Pawprints & Predicaments Read online

  “Come on, Bernie,” I said, tugging lightly on his leash to get him moving and pulling my coat closer around my chin. I’d changed back into my usual clothes at Moxie’s, when I’d picked up the dog. Moxie had also supplied me with a peanut butter sandwich, in exchange for the capon, which the waiter had packed up in a doggy bag. “Let’s go,” I urged Bernie, who didn’t seem to be in any hurry. “It’s pretty late.”

  Needless to say, Moxie had held me hostage for a good half hour, refusing to hand over the sandwich until I’d told her everything about my evening. She’d been most eager to get my impressions of Gabriel, but had been pretty interested in Victor Breard and Joy Doolittle’s meeting, too.

  Or had that meeting been a date?

  I wasn’t sure, but I had to admit that I was also curious.

  Victor and Joy made a strange pair, even discounting the disparity in their ages. Victor always commanded attention, while Joy had been ghostly pale and painfully easy to overlook in a dowdy taupe skirt and a plain cream-colored top that washed out her ash-blond hair, which was cut into a basic bob.

  Yet, the two had seemed to have a lot to talk about—although I got the sense that they disagreed on whatever topic was up for discussion. They’d both leaned over the table, Victor gesturing animatedly, while Joy had repeatedly answered with pursed lips and short, sharp shakes of her head.

  “Were they talking about the murder?” I mused aloud, breaking the silence. My voice, though hushed, sounded loud in the quiet woods. I spoke even more softly, looking down at Bernie. “Because they were both at the lake when you pulled out Lauren. And Victor was on the corkboard, in that bull’s-eye.”

  Of course, Bernie didn’t comment, and we resumed walking quietly through the trees.

  I didn’t usually get nervous on the trails, especially if I had a canine companion, but as I recalled that a killer was on the loose—and remembered how Bernie had growled, back at Bear Tooth forest—I gradually started to grow uneasy.

  Reaching down, I stroked Bernie’s head, grateful that he wasn’t on the alert, like he’d been earlier. That was probably a good sign that we were alone.

  Still, I was relieved when we rounded the final bend in the trail, and I saw the windows of Plum Cottage glowing with a welcoming light that I’d left on for Socrates and Tinkleston.

  Then I stopped short and grabbed Bernie’s collar, my heart racing with fear as a large shadow—far too big to be cast by a basset hound or a Persian cat—moved inside the house.

  I probably should’ve whipped out my cell phone and called the police, but my first thought was for Socrates and Tinkleston, who were apparently trapped inside my cottage with an intruder, and on instinct, I ran to the porch and hauled open the door.

  Bernie once again proved that he could sense when something was wrong, and he pushed past me, galloping inside a step ahead of me.

  “You’d better watch out!” I warned whoever was inside. “Bernie is trained to . . .”

  I was about to say “attack,” although I doubted that the sweet Saint Bernard who was scrambling across the cottage’s old plank floors knew the command or would follow it, if he did.

  But when I burst through the door, too, the word died on my lips, and instead of confronting the person who was crouched in my kitchen, I cried with dismay, “What in the world happened here?”

  Chapter 26

  “Tinkleston, I am very disappointed in you,” I told the little black Persian, who was crouched on top of the icebox, probably because he’d destroyed the windowsill herb garden where he usually hid. Tinks had also knocked over some cactus-shaped salt-and-pepper shakers I’d picked up in Dallas and spilled a glass of water I’d left near the sink. “And don’t try to pretend you didn’t do all this!”

  Socrates, sitting by the fire, shook himself vigorously, like he was physically distancing himself from the vandalism. And I knew that he wasn’t to blame. Although Socrates didn’t care about possessions, he didn’t believe in wanton destruction, either.

  Plus, he was way too short to get up on the countertop.

  “What got into you?” I asked Tinkleston, planting my hands on my hips. “Huh?”

  The surly cat merely blinked at me, as if he didn’t understand the questions, so Piper, who was kneeling on the floor, cleaning up soggy potting soil, answered for him.

  “He’s probably either upset that you left him alone all evening, or that you brought a new animal into the house.” She scooped damp dirt into a 1920s Chase & Sanborn coffee can that used to hold a fragrant thyme plant, which lay limp on the floor. “You’re lucky I stopped by to drop off your mail this evening. Who knows what else he would’ve gotten into?”

  I opened a drawer, retrieving a clean dishcloth. “He must be upset about Bernie, because I’ve left him alone before with no problems.” I glanced at Tinks, who flexed his claws. “In fact, I think he likes his alone time.”

  “Maybe he didn’t approve of your human company tonight,” Piper ventured, rising and setting the thyme, which she’d repotted, back on the windowsill. “Maybe Tinkleston doesn’t like you seeing Gabriel Graham.”

  I’d been wiping up the water and stray grains of salt, but I stopped and looked at my sister. “What does that mean? And how do you know who I was with tonight?”

  “Mom told me, when she called to complain about you breaking into Lauren Savidge’s apartment,” Piper informed me. Stepping over Bernie, who lay in an awkward spot between the kitchen and living room, she headed for the coat rack near the door. “Plus, when I left your mail on the counter—and it looks like you’re behind on your student loans—I saw your reminder scrawled on a napkin, ‘MEET GABRIEL GRAHAM 7:30 ZEPHYR!!’”

  “Oh, I forgot about that.” I rinsed out the dishcloth and draped it over the faucet to dry. Then I followed Piper to the door. “I guess that was a pretty big clue.”

  “Speaking of clues . . . What were you doing in Lauren’s apartment?” Piper was zipping her coat, but she raised a hand. “And, please, don’t tell me that you’re investigating her murder.”

  “Okay, I won’t tell you that,” I agreed. “And do I detect disapproval, on your part, of my meeting with Gabriel, too?”

  Piper stepped into her snow boots, which she’d left by the door. “I’ve told you. I’m just not sure I trust him.” She peered at me through her wire-rimmed glasses. “Are you dating him? Or was this ‘meeting’—at a romantic restaurant—somehow related to the investigation that I know you’re conducting?”

  I had been pondering those very questions on the way home, and I answered honestly. “I’m not sure if it was a date or part of his investigation of the murder, for the paper. We mainly talked about Lauren’s death, but he did ask me out again.” Of course, our next outing, to Victor Breard’s sanctuary, might also be considered investigative. I, at least, hoped to learn more about why Victor was highlighted on Lauren’s corkboard. “I think it’s all kind of tangled up right now,” I told Piper.

  “I get the sense that things with Gabriel Graham tend to get ‘tangled up,’” Piper warned me. “If I were you, I would be careful.”

  My sister left without another word, stomping out into the dark night in her big boots, and I turned to Socrates, who always gave me wise counsel. “What do you think about Gabriel?”

  Socrates furrowed his brow, which might’ve indicated disapproval, or uncertainty on his part, too.

  “Well, I do know one thing for sure,” I told him. “I am still starving. Let’s get a snack.”

  Socrates obviously agreed that I’d suggested a wise course of short-term action, and he followed me to the kitchen, where I stepped over Bernie. Opening the icebox, I located some leftover Mutt Loaf and popped the lid off the container. At the smell of the doggy meatloaf, made with ground beef, carrots, and eggs, Bernie roused and shook himself, clearing the path for Socrates to enter the kitchen, too.

  “Enjoy, guys,” I said, patting Bernie as I set the dogs’ snacks on the floor. Then I shot Tinkleston an ag
gravated look, only to melt slightly at the sight of his puffball paws.

  “Oh, fine,” I grumbled, opening a glass apothecary jar and offering him two homemade Reel-y Good Tuna Tidbits. “Not that you deserve anything!”

  Tinks flattened his ears, like he didn’t appreciate being criticized, but he gobbled down the treats.

  I, meanwhile, was still hungry, so I whipped up one of my favorite late-night snacks: toast with avocado and fried eggs. As the crusty bread warmed in the toaster and the eggs sizzled in the skillet, filling the kitchen with a homey aroma, I located a notebook and pen.

  A few minutes later, I sat down at the spindle-legged table, a plate and my writing materials in hand. And while I savored the fresh eggs from Piper’s own chickens, the creamy avocado, and crispy toast, I paused now and then to write in the notebook, trying to reconstruct everything I’d seen on Lauren’s corkboard. Although I was a terrible artist, I even attempted to re-create the photos. And when I was done, I studied the page.

  Arlo Finch. And the cryptic note, “USPT 2016.”

  Victor Breard’s image torn from a magazine and circled, like a target. “Zookeeper Sen . . .”

  Elyse, with Paris and Milan, next to an expletive.

  Me, with Butterbean.

  Tessie Flinchbaugh, waving.

  Spa and Paw.

  Piper. “Uncooperative! Stubborn!”

  All under the scornful heading LUNATICS!

  I sat up straighter, suddenly wondering why Lauren hadn’t posted any pictures of Gabriel.

  Then I recalled that he wasn’t integral to America’s Most Pet Friendly Towns.

  Still, it struck me as strange that Lauren hadn’t tacked his photo up somewhere, maybe inside another bull’s-eye. The board definitely reflected her grievances, some of which I thought were as much personal as professional.

  “What—or who—else isn’t there?” I whispered, eating the last bite of my toast. I studied my sketches again. “I feel like something big is missing, either from my memory—or Lauren’s corkboard.”

  Socrates couldn’t offer me any guidance, because he was sound asleep by the fireplace, a few feet from Bernie. And Tinkleston had no intention of being helpful. He was licking his paws again, with a snooty attitude.

  Rising, I collected all of our empty plates and set them in the sink. Then I settled onto the love seat, pulled a soft throw over my legs, and sat quietly, still puzzling over the corkboard. Outside, the wind rose, causing the branches of the plum tree to scratch against the window. I used to find that sound unnerving, but the more I grew used to it, the more I found it soothing. And before long, I gradually felt my eyes drifting shut and my mind wandering, like a Saint Bernard lost in a dark forest.

  “Bernie . . .”

  I was pretty sure I uttered his name out loud, just as I drifted off to sleep.

  And I said it again when I sat bolt upright in the morning, awakened by pale sunlight that filtered through the windows.

  “Bernie. That’s who’s missing from the corkboard!”

  The big dog snuffled in his sleep at the sound of his name, while Socrates, who was wide awake and listening from his spot by the hearth, cocked his head, indicating that he didn’t understand my outburst.

  “Lauren used the corkboard to organize the taping of the show,” I told him. “If she’d known that Bernie was going to be at Winterfest and planned to get footage of him—like Piper suspects—wouldn’t Lauren have placed his picture on the board? With a date? Like she did with Fetch!, Spa and Paw, and practically everything else the crew filmed? But Bernie—and Max Pottinger—were missing.”

  Socrates didn’t share my excitement over those revelations. And he definitely wouldn’t take part in the adventure that I hoped to plan for that very afternoon.

  Locating my cell phone, which had fallen between the cushions of my love seat, I dialed Moxie’s number.

  “Hey,” I said, the moment the connection was made. “How would you like to go skiing today?”

  Chapter 27

  I hadn’t hit the cross-country trails in years, and my barn jacket wasn’t exactly the latest in high-tech ski wear. But my Rossignol skis, matching boots, and insulated gloves, all borrowed from Piper, made me look like an Olympian compared to Moxie, who’d arrived at Bear Tooth forest wearing a white wool coat and plaid pants and dragging along ancient wooden skis.

  “Are you sure you shouldn’t rent new skis?” I suggested, watching her struggle to secure her boots into twisted, looped spring bindings that looked like she’d plucked them from the seats of my van. My skis weren’t brand new, but at least I was able to clip my toes securely in place. Looping Bernie’s leash around my wrist, I carefully slid myself a little closer to Moxie, grabbing on to a rustic, wooden trail sign for support when my feet nearly flew out from beneath me. Apparently, skiing wasn’t like riding a bike. Resisting the urge to lean on Bernie, who watched me with worried eyes, I clutched a crude arrow that pointed the way to a trail with the ominous name Black Ice. “Maybe this is one time you should sacrifice form for function,” I added, bending down carefully to unclip Bernie’s lead from his collar. Happily, he didn’t dart into the forest, like part of me had feared. “They rent skis at the park ranger’s lodge. . . .”

  I didn’t finish that thought, because Moxie, still crouched down at the edge of the trails, was staring up at me, clearly aghast at my suggestion that function ever trump form. And, I had to admit, she looked pretty cute. Like she’d stepped out of an old poster for a long-forgotten resort in the Adirondacks, where the walls would be paneled in knotty pine, a big set of antlers would hang over the roaring fireplace, and happy skiers would gather for hot cocoa in the evenings.

  Jeez, I kind of wanted to use my coffee machine to step back in time and spend a weekend at that imaginary place, myself. Especially when the wind off the lake blew icy snow into my face. I peered down the trail, into the forest, which was gloomy that day, the gray light dimmed further by thick stands of pine trees that creaked and moaned every time the cold air shook them. Then I looked over at Winterfest, where the little huts glowed cheerfully and the bonfire blazed.

  “Maybe we should just forget about skiing and go to the festival,” I suggested to Moxie and Bernie. Needless to say, Socrates had never even considered cross-country skiing with us. His legs were far too short for logging miles on trails, and he disapproved of excessive exertion in general. “I haven’t had a chance to try the Snow-Capped Funnel Cakes yet,” I noted. “I’d hate to miss out on fried dough smothered in vanilla pudding and powdered sugar.”

  I had just convinced myself that skiing, no matter how well-intentioned, was a bad idea when I heard Moxie’s cheerful voice calling to me. “Daphne! Are you coming?”

  I turned to see that she was smiling and waving a mittened hand from about fifteen yards down Blue Moon trail, according to the sign that was still anchoring me in place. Bernie was at her side, with something like a goofy grin on his face.

  It struck me then that we should’ve stopped at the ranger’s lodge to at least get a map. But it was too late. Moxie was gliding off with surprising grace, given that her boots were held in place by sprung springs and her warped wooden poles looked like an extra pair of bowed legs on either side of her. Bernie ran next to her.

  “I’m coming,” I called to them both, reluctantly letting go of the sign.

  Unfortunately, the path wasn’t as level as it appeared. There was a deceptively steady downward grade that began right at the trailhead, and before I knew what was happening, I was moving at quite a brisk clip, right toward Moxie, Bernie, and disaster.

  Chapter 28

  “You’re doing much better,” Moxie assured me, as we all crested the top of a rise on a trail called Big Drop. I probably should’ve considered that name before choosing to follow the path, which consisted of a series of switchbacks up a long, steep hill, leading, not surprisingly, to the “big drop” ahead of us. Although I couldn’t recall Moxie ever skiing before that day, sh
e was barely out of breath and smiled at me like an instructor whose student has shown modest improvement. “You’ve only fallen five times since you hit the tree!”

  I rubbed my head, which had conked into the trunk of a white birch when I’d swerved to avoid plowing down Moxie and Bernie, right near the trailhead. “Fifty thousand soft pine trees”—I was winded, and took a moment to breathe before concluding—“and I hit the birch.” Glancing at Bernie, who was still full of energy, I sucked air again. “This sport . . . is tougher . . . than I remember.”

  “You’ve done this before?” Moxie asked incredulously. “Really?”

  “Yes, I used to come here . . . all the time with Piper when we were kids . . .” I bent over for a moment, catching my breath, then righted myself, shooting Moxie a quizzical look. “You’ve skied here before, too, right?”

  “No, this is my first time on skis, ever,” Moxie informed me. She planted her poles in the snow, triumphantly surveying the forest, while I warily studied the slope in front of us. Then Moxie grinned at me, her cheeks flushed with cold and happiness. “I didn’t know it would be so much fun.”

  “Yeah, it’s a blast,” I agreed glumly, rubbing my head again. I had snow down my pants, too. I was starting to recall that I’d never been very good on skis, even as a kid, and I glanced over my shoulder. “Maybe we should turn back. This doesn’t seem very productive. I’d really hoped Bernie would lead us to his barrel, or we’d see it lying in the snow somewhere,” I added. “But I guess that was unrealistic—especially since I can’t focus on anything but staying upright.” I looked around and saw nothing but trees. “I also haven’t seen Max Pottinger’s house, which I thought Bernie might sniff out. The place must really be hidden.”