Pawprints & Predicaments Read online

  I cocked my head. “What’s that, Mr. Pottinger?”

  “In . . . in older versions of the legend,” he said, just loud enough for me to hear, “the Saint Bernard always appeared right before someone died.”

  Then Max Pottinger vanished soundlessly into his strange home, leaving me to ponder his equally strange words—which had almost sounded like a warning—while I skied awkwardly back into the forest, with no clear recollection of how to find my way home on the twisted, endlessly looping maze of trails.

  Chapter 31

  It took Bernie and me about two hours to make our way back to Winterfest, which I located by a combination of dumb luck and by following the smell of hot dogs, because, although the festival was more upscale that year, the VFW still had its annual stand.

  “You really aren’t . . . the Lake Wallapawakee . . . Saint Bernard,” I wheezed to Bernie, who pranced ahead of me, still full of energy, while I clumsily waddled up the rise I’d first tumbled down. “You were . . . supposed to . . . lead us . . . home!”

  Bernie woofed, the deep, happy sound of a dog who’s been in his element.

  I was pretty sure he could’ve guided us directly from Max Pottinger’s house to civilization, but had led me in circles so he could keep enjoying the snow.

  “We’ll see . . . if you get... a hot dog,” I warned him, cresting the hill, where I grabbed on to the wooden trail sign. “I don’t . . . think . . . you deserve . . . a treat!”

  Bernie woofed again in protest, his deep bark echoing loudly at the quiet edge of the forest.

  We both knew that I’d cave in and buy him something, but I refused to make any promises.

  Sinking down, I began to remove my skis, unlacing the boots without even unclipping them from the bindings, which were covered with ice. At one point, Bernie had led me off the trail, and we’d bushwhacked through a small stream.

  Only when I was free of the skis did I realize that I’d left my other boots—the cowgirl type—stashed under a crude wooden bench, which, according to a sign, some Boy Scouts had crafted as part of a trail beautification project.

  “Great,” I grumbled, because the bench was about fifteen feet away and I was in socks. Then I looked hopefully at Bernie and said, “Boots, Bernie! Get the boots!”

  The big dog looked directly at my footwear—and sat down.

  “Thanks a lot,” I grumbled. Then I glanced around, checking to make sure that no one was watching before I started crawling toward the bench, since Piper’s ski pants were waterproof and insulated against the snow, unlike my wool socks.

  I’d been sure that I was alone, not counting Bernie, who was rolling happily in the snow. But before I’d gone three feet, another skier soared up the hill and skidded to a stop next to me like an Olympian after a record-setting run. “Are you all right, Daphne?” she asked me. “Should I call for help?”

  Still on all fours, I twisted to look up at Elyse Hunter-Black, who wore a sleek pair of black ski pants; a red down vest that probably cost more than my van, based upon the discreetly displayed label; and a matching headband that held every strand of her glossy blond hair in place.

  “There’s no need to call for help,” I assured her. Then, because it was obvious that I was struggling, I admitted, “But I wouldn’t exactly say that I’m ‘all right.’”

  Elyse stared down at me for a long time. I was pretty sure she wanted to leave me to finish crawling toward my boots. But her whole life was based upon acting with grace and style, and after a moment, she forced a smile. “Would you and your dog like to come to my house and warm up for a minute?” she offered, with a glance at Bernie, who was covered in snow. I saw a momentary flash of dismay in her eyes, but she added, “I could put your things in the dryer, so you don’t have to drive all the way to Winding Hill in wet socks.”

  I bent my spine to look back at my feet, which were crusted with snow, although the whole reason I’d been crawling was to keep that from happening.

  Then I slowly stood up with as much dignity as possible. And, ignoring the fact that Elyse’s invitation had been a polite gesture, meant to be refused, I grinned and said, “Sure, that would be great, thanks!”

  Chapter 32

  The moment Bernie and I stepped into Elyse Hunter-Black’s hilltop mansion overlooking Lake Wallapawakee, I understood why every electrician, plumber, handyman, and contractor in the Sylvan Creek area was booked solid with work, so my little bakery project remained incomplete.

  “This is amazing,” I had to admit, following Elyse into a foyer that had been dim and cramped just a few months earlier, when the property had been owned by an elderly spinster named Lillian Flynt. Lillian—Tinkleston’s former person—had let her family’s estate slide into disrepair, but Elyse was rebuilding the whole place, starting, apparently, with the foyer, which no longer had walls. The entryway was open to a massive parlor, which was filled with sawhorses, paint cans, tarps, and toolboxes. I wondered how Lillian, whose murder I’d solved, would feel to see her home changed so dramatically. To be honest, I wasn’t sure how I felt about Elyse’s decision to tear apart the historic building. But, having seen her magazine cover–worthy renovations to Jonathan’s A-frame home in the woods, I knew that the results would be impressive. Absently patting Bernie, who was still damp, I looked at Elyse again. “You’re really gutting the place.”

  “You have no idea,” she said, leading the way through the cluttered parlor, toward a tarp that hung over a doorway. It was dusk by then, and the room was dim, so it took me a few seconds to realize that her two greyhounds, Paris and Milan, had emerged from the shadows on silent paws and flanked Elyse, as they always did. The dogs were gorgeous and perfectly behaved, but they kind of spooked me, with their impassive eyes and absolute, almost preternatural silence. Elyse pulled aside the tarp and gestured for me and Bernie to step through. “When you start ripping apart these old places, you always find more than you bargained for lurking behind the walls.”

  I cringed, recalling how Lillian’s electrocution in her bathtub had revealed problems with the wiring.

  Then, as I ducked to step under the tarp, I let out a low whistle, to discover what waited behind the plastic sheet.

  “This is phenomenal!” I straightened, gawking at the kitchen, which Elyse had already finished remodeling. “Holy cow!”

  “Why, thank you.” I turned to see that, for once, Elyse looked genuinely pleased by something I’d said. “I’m pretty proud of this space.”

  “You should be.” I still had reservations about her decision to completely alter a local landmark, but there was no denying that Elyse had made the most of what had been an outdated room. The kitchen’s focal point, a bank of tall windows that offered stunning views of the water, remained the centerpiece of the space. But Elyse had replaced the old cupboards with an artfully eclectic, purposely mismatched combination of classic white cabinetry and freestanding pieces that looked antique, but were probably modern and fully functional. The gleaming, six-burner gas range was a home chef’s dream. And the marble countertops would’ve made Michelangelo drool. I loved my humble abode, but I had to admit that Jonathan’s ex-wife had designed a show-stopping space that honored the mansion’s style while bringing the house into the twenty-first century. As Bernie stretched out on an intricately patterned, antique Turkish rug, which I never would’ve thought to use in a kitchen, I turned to Elyse, who was putting a gleaming silver tea kettle onto one of the burners. “I know you must hear this all the time,” I told her, “but you are really talented.”

  She must’ve received the compliment quite often, because she didn’t bother thanking me again. She just smiled and gestured for me to sit down at a long white table that was positioned to overlook the lake. “Please. Let me take your wet socks. And any other damp things you have.”

  I took a seat on a chair painted in a pretty shade of pale green and removed my boots, while Elyse placed some muffins on a delicate china plate, which she delivered to the table. I couldn’t rec
all the last time I’d been somewhere so upscale, without a speck of dust or a single object out of place, and I felt funny handing over my soggy socks. Especially since Elyse didn’t seem to have worked up a sweat in her perfect outfit. But she was waiting with one hand out, so I gave her my laundry.

  “Thanks,” I said, sheepishly.

  Elyse allowed the socks to dangle from her thumb and forefinger, so I knew that she wasn’t pleased to handle them, but she did her best not to wrinkle her perfectly straight nose.

  “I’ll be right back,” she promised, turning on her heel. “Please, make yourself at home.”

  I doubted that was possible, since I’d never lived in a five-star hotel, but I was willing to give it a try, and I settled into my chair, watching the sun set over the lake.

  A few moments later, I heard Elyse’s footsteps—and only hers, although Paris and Milan had followed her—crossing the upstairs hallway, toward the master bedroom, where I’d first seen Tinkleston hiding in a slipper.

  I wondered, for a second, if Elyse was bothered to live alone in a huge house where someone had been murdered.

  I kind of doubted it.

  Unlike me, Elyse didn’t seem like the type of person who would entertain thoughts of ghosts, the occult, or bad juju, all of which I was very open to believing in.

  Then my stomach started to grumble, and I decided that making myself at home probably included helping myself to the muffins while I waited for the kettle to whistle.

  Deciding upon what appeared to be blueberry, I broke off a piece and popped it into my mouth, only to clap my hand over my lips.

  It was quite obvious that Elyse, or whoever had baked the muffins, had mistaken salt for sugar.

  I was looking around for a napkin, hoping to spit out the awful bite, when Elyse ducked under the tarp and caught me even more off guard by noting, “So, Daphne, why don’t we cut to the chase? Because I know you’re dying to ask me what I know about the murder, correct?”

  Chapter 33

  “So, what do you know about the murder?” I asked Elyse, who was pouring tea into a classic, classy white china cup. She’d changed out of her ski clothes into an outfit that was probably technically a sweat suit. However, unlike my sweats, Elyse’s black velour hoodie and pants weren’t baggy and worn, and a big gold zipper that ran down the front of the jacket was definitely a designer touch. Paris and Milan, who padded softly behind her as she moved about the kitchen, wore matching black velvet collars. I was also getting a taste of Elyse’s luxurious lifestyle. She’d loaned me a pair of thick, soft cashmere socks to wear while my old wool pair dried. I shifted in my seat so Elyse could set the steaming tea down in front of me. “Did you see anything the night Lauren was killed?”

  “You know that I told Jon everything I saw,” Elyse reminded me, opening a refrigerator that I hadn’t even noticed, because it was concealed by cabinetry. Pulling out a deep blue bottle, she closed the door and joined me at the table, sliding gracefully into an upholstered banquette that ran below the windows. “And Detective Doebler has questioned me several times since Jon took himself off the case.” She twisted a silver cap off the bottle. “But I suppose you won’t rest until I answer your questions, too.”

  “Probably not,” I confirmed, but absently.

  I was distracted by Elyse’s beverage. The bottle’s thick, heavy glass was the color of the sky at dusk, and the label was written in French: Eau de Vaucluse. I didn’t speak much French, but I recognized the name of a town in the fancy Côte d’Azur region, on the Mediterranean. I’d traveled through that area once and gotten stuck just outside Vaucluse overnight, when my train had mechanical problems. I hadn’t even been able to afford regular water there, let alone the stuff Elyse was drinking, and I’d spent a long, thirsty, stinky night on a sticky vinyl seat, next to another broke backpacker whose last hostel had lacked a working shower.

  “I’m sorry, Daphne,” Elyse said, breaking my reverie. I finally looked up to see her observing me with concern, and for a second, I thought she somehow knew about my sad experience in the South of France. Then I realized I’d been staring at the bottle for too long. “Did you want water instead of tea?” she inquired politely. “I just assumed that you’d want something warm, while I’m sort of addicted to Eau de Vaucluse. Enough that the little specialty market in town, Epicure, orders it for me by the case. Even though I’m the only person who buys it.”

  “Yes, I saw you drinking that at the plunge,” I noted, finally sipping my tea. It was so weak that I couldn’t tell if I was drinking chamomile, lavender, or Earl Grey. No wonder Elyse preferred European water. And how could someone known for living stylishly mess up tea and muffins? Trying hard not to make a face, I swallowed quickly. “I’m pretty sure you were the only person who brought a cold drink.”

  Elyse smiled, almost guiltily. “I really only planned to dip my toe in the water, then step right out. I was mainly there to be part of my new community, you know? Show myself as a Sylvan Creek ‘team player.’” All at once, she stopped smiling. “Then, of course, everything went wrong.”

  “Yeah, very wrong,” I agreed quietly, studying her face. I’d never had a chance to sit down with Elyse before, and she was even prettier than I’d realized. Her fair skin was flawless, her cheekbones high and angular, and her blue-gray eyes as big as a Disney princess’s. Well, almost that big. I had a feeling those wide eyes probably caused some of her competitors in the television industry to underestimate her intelligence and determination, which could be advantageous to Elyse. “I know you’ve already been debriefed,” I said, continuing to watch her eyes. “But I’m still curious . . . Did you see anything out of the ordinary the night of Lauren’s murder?” Then I pressed my luck by adding, “And—not to be too nosy—but what were you and Lauren arguing about before the plunge?”

  To my surprise, Elyse didn’t tell me to mind my own business. She grew thoughtful, like she was taking my inquiries seriously.

  “As hard as I try to recall, I honestly can’t remember seeing anything strange,” she finally said, resting back and curling one foot under herself. Outside, snow began to fall past the windows, and across the lake, I could see the lights of Winterfest glowing in the heart of Bear Tooth forest. Elyse looked out the windows, too, and frowned. “As for the argument . . .”

  I leaned forward, unable to contain my interest. “Yes?”

  Elyse met my gaze again. “We’d actually been clashing for weeks,” she admitted. “Nearly from the moment Lauren arrived in Sylvan Creek.”

  I pushed aside my tea and half-eaten muffin. “About what?”

  Elyse smiled faintly and wryly. “Everything. But mainly about the direction that Lauren was trying to take America’s Most Pet Friendly Towns.” She pulled the bottle of pricey water closer to herself, wrapping her delicate fingers around the glass. “I told her that Stylish Life Network was expecting a show about a pretty place, with pretty pets and pretty people. That’s our brand.”

  “I take it Lauren had other ideas?”

  “Oh, yes.” Elyse rolled her eyes. “She considered Sylvan Creek too obsessed with pets. She wanted to focus less on the quaint setting and more on the town’s colorful, quirky characters, highlighting their eccentricities and digging deeper into their stories, to expose them as . . .”

  Elyse struggled for a word, but I could easily supply one, because Lauren had already used it, when we’d last spoken. And I’d seen the word Lunatics! pinned to her corkboard.

  “Crazy,” I said. “Lauren wanted to portray people like Arlo Finch and Bea Baumgartner . . . maybe the whole town . . . as pet ‘crazy,’ as opposed to pet ‘friendly.’”

  Elyse nodded. “Exactly. But Stylish Life viewers don’t want to watch an investigative piece on Big Cats of the World, or an exposé that debunks holistic pet healing.”

  I felt a tickle of excitement in my stomach. Or maybe it was just the muffin, sitting wrong. Regardless, I asked, “Was Lauren really investigating Victor Breard’s zoo-shelter
. . . hybrid? And Arlo Finch’s practice? Was there reason to investigate either of those things?”

  Elyse seemed to realize that I was starting to think in terms of suspects, and she backed off her statements, just slightly. Raising one hand, she said, “I don’t know how much Lauren was really digging or what she might’ve found. Whenever she even mentioned ‘investigating’ anything, I repeated my mantra: Pretty places. Pretty people. Pretty pets.”

  All at once, I got kind of confused. “Did you hire Lauren to be field producer? Or was that somebody else’s decision?”

  Elyse’s mouth set in a firm white line. “Unfortunately, I was the one who hired her and brought her here. Which I suppose means that, even though I didn’t wield whatever weapon was used to kill her . . .”

  I couldn’t help jumping on that comment. “The police still don’t know?”

  Elyse shook her head. “No, they don’t.” Then she concluded, “Even if I didn’t directly harm Lauren, I suppose I do share some responsibility for her death.”

  That admission surprised me. I’d always assumed that Elyse was a little . . . cold. She had a reputation for getting whatever she wanted and letting nothing stand in her way. But she was clearly remorseful, for no good reason.

  “You are not responsible for Lauren’s death,” I assured her. “As Jean-Paul Sartre said, individuals are ‘condemned to be free’ and ultimately responsible only for themselves. Lauren chose to come here, and not to say that she deserved her fate . . .” I reared back a little. “I would never say that! But she did stir up trouble in Sylvan Creek. That wasn’t your fault.”

  Elyse blinked at me. “Jon wasn’t kidding when he said you have a philosophical quote for every occasion.”

  I couldn’t help wondering whether Jonathan had been complimenting me or complaining about the quotes. Then I turned the conversation back to Lauren, because I felt like I was on the verge of getting some potentially useful information.