Pawprints & Predicaments Read online

  I really wished that, for once, I’d taken Jonathan’s advice and locked the deadbolt that I could see just a few feet away from me. All it would’ve taken was a twist of the wrist.

  But it was too late to even lunge for the lock, and all I could do was keep waiting, helplessly, while the door swung open and a too-familiar, but still threatening, person joined me in the small apartment.

  Chapter 22

  “Are you sure you’re allowed to be here?” Gabriel teased, sitting back in a burgundy leather booth so a waiter in a crisp white shirt could pour two glasses of wine. Gabriel had chosen a chardonnay from a leather-bound wine list embossed with an old-fashioned train and the golden word ZEPHYR. In fact, he’d ordered both our meals, too, before I’d even arrived. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do when my roasted capon with lemon and thyme was set down before me. “You’re not grounded, are you?” Gabriel added. “Should I drive you home?”

  I was starting to regret telling him the semi-truth about why I’d arrived at the restaurant a half hour late. Although I’d omitted the part about sneaking into Lauren Savidge’s apartment, I’d admitted to having a run-in with Maeve Templeton, who’d somehow broken my Italian coffee machine and returned to her office ahead of schedule, only to see the light burning in the efficiency’s front window.

  In retrospect, it seemed to me that Mom should apologize for repeatedly breaking into my bakery, not to mention messing up expensive equipment that was probably impossible to get repaired, without shipping it back to Europe.

  Of course, she claimed that I must’ve done something to the machine, which had apparently spewed a big puff of steam into the air, then made a clinking sound before giving up the ghost.

  Mom was probably lucky she hadn’t teleported to the Middle Ages.

  “What, exactly, did you say happened?” Gabriel asked, leaning forward, the better to see me. The restored train station wasn’t lit only with candles, as Moxie had predicted, but the restaurant was dark and romantic. Large, arched windows framed a full moon and drifting clouds, and the backs of the booths were high and private. Each table held a flickering, antique railroad lantern, which provided just enough light for me to see that Gabriel’s dark eyes were gleaming with amusement and curiosity. “What was the argument about?”

  I brushed off the questions. “Who can even keep track? My mother and I tend to clash about everything.”

  That was true. And, thankfully, Gabriel dropped the subject, although I suspected that he might bring it up again at some point. I was pretty sure that, once his interest in something was piqued, he liked to get answers.

  For the time being, he raised his glass and smiled. “To Daphne Templeton. Pet sitter. Baker. Private investigator.”

  I’d been about to reciprocate that toast, but I pulled my wine back, nearly sloshing some of the chardonnay over the rim of the glass. “I’m not an investigator,” I protested. “Private or otherwise.”

  Gabriel cocked his head. “Really?”

  He had a cat-ate-the-canary look on his face, and I asked, warily, “Is there something I should know about?”

  Gabriel sat back again, set down his glass without taking a sip, and stroked his goatee, laughing at me. “I saw you running through town when I was driving here.”

  Oops. I’d noted that the sidewalks had been empty of pedestrians, but I hadn’t thought much about passing cars. And there had been a few.

  “You looked so odd, wobbling along in your heels and your dress, that I had to slow down and watch,” he continued, while my cheeks grew red with embarrassment and indignation. Who was he to spy on me? He didn’t seem to notice that I wasn’t enjoying his story, though. Or, if he did notice, he didn’t care. “I saw you furtively duck into your mother’s real-estate office. Then the next thing I knew, a light went on in Lauren Savidge’s apartment.” He smiled with self-satisfaction. “I can only assume that you were investigating. Privately.”

  For a second, I didn’t know how to respond. Then I leaned forward, crossed my arms on the table, and—ignoring everything he’d just said—narrowed my eyes at him. “How do you know where Lauren lived?” I demanded. “Did you spy on her, too? Or did you spend some time in her apartment? Maybe as more than friends?”

  I had a feeling that few people got the upper hand with Gabriel Graham. But I had definitely struck a nerve. His smile faded away and the glimmer in his eyes dimmed. Then he said softly and seriously, “Maybe I’ve underestimated you, Daphne.”

  Chapter 23

  “I found Lauren interesting,” Gabriel told me quietly. All of his smug bravado seemed snuffed out, and I had to say that I liked him better without the cocky, mocking attitude. He took a sip of wine, then set down his glass. “When she first came to town, we did spend some time together. As ‘more than friends,’ as you put it.”

  “So . . . what happened?” I was dying to know more about his relationship with Lauren. And dying of hunger. Our food was running late, and I’d already eaten my share of warm brown bread with rich, Irish butter from a skimpy bread basket. “I take it you two broke up . . . ?”

  He shook his head. “We were never a real ‘couple.’ At least, I didn’t think so.”

  “But Lauren did?”

  Gabriel had been fiddling with—and staring at—his wineglass, but he met my gaze again. “Yes. And, as you know, she was a forceful personality. She assumed that she would get her way at some point. Even though I’d tried to make it clear that I never wanted a serious relationship to begin with.”

  Gabriel didn’t seem interested in his slice of bread, so I reached for the remaining piece and buttered that, too. Then I asked, sort of offhandedly, “Did you two fight a lot?”

  Gabriel laughed too loudly for the hushed room. Glancing around to see if anyone had noticed, he lowered his voice and apologized. “I’m sorry. But that was the least subtle question I’ve ever been asked. Why don’t you just come out and ask me, ‘Did you kill Lauren Savidge?’”

  Since the question was already out there, I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask. “Did you?”

  I couldn’t help but notice that Gabriel didn’t exactly answer that simple inquiry.

  “I didn’t take part in the plunge,” he reminded me, leaning back again, this time so the waiter could deliver an appetizer that I hadn’t been warned about—except by Moxie. Escargot. Gabriel waited until the server retreated before adding, “As you, of all people, should know, Lauren was killed in the water. Probably by someone who used a rock, grabbing it from the lake bed and acting on impulse in the midst of the chaos, according to the prevailing theory.”

  I hadn’t heard anything about a weapon, and I leaned forward, talking through a big bite of bread, which was probably going to be the only thing I ate that night at the rate things were going. “Are the police sure the killer used a rock?”

  “No.” Gabriel picked up a set of tongs that looked like a medieval torture device and deposited a snail, complete with shell, onto a small plate the waiter had placed in front of me. “But that’s Detective Doebler’s best guess at this point.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “And it makes sense.” I suddenly recalled that I needed to ask Gabriel a question. “Did you remove anything from Bernie’s collar after you found him?”

  His interest was immediately piqued. “No, I didn’t. Why do you ask?”

  I almost told him about the missing barrel, but he obviously prided himself on being a crack investigator, and I decided that he could figure things out for himself, if he was curious. Gabriel had printed a picture of Bernie wearing the barrel at the scene of the crime, and he’d clipped a leash onto the dog’s other collar, several times. I didn’t need to spell things out for him. Plus, I wasn’t sure he was being honest with me. I still thought he might have the little keg.

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “No big deal.”

  Gabriel didn’t believe me, but he didn’t press me to explain further. He grabbed a snail for himself and resumed speculating about the
murder. “So, ruling me out as a suspect . . .” He looked across the table at me. “Not that you necessarily have.”

  I didn’t hurry to assure him that I’d crossed him off my list of potential killers yet, because I hadn’t.

  He didn’t seem bothered and dug a tiny fork into the shell on his plate, pulling out a limp, gray mass. “Assuming I’m not the killer, who do you think murdered Lauren? What’s your best guess at this point? Colonel Mustard with a fistful of limestone?”

  I drew back, surprised and disappointed by the callous joke.

  “You know, this isn’t really a contest or a game,” I reminded him. “Someone you used to care about, at least to some degree, is dead.”

  Apparently, snails were chewy, because he raised one finger, asking me to wait while he ate, which took a long time. Then he swallowed, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and said, with obvious remorse, “I’m sorry, Daphne. I’ve covered so many homicides that I’m afraid I’m pretty matter-of-fact about murder. But you’re right. That comment was out of line.” He grew pensive and gazed across the room. “This is probably sad to say, but it’s the very rare homicide that can get under my skin.”

  I was pretty sure he was referring to a case I’d read about when I’d researched him online. But I didn’t feel like I could ask him about that, even though he’d invited me to Google him.

  Taking a sip of wine, I studied Gabriel over the rim of my glass. He looked especially handsome that night in a dressy, but casual, shirt and suit jacket. As Moxie had noted, his longish, dark hair was actually cut in a stylish way, and he could pull off the goatee. His eyes were his most intriguing feature, though. They radiated intelligence and could, at times, reveal more depth than I’d initially believed him to possess.

  He definitely had charisma, and I could imagine how an equally strong personality like Lauren might have been drawn to him—and not want to let go.

  Just how hard had Lauren Savidge clung? And what might I find if I saw all of the pictures Gabriel had taken the evening of her death? Because he’d snapped a lot of shots with that heavy, professional-grade Nikon. I could recall him bobbing around in the crowd, the camera’s unusual plaid strap around his neck. And his pants had gotten wet, up to the knees, like he’d stepped into the water at some point.

  But why . . . ?

  “Is something wrong?” Gabriel asked, interrupting what had become a long reverie. For a moment, I worried that he’d somehow sensed that I’d been questioning his potential involvement in Lauren’s death. Then I realized that he was gesturing to my uneaten appetizer. “You don’t like escargot?”

  I had been so lost in my thoughts that I’d forgotten about the snails. I glanced down at the butter-soaked creature on my plate, not sure if I’d find it appetizing even if I ate meat.

  “I should probably tell you that I’m a vegetarian,” I confessed, continuing to study the snail. “Although, I’m not really sure if this is technically ‘meat.’ It kind of reminds me of this eel I ate once in Tokyo. By accident, but still . . .”

  “It’s okay.” Gabriel grinned and reached across the table to take away my appetizer plate. “You don’t have to eat it, on purpose or by accident . . .” His voice trailed off, and he looked past me, like something to my right had caught his attention.

  Leaning out of the booth, I followed his gaze, which had grown intent. And when I located what—or who—Gabriel was watching, I nearly slipped off my seat.

  Victor Breard.

  The big-cat rescuer, whom I’d last seen at the scene of a murder, then on Lauren Savidge’s bulletin board, where his face had been the bull’s-eye in a Sharpie’d target, stood just inside the door, next to an empty hostess station.

  As Gabriel and I both watched, Victor, apparently tired of waiting to be greeted, walked farther into the dining room. Then he paused to scan the dimly lit, private tables, his chin lifted high and his neck craning.

  “He’s looking for somebody,” Gabriel observed. His journalistic antennae were clearly standing straight up. I was pretty sure he was also thinking about Victor’s presence at Lake Wallapawakee on the night of Lauren’s death. “I wonder who he’s meeting.”

  I started to tell Gabriel that I had no idea, and that Victor Breard’s dinner plans were really none of our business, so we should probably quit gawking.

  But before I could say anything, or scooch back into the booth where I belonged, Victor stopped searching and started striding through the restaurant, winding his way around the tables.

  “Um, Gabriel?” I ventured, uncertainly—and a bit nervously, for some reason. “It looks to me like Victor’s here to see . . . us.”

  Chapter 24

  “Good evening! Bonsoir!” Victor greeted us bilingually, and with a big grin that revealed a mouthful of white teeth that his lions probably envied. The flashy smile matched his pinstriped suit, red silk tie, and pointy-toed leather shoes. Just as I was wondering if he knew who I was, the smile turned upside down, and he addressed Gabriel. “I do not believe that I have met your lovely lady friend.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I’m a lady—”

  “Victor, this is Daphne Templeton,” Gabriel interrupted me, before I could explain that we weren’t a couple. I wished he’d let me get the word friend out. “If you ever need someone to watch the tigers and leopards while you’re out of town, she’s a professional pet sitter.”

  Victor’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Oh, yes!” he said. “I have seen your van.” He grew serious and nodded approvingly. “You care for disabled and disfigured horses, yes? That is a beautiful and noble calling.”

  Gabriel knew why Victor was under the impression that I was some kind of equine therapist, and he stifled a laugh, coughing into his fist.

  “Actually, I . . .” I started to explain that the animal on my VW was supposed to be a dog, then decided not to bother. At least he thought my “calling” was “noble.”

  “Please, join us,” Gabriel said, gesturing to my side of the booth. “Have a seat.”

  I slid over, making more room for Victor, although now that I had a chance to meet him up close, I realized that he was actually surprisingly short and slight. And his face, which was tanned in an orange, artificial way, was also deeply lined. When I’d seen Victor at the lake, addressing the crowd in ringmaster style, I would’ve guessed that he was in his forties. But as I studied him by the flickering glow of our tabletop lantern, I revised that estimate upward, perhaps into the late fifties. I could also smell his cologne, which was sweet and too pungent, in my opinion.

  Luckily, I wasn’t going to have to endure the overpowering scent while I picked at the garnishes on my chicken dinner, whenever that arrived.

  “Non, non, merci.” Victor raised his hands. “I am meeting someone soon. I merely stopped by to say hello.” He spoke to Gabriel again. “And I wish to invite you, as a journalist, to visit Big Cats of the World, for a tour that would be . . . How do you say it in English?” He looked to the ceiling and rubbed his chin until he found the phrase he wanted. He snapped his fingers. “Behind the scenes!” Then Victor frowned, the lines around his mouth deepening. “There is some misunderstanding of my mission, and I would like to explain, to the public, what I do for les lions et tigres.”

  I was among those who didn’t understand Victor’s mission. “I would actually like to read that article,” I told Gabriel. “It sounds pretty interesting.”

  Smiling triumphantly, Victor waved his hand with a lion tamer’s flourish. “You see? Already a reader is intrigued!”

  I got the sense that Gabriel didn’t like being manipulated by a public relations pitch. But he also wanted to sell newspapers, and there was no denying that a lot of Sylvan Creek residents would like to know more about Big Cats of the World, where a man who was something of an enigma lived with some of nature’s most dangerous creatures. At the very least, I was sure local folks would buy the paper in hopes of learning whether Victor’s fencing system was adequate. Still, Gabriel didn’t
immediately agree to write the article.

  “I’ll take the tour,” he said, raising one finger before Victor could extend his hand to shake on the deal. “On one condition.”

  Victor arched his eyebrows. “And that is . . . ?”

  “Daphne gets to come along.” Gabriel smiled at me. “You’d like an up-close and personal look at some exotic cats, right?”

  I wasn’t sure if I was being invited on a second date, or if Gabriel really just thought I’d enjoy the tour. Regardless, I definitely wanted to go.

  “Yes, I would like that,” I agreed, looking hopefully at Victor. “If you don’t mind me tagging along?”

  “You are most welcome,” he promised, smiling at me, too. “Surely, working with damaged horses, you will appreciate my humble efforts to help unfortunate creatures.” While I again debated setting him straight, he turned back to Gabriel. “I will contact you to set up a day and time convenient for all.” Then Victor took a step backward, so the waiter could set a sizzling filet mignon in front of Gabriel and a capon before me. “For now, I will leave you to your meals,” Victor added, with a glance over his shoulder. “While I go to join my dining companion, who has finally arrived.”

  My brief conversation with Victor Breard had pretty much confirmed my—and Piper’s—opinion that he was a somewhat slippery showman. But when he mentioned his “dining companion,” I was pretty sure that I glimpsed the real person behind the public façade.

  And the look in Victor’s narrowed eyes, as he turned to greet Lauren Savidge’s assistant, Joy Doolittle, reminded me of a panther stalking its prey.

  Chapter 25

  The full moon I’d seen through the windows at Zephyr shined like a spotlight on the path that Bernie and I followed from Piper’s farmhouse, where I’d parked my van, to Plum Cottage, on a night that had grown still and icy cold. My sister was building an access road from the main farm to the old caretaker’s cottage, but the project wouldn’t be done until late spring. In the meantime, I had to hike to my house, regardless of the weather or the time of day.