Pawprints & Predicaments Page 12

  “Oh, gosh . . .” Moxie slid sideways so we could talk more easily. She seemed oblivious to the fact that we teetered on the edge of a steep hill. Well, I was teetering. “I completely forgot that we’re looking for Max’s cabin, and any clues that might help you get poor Bernie home,” she said. “I’m so sorry!”

  “Don’t feel badly,” I assured her. “You’ve been really nice to endure my screams of terror all afternoon.”

  “They have been piercing,” Moxie admitted matter-of-factly. “But I thought you were just exhilarated by the speed we picked up, especially on Yo-Yo. There were some pretty big dips there!”

  “Yes, I was exhilarated,” I assured her, bending down, very carefully, to pat Bernie’s head. The big dog seemed to sense that I was worried about the precipitous incline and had placed himself between me and the drop ahead of us. “Or something like that.”

  Moxie planted her poles again, this time so she could push back her coat sleeve and check her Minnie Mouse watch. Then she made a sad face. “I wish I could keep hunting, but I have to get back to town. If Sebastian doesn’t get his midday snack, he’ll chew the furniture. He’s already left teeth marks in my Eames chair.”

  “He’s not here?” I asked, straightening. I’d been wondering the whole time if Moxie’s rat was tucked into one of her pockets. “Sebastian’s at your apartment?”

  Moxie blinked at me with surprise. “Of course, I left him at home. I thought anyone new to skiing was bound to fall. I didn’t want to risk squishing him. You should’ve told me he would’ve been perfectly safe. He loves speed, almost as much as he loves jalapeños!”

  I didn’t even know what to say to all that. I just carefully sidestepped in my skis, trying to turn myself around so we could all head back to Winterfest, where I intended to console myself with a funnel cake.

  But as I spun slowly and awkwardly around, something in the distance, at the bottom of the long hill, caught my eye.

  Bernie noticed it, too, and he stiffened at my side, his tail straight out, like a banner.

  I stopped scooching around and looked more closely.

  Then I sighed and told Moxie, “You go ahead and feed Sebastian. I have to ski down this killer hill with Bernie.”

  “Why?” Moxie asked, sounding genuinely jealous. “Are you finally starting to like skiing again?”

  “No,” I told her, pushing off before I could chicken out. Bernie was already racing ahead of me, his tail wagging. Then I called back over my shoulder. “I think I finally found one of the things I’ve been looking for!”

  If Moxie replied, I couldn’t hear her over the sounds of my screams.

  Chapter 29

  If I hadn’t seen a thin trail of smoke rising from a thicket at the bottom of the hill, the gray wisps blending into the gray day—and noticed Bernie’s attentive behavior—I wouldn’t have ever spied Max Pottinger’s cabin, which was camouflaged by brush and brambles. In fact, as we approached the house, after I’d slid down most of the slope on my rear end and done one complete somersault that I couldn’t even explain, I wasn’t sure if the place was deliberately concealed, or just being swallowed by nature.

  Knowing what I did about the Pottinger clan, either scenario seemed possible. The Pottingers had squatted on the property for generations, since long before Bear Tooth forest was declared a state park, and they’d battled to stay put when authorities had taken control of the land. Everyone in Sylvan Creek knew that the Pottingers lived like mountain men and despised the government—although Max had been willing to put aside some of his enmity and accept a taxpayer-funded job as a custodian at my high school, a few years back.

  “I hope he remembers me,” I told Bernie, shuffling off the trail and toward the cabin. “This place doesn’t look very welcoming.”

  In fact, the closer we got, the creepier Max’s shack looked. It was almost impossible to tell where the forest left off and the house began. The structure seemed to being growing out of—or receding into—the ground. Years’, or perhaps decades’, worth of fallen, rotten leaves weighed down the sagging roof, and the trees had closed in around the walls, which were smothered by a twisting, impenetrable snarl of choking vines and spiky thistle. The foliage was all bare, mid-winter, so I could see a man-made door and window, but in midsummer, I could imagine that a hiker could pass right by and never realize he or she had been close to a human’s dwelling.

  That thought was pretty scary, and I stopped in my tracks, really regretting that I hadn’t told Moxie where, exactly, Bernie and I were going before I’d plummeted down the hill.

  “We’re going to head back,” I said aloud, alerting Bernie to my change in plans, and to assure anyone who might be listening that we planned to peacefully retreat. But Bernie ignored me, looking back once over his shoulder before resuming trotting toward the shack, while I slid my skis backward. The move wasn’t very effective, but better, in my opinion, than turning my back on the forbidding little house. “Bernie, come,” I called the dog, adding, “people are waiting for us at the top of Big Drop, so we’d better get going!”

  I didn’t like to lie. As the great philosopher and statesman Francis Bacon once said, lies “doth so cover a man in shame.”

  But better to be covered in shame than rotten leaves and a few shovelfuls of dirt in a shallow grave, right?

  “Gotta get back to our friends!” I said more loudly, because Bernie was ignoring my summons. I also had the spooky feeling that someone was watching us from behind the dark windowpane that peeked out from the vines. “Can’t keep people waiting!”

  “Umm . . . Your friend took off a while ago.”

  The voice came from right beside the door of the house, and I realized that I’d been wrong about being watched from a window.

  No, Max Pottinger had been observing us the whole time from a makeshift seat on the rotting boards that served as his porch.

  In fact, he was just a few feet away from me, and even closer to Bernie, who was hurtling toward him at full speed.

  Chapter 30

  “I’m so sorry Bernie knocked you off your overturned bucket chair,” I told Mr. Pottinger, who was puttering around his home, which was surprisingly clean and cozy inside. Bernie had crossed the threshold and was lying near a wood stove, but I stood in the open doorway, waiting while the wiry old man brewed some tea from fresh mint. I thought I had a decent indoor herb garden, but Mr. Pottinger’s shack was filled with potted plants, which only enhanced the illusion that the structure was being consumed by nature. But the ramshackle house was very warm, thanks to the stove. My cheeks were actually getting hot, even though I continued to wait on the porch. Fortunately, Mr. Pottinger, who did recall me from high school, as a “girl who spilled a lot,” seemed to understand that I might be reluctant to enter his isolated, crumbling home and hadn’t urged me to come inside. In fact, I got the sense that he preferred I stay just beyond the door, although he hadn’t objected when Bernie had trotted right over to the fire. “Bernie sure seems to like you, and your place,” I added. “Maybe a little too much!”

  I was joking, but I did think Bernie seemed strangely at home in the shack. Like maybe he’d been there before.

  But Max was acting like he’d never seen the dog. He smiled at me, and although he had hair the color of a crafty fox’s fur and that creature’s pointed nose, I saw that his eyes were kind. “Your pup is just friendly,” he said. “And he didn’t hurt me. I’m old, but pretty tough.”

  “He’s not really my dog,” I told him, trying to study Mr. Pottinger more closely. But he’d turned his back to me while he poured the tea. “I’m just watching him.”

  Mr. Pottinger didn’t reply, so I added, “You do know that he’s the Saint Bernard who pulled Lauren Savidge from the lake, right? The one whose picture was in the Weekly Gazette?”

  I still couldn’t see his face, but Mr. Pottinger’s bent back stiffened, and his wrist twitched, so he spilled some of the hot water. Then his spine curved again, and he finished filling t
wo mugs that sat on a cluttered counter. “No, I didn’t know that,” he said. “Don’t read that newspaper everybody’s talking about lately.” Then he turned around, smiling again, but in a way that seemed forced. “Not much use for news out here!”

  “No, I guess not,” I agreed, again looking around his home, which was filled with stuff that indicated he was pretty self-sufficient. Large sprays of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, and every wall was lined with wooden shelving that bowed under the weight of not only his extensive botanical collection, but Mason jars filled with home-canned goods. I spied summery yellow peaches, ripe red tomatoes, and gorgeous purple beets. Although the crowded shelves made the space seem cramped, I realized that there wasn’t really much furniture to speak of, with the exception of a crude table that was nearly buried under scattered papers and pens. Clearly, Mr. Pottinger was in the midst of some sort of writing project. All in all, with the right lighting and styling, Elyse Hunter-Black probably could’ve featured the place in a show that would appeal to folks who dreamed of going off the grid and writing the great American novel in rustic solitude. So long as she didn’t use any exterior shots. I turned back to Max, who was shuffling in my direction, mug in hand. “You do know about Lauren Savidge, though, right?”

  Mr. Pottinger grew somber as he handed me the tea. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, taking my elbow and quickly guiding me away from the door. He glanced over his shoulder, almost nervously. “That was a terrible tragedy. Poor girl drowning like that.” He shook his head. “City folks underestimate nature sometimes.”

  Apparently, Mr. Pottinger didn’t know that Lauren had been murdered. And I didn’t set him straight, for some reason.

  Maybe, although I got a good vibe from him, I just didn’t like the idea of bringing up the topic of homicide in such a remote place. And, even for a hermit, he was acting kind of cagey about letting me see his home. That seemed odd to me.

  Still, as he guided us both outside, I asked him, “Did you know Lauren?”

  I wasn’t sure how I expected Mr. Pottinger to answer. He hadn’t been featured on Lauren’s corkboard, but I couldn’t imagine how she could’ve produced a show about Sylvan Creek and pets without featuring the Lake Wallapawakee Saint Bernard.

  “Did Lauren ever interview you for America’s Most Pet Friendly Towns?” I added, because Mr. Pottinger hadn’t answered me.

  “No, no,” he said, waving off the question. “I told her I’m not much for television. Don’t even own one!” All at once, I saw something like a glimmer of anger in his eyes. “Don’t trust the people who make the shows to get things right!” He looked out at the woods, and I got the sense that he almost forgot that I was there for a second. His voice grew softer, and he shook his head, mumbling, “Tried to tell that to the other kids, but they wouldn’t take no . . .”

  He must’ve said more than he’d planned, because he abruptly stopped talking, his jaw hanging open, and I could tell that he regretted his words, although they made no sense to me. I had no idea who the “kids” were or what they’d tried to force him to do.

  Were they, perhaps, children who’d come to Winterfest and heard the story of the Saint Bernard, then urged him to share the tale on TV?

  That didn’t really make sense, but I didn’t think Mr. Pottinger was going to elaborate, so I changed the subject, if only slightly. “Well, are you sure you don’t know anything about Bernie, or where he came from?” I asked again. “Because he ran out of the woods the night Lauren was murdered. Didn’t anybody on one of your walks mention seeing him?”

  For a split second, I didn’t understand why Mr. Pottinger stiffened again, visibly, like I’d struck him. Then I realized that I’d accidentally used the very word I’d planned to avoid uttering.

  “Murder?” he asked, his eyes growing wide. Then he staggered back a step, reaching blindly behind himself for one of two overturned buckets that served as seats on the sagging porch. As he sank down onto his makeshift chair—the Pottingers had probably been repurposing before repurposing was a word—I noted that his legs seemed unsteady. “Are . . . are you saying that young lady was murdered?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed, since there was no backtracking from what I’d just blurted. He didn’t invite me to sit, too, but I carefully crouched down on the matching, wobbly perch, so we were eye to eye. “Someone killed Lauren. It wasn’t an accident.”

  Mr. Pottinger grew very quiet while he digested that news. He gazed out into the forest again for a long time before turning back to me. “I’m so sorry about Ms. Savidge,” he said softly and with more composure. “But I didn’t really know her. And I can’t tell you anything about the dog you have.”

  As if on cue, the Saint Bernard in question ambled out of the shack, a massive bone clamped in his big jaws.

  I really hoped that Mr. Pottinger hadn’t planned to make some sort of stock or soup.

  Fortunately, he didn’t seem to mind that Bernie had helped himself to the pantry. Maybe because, while more outwardly calm, he was clearly still shaken by my inadvertent news—and guarding some secret of his own.

  “Are you sure you know nothing about Bernie?” I asked one more time, in a quiet voice. I glanced at the big dog, who was happily gnawing on the already half-chewed bone, then met Mr. Pottinger’s eyes again. “Because I thought maybe Bernie was part of Winterfest. Maybe let loose so kids would spy the ‘ghost dog’ when you led walks through the woods. It could’ve been a fun touch, you know? And completely innocent . . .”

  I was trying to assure Mr. Pottinger that, if he had tried to “embellish” his moonlit hikes, perhaps without the approval of the Tail Waggin’ Winterfest organizers, it probably wouldn’t be a big deal. In fact, I thought Mayor Holtzapple and the rest of the committee would likely applaud the harmless charade.

  But Mr. Pottinger was shaking his head. “No, it wasn’t like that,” he muttered, abruptly rising, although we’d just sat down. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get inside. I . . . I’ve got some work to do.”

  I seriously doubted he had a pressing deadline to meet, but I stood up, too, and handed him my mug. “Thanks for the tea, which was delicious,” I said honestly. The simple brew of mint and honey had been the perfect antidote to the cold, damp day. “What kind of mint do you grow?”

  “That’s apple mint, also known as woolly mint,” he informed me. He was still impatient for me to leave, but clearly couldn’t resist talking about his herb collection. “Grow seven kinds of mint,” he said. “Woolly mint’s best for tea, in my opinion.”

  I looked past him into the shack, with all the canned goods, plants, and papers and pens.

  “Well, you seem to have a green thumb and a knack for ‘putting up’ the stuff you grow,” I said, smiling, like I hadn’t noticed that he was still agitated.

  Mr. Pottinger shrugged. “Plants are like friends, out here. I take care of them, they take care of me.”

  “Are you writing a book or something?” I added, nodding toward the table. “Maybe on recipes using homegrown ingredients? Because I would be interested in reading that.”

  “As a matter of fact, I am writing something,” he informed me, jutting his chin, like he thought I might find the prospect of a former-custodian-turned-author absurd, which was not the case at all. As the great British thinker Edward Gibbon once noted, “Solitude is the school of genius.” If that was true, as I suspected, Max Pottinger probably had an IQ equivalent to Einstein’s. “But it’s not a book about plants, much as I love ’em.”

  “No? Then what . . . ?”

  “It’s a history of the legend,” Mr. Pottinger said, puffing out his chest, too. “I’m recording all of the sightings, throughout the years. Telling the story the right way. Because so much knowledge will be lost when I’m gone . . .” He’d been almost defiant, but his shoulders slowly caved in and his voice trailed off. “So much, just gone . . .”

  Although I’d grown a bit nervous when Mr. Pottinger had become upset, my heart suddenly ached
for him. In the blink of an eye, he seemed less like a self-sufficient pioneer and more like a lonely old man who lived in woods that were swallowing him and his house. A soul whose only hope for a legacy was an old tale that, let’s face it, would probably be buried with him.

  “I’m sorry we bothered you,” I said quietly, while I summoned Bernie by tapping my hand against my thigh. This time, he obeyed, although he hesitated before dropping the bone. Then he rose and followed me off the porch. Finding my skis, which I’d left in the snow, I snapped my boots into the toe clips. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “It’s okay, Daphne.” Mr. Pottinger pulled himself straighter again. “I wish I could’ve helped you more.” He frowned at Bernie with what I thought was genuine sadness. “And I hope that dog finds his home. ’Cause everybody needs a home.”

  That was a wistful, borderline melodramatic comment, and yet, there was a bitter tinge to Mr. Pottinger’s voice, too. I wasn’t sure why, since he lived on land that had been passed down through generations. If anybody had roots, it was Max Pottinger. And some of those roots were literal, growing down through whatever corrugated material was serving as a roof over the makeshift porch.

  “Take care, Mr. Pottinger,” I told him, starting to shuffle-ski back toward the trail. Bernie followed me, looking back once, like he regretted leaving the bone. Or the shack. Or Mr. Pottinger? “And if you think of anything that might help me find Bernie’s home, please let me know,” I added. “I don’t think I can keep him too much longer. He’s too big for my cottage and upsetting my already belligerent cat.”

  Mr. Pottinger didn’t say anything for a moment, and I thought he’d gone inside. Then I heard him call to me. “There is one thing,” he said. “Although, it won’t help you find Bernie’s owner. I just think it’s curious. . . .”

  I turned back to see him watching me and Bernie from the porch, one hand resting on the ivy-covered walls of his house, like he needed to prop himself up.