half the time.

  The bakery was warm, and although I didn’t intend to stay long, I absently shrugged out of my coat and tossed it onto the counter, still lost in thought.

  Victor had apologized, several times, for the fact that we were missing out on information, due to technical difficulties....

  All at once, with my hand poised to flip on a light in the kitchen, I sucked in a sharp breath and looked down at Socrates, who’d followed me.

  “The murder weapon!” I said, whispering for some reason.

  Before I could explain, I heard the front door open, and forgetting about the treats, I turned around, eager to tell Jonathan about my latest revelation.

  I’d half expected him to ditch Winterfest in favor of satisfying his curiosity about Bernie, and I stepped past Socrates and rushed to the counter, blurting, “Jonathan! I think I figured out what the killer used to hit Lauren over the head—”

  I stopped in midstride, because Jonathan Black hadn’t followed me to town.

  “Mayor Holtzapple?” I heard the confusion in my voice. “What are you doing here?” Then I glanced at her hand. “And why do you have a gun?”

  Chapter 68

  “I . . . I didn’t really run out of treats, did I?” I asked nervously. I dared to take my eyes off Mayor Holtzapple’s little pistol for just a moment and looked over my shoulder at Socrates, who was behind me in the kitchen. I doubted that Henrietta had seen him there, and I silently willed him to stay out of sight. I was pretty sure he understood. He stood stock-still, his tail rigid, indicating that he grasped that we were in danger. But his brown eyes were calm as he assessed the situation. As always, he was a soothing presence. Then I quickly turned back around to discover that Mayor Holtzapple had taken a step closer. She was just across the counter from me, and her hand, holding the gun, was remarkably steady. I raised my hands, on instinct, and took a step backward. “You wanted me to come here, didn’t you? Where I’d be alone in a storefront in a town that you knew would be nearly empty of people. Because you killed Lauren Savidge—and you were afraid I’d figured it out.”

  Mayor Holtzapple offered me a regretful smile. “I’m sorry, Daphne. But this is really your fault. You seem to have this knack for solving murders, and when I overheard you talking with Detective Black about the recent homicides plaguing our fair community, I thought I’d better silence you.”

  I scrunched up my brows. “When and where did you hear . . . ?”

  “At Winterfest, the other day,” she informed me. “You and Jonathan Black spoke in the parking lot. He warned you not to investigate. But I could tell you had other plans.”

  I stared at her in disbelief. “You were the reason Bernie got so agitated the other night?”

  “Yes, I saw you chatting with Detective Black when I hung a sign on Arlo’s booth, and I followed you both. Even before then I suspected that I’d have to end your speculation at some poin
t.” The corners of her mouth drooped. “Murder has a funny way of snowballing, you know? No Winterfest pun intended!”

  I wasn’t laughing.

  “You killed Lauren with the bullhorn, didn’t you?” I asked, slowly lowering my hands. “That was the weapon.”

  Mayor Holtzapple looked almost impressed. “How did you figure it out?”

  “I saw you using it at the plunge,” I explained. “And when I was at Big Cats of the World a few days later, Victor complained that his bullhorn had gotten cracked. I should’ve realized then that someone had used it to hit Lauren over the head. Because there were so few weapons available at the lake. And then, when I returned to Victor’s compound, the bullhorn was gone, missing from its special holder on his golf cart. I’d known something was different about the cart, but I couldn’t figure out what it was, until just a few minutes ago.”

  “You’re pretty clever for a pet sitter,” Mayor Holtzapple noted, insulting me before she killed me.

  “Well, I have a PhD, too,” I reminded her glumly. “And I haven’t exactly figured out why you killed Lauren.”

  Mayor Holtzapple’s eyes grew hard, with glints of anger. “That girl was a menace. I can’t tell you how many people complained to me about Lauren Savidge. The way she filmed them and their pets without even asking, and stomped all over people’s property, and insulted Winterfest, even! And Lauren was bound and determined to make Sylvan Creek, and everyone who lives here, look like lunatics—on national TV! She was going to ruin our community’s reputation. Drive away the tourists who are the lifeblood of this town—which I’ve built up, for years!” She laughed, a rueful sound. “And the worst part was, some people blamed me—like I was responsible for bringing Lauren and her whole crew to Sylvan Creek!” The fingers of Mayor Holtzapple’s free hand flexed, as if she still felt like punching Lauren. “I didn’t intend to kill her that night. But when I saw her standing in the lake, with a smug look on her face, I just snapped and smacked her in the head with the bullhorn from behind. It was so easy, in all the chaos of that disastrous event. Everyone was flailing around. I didn’t really expect her to die, but then she crumpled down under the water. . . .”

  “And you left her there?” I was incredulous.

  Mayor Holtzapple didn’t seem remorseful. She shrugged. “Yes, I guess I did.”

  Mom had told me that Henrietta Holtzapple was obsessed with Sylvan Creek. I guessed she was right. Mayor Holtzapple had probably “snapped” long before she’d committed murder.

  All at once, I felt a chill run down my spine, and not just because I was staring down the barrel of a gun. I also felt a chilly breeze coming from behind me, and I looked over my shoulder again.

  Socrates was gone. And, judging from the icy air seeping into the bakery, he’d exited out the small back door, which led to an alley full of Dumpsters used by all the businesses along Market Street. I never locked that door, but I still had no idea how a basset hound had spun the knob. Leave it to Socrates to find a way.

  However, he did have physical limitations, and his short legs would never get him as far as Winterfest, where Jonathan Black or Piper might actually understand when he tried to indicate that I needed help. I doubted anyone else he ran across would know what he was trying to communicate. Still, I was happy that he would be safe.

  “What—or who—is back there?” Mayor Holtzapple demanded. I must’ve kept my back to her a second too long. I turned around to see that her eyes were narrowed with suspicion, and she’d moved again. Come around to the side of the counter, so nothing separated me from that gun. “Is someone in the kitchen? Why is it getting cold in here?”

  “There’s no one here,” I promised her. Then I told a big fib, if only to save my skin. “I always leave a window cracked, because the kitchen gets too hot when I bake.” I fought the urge to turn and run myself. I was afraid Mayor Holtzapple might have good aim. She seemed pretty comfortable holding a gun. “Why didn’t you just shoot Victor?” I suddenly asked, puzzled by her decision to bludgeon him, too, not to mention her motive. “And why kill him?”

  “That bullhorn . . .” Mayor Holtzapple grew thoughtful, and she spoke more softly. “It haunted me. I knew it was in Victor’s hands, and I couldn’t sleep at night, wondering if he’d ever figure out that he was holding—probably using—the murder weapon all the time. I had, of course, visited Big Cats of the World many times, and I could picture the bullhorn in its holder on that garish golf cart.” She shuddered, maybe at the memory of how the bullhorn’s existence, right out there in the open, had troubled her, or because Victor’s golf cart really was gaudy. Then she added, “I had to get the bullhorn back—and shut up Victor, too.”

  “But why not shoot him?” I asked again, although I was somewhat reluctant to remind her that she was holding a gun. But I had to know. “Why stage an accident?”

  “Bullets can be traced.” She shrugged. “And why not lead the authorities to believe that Victor’s death was an accident? Everyone expected that lion to kill him someday.”

  “So you . . . ?”

  “Showed up at his preserve, under the pretense of making a donation,” she said. “I often did, because that place was a big tourist draw. Good for the town.”

  She really was obsessed with Sylvan Creek.

  “And when he had his back turned, I hit him with a marble bookend I’d brought from home. Hit him harder than I’d hit Lauren. And when I was sure he was dead, I dragged his body to the lion’s pen.” She rubbed her neck with her free hand. “That was the hardest part, although he wasn’t a big man.”

  I couldn’t believe how tough she was. I’d always thought she was just a kind, somewhat bumbling woman. “Weren’t you terrified to face Khan?”

  “Not really,” she said. “I knew where Victor kept the raw meat. I made sure Khan was distracted during the brief time I was in the enclosure. And it was easy enough to find the control panel for the electric fencing system.” She frowned, because part of her plan had gone wrong. “Only I couldn’t seem to get the fences working again. So I gave up and ran to my car.”

  “Why did you tear apart the call box at the gate?” All at once, I remembered the Eau de Vaucluse bottle. “And why did you try to frame Elyse Hunter-Black? Because you dropped the blue bottle, didn’t you? Knowing that police would find it and link it to Elyse.”

  Mayor Holtzapple’s eyes glittered with something like misplaced pride. “Yes, I bought some of that fancy water and purposely left one of those pretentious bottles in the parking lot.”

  “Why?” I repeated.

  “Because Elyse brought this whole scourge upon our town!” Her anger spiked so quickly that I thought Elyse was lucky to be alive. “Her and her Stylish Life Network!” Mayor Holtzapple spat the words. “And I knew that Elyse was a suspect in Lauren’s murder. Everyone saw them fighting at the lake.” She shrugged. “Why not cast more doubt on her?”

  That was really ruthless. “And the call box?”

  She pursed her lips and made a frustrated huffing sound. “I couldn’t get the gate to shut, either. I must’ve done something wrong when I turned off the fencing. I got so mad that I used the bookend to smash the call box, too!”

  Wow. She was a ball of rage.

  Who knew?

  “You could’ve killed innocent people,” I reminded her, backing up in preparation to dart away. I was running out of time. She’d advanced again, and her fingers were twitching on the trigger. I raised my hands again, even as I accused her. “Your own citizens could’ve been eaten by tigers!”

  “I told you,” she said evenly. “Murder tends to snowball!”

  We had run out of things to say, and there was nothing left to do but spin around and run like crazy—while hunched over, on the assumption that she’d aim for my head. Which she did. I heard a loud bang and felt the bullet whiz past me as I scurried into the kitchen, headed for the door that Socrates had left ajar. But before I could reach it, she pulled the trigger again, and without even thinking
, I darted to a closer sanctuary: the dreaded, unreliable walk-in refrigerator.

  I didn’t want to go there, but I had no choice, and I hauled open the door and jumped inside. As I slammed the door shut, another bullet zinged against the thick metal.

  Grabbing the handle, I held on tight. And, of course, Mayor Holtzapple started pulling from the other side. The handle was rattling.

  “Unlock this thing now!” she demanded. “NOW!”

  The funny thing was, the door didn’t have a lock.

  I didn’t say anything, and there was a long silence, during which I tried to breathe. I desperately wanted to test the handle myself, because if something had gone wrong, and I was actually locked inside . . .

  I couldn’t bear to think about it. My breathing was already getting shallow, the darkness closing in on me. And the cold was penetrating my thin shirt.

  I remained still, trying to listen through the thick walls of the walk-in. But I couldn’t hear anything. Not even footsteps receding. And after what felt like about a half hour, but was probably only ten minutes or so, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided I would rather risk being shot than freeze to death—or go out of my mind from claustrophobia—and I dared to rattle the handle, myself.

  It wouldn’t even move.

  “No . . .” My voice was the merest choked whisper, and I sank down to the floor.

  Henrietta Holtzapple wasn’t going to shoot me.

  She’d left me to an even worse fate. Because even Socrates wouldn’t look for me in a refrigerator that everyone close to me knew scared the bejeepers out of me.

  As I wriggled on the floor, I could feel ice crystals under my hands, because the unpredictable fridge created a lot of frost when the temperature dipped low.

  Murder . . .

  It really did snowball.

  Chapter 69

  I kept staring into the darkness, my teeth chattering as at least an hour passed. If only I hadn’t taken off my coat. The temperature in the broken refrigerator couldn’t have been above twenty degrees, and I was only wearing a light peasant blouse. I could feel my lips getting numb, and pictured how they were probably starting to turn blue. Like Lauren’s face had been, back at the lake, when Mayor Holtzapple had walked away from her, too.