Pawprints & Predicaments

by Bethany Blake

  I’m going to be blue . . . Blue like Lauren . . . Stiff like Victor, in the lion’s pen . . .

  I couldn’t even come up with a philosophical quote to calm myself. My phobia of tight places was overriding my ability to reason.

  And then I heard it.

  Something scraping against the door.

  Something that sounded an awful lot like a dog’s toenails, scratching—digging, if futilely—to get me out.

  “Socrates!” I cried. I rose and tested the door handle for the hundredth time. “Are you out there?”

  I heard a loud, rare, and blessedly welcome “WOOF!” which was followed by the sound of the handle rattling from the outside and a human voice.

  “Hang on, Daphne. I’ve got tools in my truck. I’ll get you out of there. Just hold tight, okay?”

  “Okay,” I promised.

  I didn’t cry very often, but I was close to tears then. And, I’ll admit, I melted down entirely when Jonathan Black smashed the handle with the blunt side of an axe and hauled the door open, so I could stumble out of that frozen crypt and collapse in his arms.

  I was sniffling so hard that I could barely see Socrates through my tears, but I was pretty sure he was dancing around like Artie would’ve done.

  Chapter 70

  “How did you find me?” I asked Jonathan, who was offering me one of two steaming mugs of coffee that he’d brewed using the Italian machine. He’d had to follow my instructions, because my hands were too numb to work the dials. We were still in Flour Power’s kitchen, sitting on stools at the butcher block counter while Detective Doebler and pretty much every uniformed officer around searched the area for Henrietta Holtzapple. I knew that Jonathan would have to leave soon, too, but for now, he was staying with me, in case Mayor Holtzapple returned to make sure I hadn’t escaped my frosty tomb. I was pretty sure Jonathan was sort of hoping she’d come back, so he could confront her. I glanced at Socrates, who was resting by the oven and enjoying a Cinnamon RollOver. “Socrates couldn’t have run all the way to Bear Tooth State Park. So how did you two meet up?”

  “Actually, I saw him on the road to the park, halfway to Winterfest,” Jonathan said. He looked at Socrates with admiration. The taciturn basset hound acted like he didn’t notice we were even talking about him. Socrates didn’t like praise, and I was pretty sure he was embarrassed by his earlier show of relief. Jonathan returned his attention to me. “Fortunately, I had left the festival earlier than expected—”

  “So you could track me down and ask for the full story on Bernie,” I interrupted, wrapping my hands around the warm mug.

  Jonathan took a sip of coffee, then shook his head. “I planned to go home. But when I passed by the booth with your basket of free treats, I noticed that there were still a few bones left. That struck me as odd, since Henrietta had said disappointed people were walking away empty-handed.”

  I’d taken a sip of coffee, too, and I could feel the warmth suffuse my still chilly body. “So then you came here . . .”

  Jonathan shook his head again. “Nope, I was still headed home. Until I started thinking about everyone who’d been at the lake the night of Lauren’s death. I kept trying to recall any objects that might’ve served as weapons. Because I never could accept my partner’s assumption that the killer had used a rock.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “Of course, I’d seen the blue bottle in Elyse’s hand,” he said, dragging his own hand through his thick, dark hair. “But even when a similar bottle showed up at Big Cats of the World, I knew she hadn’t killed anyone. Especially since I doubted that she even knew Breard.”

  “Then you remembered the bullhorn.”

  “To be honest, I next considered Gabriel Graham’s heavy camera,” he said. “I knew that could’ve done the job.”

  “I’d thought about that, too,” I agreed, immediately feeling guilty, like I’d betrayed Gabriel by voicing my doubts about him, even if they’d proven unfounded.

  “But I was pretty sure he’d kept the camera’s strap around his neck the whole time,” Jonathan explained. “Probably so an expensive piece of equipment wouldn’t be ruined if he lost his grip. And his pant legs were wet—but barely to the knees.”

  “I observed all that, too,” I said proudly.

  Socrates whined softly, cautioning me against getting too puffed up. Especially since he’d just seen me stumbling, wide-eyed and panicked, out of a refrigerator.

  “Go on, please,” I urged Jonathan.

  He grinned, like he’d understood that Socrates had just knocked me down a peg. Then he said, “I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I took a different tack, trying to recall events in order, leading up to Lauren’s death. That’s when I remembered seeing Mayor Holtzapple with the bullhorn. I hadn’t even considered her a suspect—until I realized that the bullhorn was linked to Victor Breard, too. He’d also used it at the plunge. There seemed to be a connection there. And then Henrietta apparently sent you on a wild-goose chase. . . .”

  “THEN you came to find me?” I asked, getting exasperated. My fingers also tingled in an unpleasant way as they thawed. “You were finally worried about me?”

  “Yes, and when I saw Socrates running along the road, I was sure that something was wrong. So I stopped to pick him up, and, I swear, he nodded approval every time I made a correct turn toward the bakery.”

  I pictured how dog and man must’ve tried to communicate, and I turned to Socrates. “Is he saying that you were allowed to ride in the front seat of his truck?”

  Socrates’s mouth opened into what was clearly a doggy grin. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him smile before.

  Jonathan was grinning, too, at Socrates. “I make an exception for dogs who are acting heroically,” he said. Then he rose and picked up his empty mug to carry it to the sink. I knew he probably had to leave. But all at once, his phone buzzed with an incoming call, and he pulled it out of the back pocket of his jeans and tapped the screen. “Black, here.” A moment later, he said, “I’m on my way.”

  “What’s up?” I asked, eager for news about Mayor Holtzapple. I would feel better if and when she was in custody.

  “That was Doebler,” Jonathan said, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “They found Mayor Holtzapple—having a breakdown in her office.”

  “What?” I’d kind of assumed she’d flee town, in case her plan to freeze me to death didn’t pan out. “She went to her office?”

  “Yes,” Jonathan informed me as he reached for his coat, which hung on a peg near the back door. “Apparently, she couldn’t bear to leave ‘her town’.”

  Chapter 71

  “Well, I would say that your grand opening was a great success, in spite of the weather,” Piper said, turning a sign on the door of Flour Power from OPEN to CLOSED. Outside, big, fat snowflakes were floating down from a leaden sky, but the little storefront was warm and cozy and smelled of coffee that Mom was brewing to celebrate a successful first day. Moxie, who’d helped me all day, was already restocking the glass counter, which had been all but emptied out. Piper locked the door. “Between Lucky Paws and Flour Power, you’re turning into quite the entrepreneur.”

  “Don’t forget, I lost a Lucky Paws client yesterday, when Mayor Holtzapple tried to kill me,” I noted, with a glance over my shoulder at the kitchen, where the broken walk-in refrigerator lurked. It was going to take me a while to get over the trauma of being locked inside, and I shuddered before I turned back to Piper. “I don’t think I’ll be sitting for Pippin very soon.”

  “Actually, you’ll probably be watching him at your expense,” Piper said, joining me at the cash register, where I was cashing out the drawer. I planned to make a concerted effort to manage my bakery’s finances in a responsible way. “Pippin will probably become a ward of Fur-Ever Friends, while Henrietta’s . . . indisposed,” my sister added, referring delicately to Mayor Holtzapple’s almost inevitable incarceration. Apparently, she’d already confessed to murdering Lauren Savidge and Victor Breard. �
��And they’ll be looking for a foster home for him.”

  I stopped counting money long enough to look at Piper. “Are you saying I could take in Pippin?”

  “Oh, I love that little dog,” Moxie interrupted, withdrawing from the glass case. She stood up, dusting her hands on a big apron that protected her dark pants. She had surprised, and sort of dismayed, me by dressing as a cat for the grand opening. Along with her all-black outfit, she wore felt cat ears and a tail. I was afraid she’d enjoyed dressing up for the Iditarod a little too much. Fortunately, customers had been charmed by the getup. Still, I thought it was a bit ironic when Moxie added, “Pippin’s nearly as nuts as Artie!”

  “At least he’s small,” Piper said, earning a soft groan from Socrates, who lay behind the counter, listening to our conversation. He clearly didn’t want a new roommate. Piper ignored him. “Pippin is one tenth of Bernie’s size.”

  I shut the cash drawer and sighed. “Bernie . . . Another client I lost.”

  At that inopportune moment, Mom came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray with four steaming lattes. She set the tray on the counter, and two tiny lines formed between her eyes when she nearly frowned. “You lost a client, Daphne? How? What happened? Does it have to do with the fact that you keep getting involved in murders and locked in freezers?”

  Actually, I’d only been locked in one appliance, and it had been a refrigerator.

  “The loss of this client—while admittedly related to the homicides—is actually a good thing,” I told Mom. “Bernie—aka Bubba—has found a forever home with Max Pottinger, who doesn’t need a pet sitter, since he hardly ever leaves the forest.”

  Piper shot me a confused look. “I thought you said Max didn’t want the dog.”

  “Yes,” I confirmed, taking a sip of my latte, which was a perfect balance of bitter espresso and sweet milk and sugar. I tried not to think about all that the coffee maker had probably endured at my mother’s hands, just so I could have a treat. Swallowing, I added, “But Jonathan texted me this morning to say that he’d convinced Mr. Pottinger that the dog wasn’t a bad omen. Which probably wasn’t very hard to do. Mr. Pottinger is lonely, and he loves Bernie.”

  “I suppose that is nice,” Mom agreed, looking around Flour Power. “And you do have two sources of income now. . . .” Then something caught her eye, and she frowned again, ever so faintly. “What in the world is that?”

  I followed where she was looking, and Moxie must’ve done the same.

  “You mean that?” my best friend chirped proudly, pointing to a golden trophy that she’d prominently displayed on a shelf that also held canisters full of small treats. “That’s the Overall Best Entry award that Daphne, Artie, Sebastian, Bernie, and I won at the Cardboard Iditarod.”

  “I can’t believe Elyse didn’t win,” Piper observed, leaning against the counter and crossing her arms. “Her Cinderella carriage was unbelievable!”

  “The judges thought so, too,” Moxie said. “They didn’t believe she’d really made it. And it wasn’t even cardboard. It was Styrofoam.”

  I actually believed that Elyse had crafted her own entry. But I could understand why she’d been disqualified. It was a Cardboard Iditarod.

  “I thought it was really nice of Elyse to stop by today,” I noted. “She bought a lot of treats for Paris and Milan.”

  Elyse had also thanked me for helping to solve Lauren’s murder. Apparently, Detective Doebler had been homing in on her as a suspect, based upon the discovery of the bottle at Big Cats of the World.

  Joy had thanked me, too, when she’d shown up at Flour Power to film that morning. The experience had been surprisingly painless. She’d kindly, but firmly, ordered Kevin to stay out of the way as much as possible, and he’d complied. I had a feeling she was going to be okay as a producer.

  “I hope Elyse didn’t feel badly when she saw the trophy,” Moxie said. “I didn’t mean to rub her nose in our win by displaying it.”

  Socrates snuffled, like the comment amused him. He obviously agreed with me that Elyse no doubt had plenty of awards of her own, most of which were probably a lot nicer than the ugly plastic trophy that Moxie had foisted on me.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to display it at Spa and Paw?” I asked her. “I didn’t do anything to earn it.”

  “Sure you did,” Moxie disagreed. “You dressed Sebastian!”

  At the sound of his name, the rat poked his head out of one of Moxie’s apron pockets.

  “What the . . . ?” My mother reared back, resting one hand on her chest, which was smothered under a chunky necklace. Her eyes were wide and blinking rapidly. “What is that thing?”

  “That’s a very sweet rodent,” I said, holding out my hands. Smiling, Moxie lifted Sebastian out of the pocket and handed him to me. His little nose twitched and I could feel his heartbeat when I cradled him close to me. “You just have to get used to him.”

  Piper rolled her eyes, then tapped Mom’s arm. “Come on. I think this is our cue to return to our own businesses.” My sister lowered her chin and looked at me over the wire frames of her eyeglasses. “I believe Daphne has plans this evening, too. Right?”

  I shrugged and handed Sebastian back to Moxie, who tucked the rat into her pocket again. Then I absently adjusted the vase of cut flowers that Gabriel had sent to wish me luck. “I’m not sure what I’m doing.”

  Gabriel had also stopped by Flour Power to interview me for what I hoped would be a favorable article in the Gazette. I’d made sure he only took pictures of the store, not me. And I hadn’t given him an answer when he’d asked me to join him for dinner that night.

  I knew that Gabriel really hadn’t been involved in Lauren’s murder. And I also knew, from Piper’s past experience, what it was like to be a suspect in the death of a significant other. Some people might always look at Piper with suspicion, after she’d been implicated in the murder of her ex-boyfriend. That wasn’t fair, and I didn’t want to discriminate against Gabriel, whose name had also been cleared.

  And yet, I’d told him—honestly—that I was busy with customers and would answer later.

  “Sebastian and I have to run, too,” Moxie said. “He’s overdue for a cheese break, and I have a late client coming in.”

  “Well, thank you all for supporting and helping me,” I said, following them to the door, with Socrates at my heels. He’d been reluctant to leave my side since helping to save me. I spun the lock so they could all exit. “You all helped to make this day a success,” I added. “I’m even grateful to you, Piper, for forcing me to dive right in.”

  My sister wasn’t one for displays of emotion, but she gave me a quick hug. “I knew you could do it.”

  Moxie, who loved bonding moments, embraced me, too.

  Under pressure, Mom air-kissed both of my cheeks. Then they all walked out into the snowy, dark evening.

  “Thank you, too, Socrates,” I said, as I closed the door and spun the lock again. “Without you, I’d probably be . . .”

  I was about to say “dead in a fridge” when something caught my eye. A plant, which someone had left on the windowsill. I hadn’t noticed it before and had no idea how long it had been there.

  “That’s weird,” I muttered, reaching down to pick up the pretty, Asian-inspired clay pot, which held twisting stalks of bright green bamboo. There was a card tucked in the foliage. I carried the plant over to the counter and set it next to the flowers Gabriel had sent. “Who do you think it’s from?” I asked Socrates as I opened the envelope. “I’m guessing Max Pottinger, because he loves plants and—being a hermit—would slip quietly into the store and leave.”

  Socrates shook his head briskly, like he thought I was way off base. His long ears swung.

  “Well, I guess we’ll see,” I said. Then I opened the card and read aloud. “I’m sure that you have some ‘long story’ about traveling in Asia and already know that bamboo is considered lucky in many Asian cultures. Not that you will need luck, Daphne. I’m sure your venture will b
e a success.” I hesitated before reading the signature, which would prove that I’d been wrong. Then I told Socrates, “Jonathan. It’s from Jonathan Black.”

  Socrates gave a restrained wag of approval. Clearly, Jonathan had won him over by listening to his canine direction and saving me.

  Then I looked at the card again, because Jonathan had added a postscript, which I didn’t read aloud.

  “You ARE lucky to be alive, Daphne. Stay out of refrigerators—and away from homicides!”

  Smiling, I tucked the card back into the envelope. Then I took a deep breath and spun on my heel, surveying my new enterprise—and catching a glimpse of my old VW, which was parked outside.

  “I think we’re doing okay, huh, Socrates?” I asked, smiling more broadly.

  He obviously agreed. For only the second time I could recall, my favorite baleful basset hound flashed a happy, doggy grin.

  Recipes

  I have been having a great time tracking down and dreaming up new recipes to stock the shelves at Flour Power, where business is booming. And Socrates and Tinkleston have been enjoying their new roles as official taste testers. In fact, Socrates has been taking an extra walk every day to burn off the additional calories, and I’ve even been trying to get a harness onto Tinks, so he can get some outdoor exercise, too. As you can imagine, that hasn’t gone too well. But we’ll get there. In the meantime, I hope your furry friends enjoy some of the recipes that have been hits at my new bakery!

  Cinnamon Roll-Overs

  I promise you, most dogs will roll over for one of these treats! Not Socrates. But most dogs.

  2 cups whole wheat flour

  1 tsp. baking powder

  ¼ tsp. salt

  ½ cup milk (or water if your pup is lactose intolerant)