Pawprints & Predicaments Page 2

  “Yes.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I read your article—in which you gave Jonathan Black most of the credit for solving the case.”

  I’d actually helped handsome, enigmatic Detective Jonathan Black solve two homicides during his brief time in Sylvan Creek, but nobody ever seemed to want to acknowledge my contributions. Least of all, Jonathan.

  “I’ll try to feature you prominently in my story on the plunge,” Gabriel promised. “I’ll be sure to seek you out when I’m taking pictures. And maybe someday I can do a feature on the pet sitter with the PhD in philosophy who is also opening a bakery for dogs and cats?”

  Everybody knew that I was a pet sitter. My van announced my profession and featured a pretty eye-catching painting of a misshapen dog that was often mistaken for a misshapen pony. That was Moxie’s handiwork. The fact that I’d rented a small storefront on Sylvan Creek’s main street and planned to—hopefully—soon open a bakery for pets was also common knowledge. But I wasn’t sure how Gabriel knew about my degree. And I didn’t know if I liked his mildly flirtatious, if mocking, tone, either.

  “No, please don’t feature me . . .” I started to protest, my ears getting warm under my cap.

  Piper was clearly amused. And Moxie was oblivious to my discomfort. On the contrary, she seemed increasingly excited about the prospect of seeing my “frozen, screaming” face on the front page, and she interrupted me, noting, “Wow, a photo and a feature story!” Her eyes were fairly glowing. “And maybe you’ll be filmed by Stylish Life Network, too, when you run into the water!”

  I looked down at my barn coat again, then caught Gabriel smirking at me. “I think we’ve all established that I’m not very ‘stylish’ tonight,” I reminded everyone, while Socrates snuffled again.

  Gabriel, meanwhile, surveyed the candlelit village, which had been updated with support from the network, for a show called America’s Most Pet Friendly Towns. Sylvan Creek had been chosen—some preferred the word targeted—for the program the previous year, and a crew had been filming—some said “terrorizing”—the community for nearly six weeks, with no sign of packing up and leaving.

  “Stylish Life did help to make this place look pretty nice,” Gabriel observed. “Not too shabby, for a festival in a forest.”

  “Actually, I was just complaining that everything looks too perfect,” I said, stepping back so two adorable Samoyed puppies could dart past me. I watched the pair tumble in the snow, thinking I’d never seen the dogs before. Was it possible that they’d been planted by the crew, to add even more “atmosphere”? “I sort of miss the shabby, rustic touches Winterfest used to have,” I added. “Like the old luminarias, made from plastic milk jugs, with candles that kept burning out.”

  Piper knitted her brows, as if she wasn’t quite up to speed. “You’re saying Stylish Life funded the improvements?” She suddenly seemed less impressed by the changes. Like pretty much everyone in town who dealt with animals, Piper had suffered some run-ins with the film crew. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh, yes, Stylish Life paid for a lot of the updates,” Moxie said. As the owner of Sylvan Creek’s unique salon for humans and pets, Spa and Paw, Moxie heard all of the local gossip. “Apparently, people who watch that network don’t want to see plastic jugs stuck in the snow. From what I hear, some of the older festival organizers were kind of insulted, to be told their event was ‘tacky.’”

  I could believe that feathers had been ruffled. I’d also had a few encounters with the Stylish Life team, and they weren’t exactly tactful. But for once I held my tongue, not trusting Gabriel to keep any tales I told off the record. Piper was wisely staying quiet, too, although I knew she could’ve gone on for hours about the crew.

  “Yes, I’ve heard that some of the Winterfest folks are unhappy,” Gabriel said. “And there’s also a rumor that someone at Stylish Life made up the legend about the Saint Bernard, just to make this already pet-centric town even more intriguing for animal-loving viewers.” He slipped his hands into the pockets of a rust-colored down vest, and his teeth flashed white when he smiled more broadly. He really was the epitome of “devilishly handsome.” “I have to admit, that wouldn’t be a bad idea. Everything I print about the ‘ghost dog’ sells papers.”

  Socrates whined softly and shook his large head, presumably at the folly of humans. He did not believe in Bigfeet, yetis, monsters that lurked in lakes, or especially spectral Saint Bernards.

  “There have definitely been more ‘sightings’ lately,” my equally skeptical sibling agreed, air-quoting “sightings.” “But that tale has been around forever.”

  “Oh, yes,” Moxie concurred. “The story, which I happen to believe, is older than Mr. Pottinger.” She frowned. “But I wouldn’t put it past Lauren Savidge to make stuff up. She’s horrible!”

  Moxie had finally invoked a name that the rest of us had probably subconsciously avoided speaking, just like one might not utter the name of a demon out loud, for fear of summoning the evil spirit.

  Small, loud, forceful, and sometimes conniving, in my opinion, field producer Lauren Savidge was the brash leader, and most despised member, of the small TV crew.

  Gabriel Graham certainly knew all about Lauren, but he cocked his head, all deceptive innocence. “How so?” he asked Moxie. “What did Lauren do to you?”

  Piper and I exchanged concerned glances, but Moxie took the bait. “Well, the other day, she barged into Spa and Paw and ordered her crew to start filming, without even asking if I minded. Then I swear, she nudged my arm while I was clipping my landlord’s poodle, Marzipan, so his tail lost its little puffball, and I nearly cried—”

  “Umm . . . Moxie . . .” There was warning in Piper’s voice. Obviously, she’d noticed that Gabriel’s eyes were lighting up at the prospect of yet another juicy story about Lauren’s heavy-handed attempt to create TV-worthy drama in our sleepy town. One of Gabriel’s hands had slipped out of his vest pocket, and he was reaching for something in the back pocket of his worn, faded jeans. Probably a notebook.

  Forgetting for a moment that I wasn’t eager to touch Moxie’s arm, lest I encounter a pink twitching nose, I also tried to silence my friend by reaching out to squeeze her wrist.

  But before I could interrupt, someone who’d obviously been eavesdropping barged into our conversation, uninvited, and confronted us all, saying, “If you’ve got complaints about me, please tell me to my face.”

  Although I hadn’t said a word about Lauren Savidge, I turned around to discover that she was pointing an accusing finger at me. Then she announced, in a tone that was almost threatening, “In the meantime, I would like to speak to you, Daphne.” And although she was flanked by her assistant, Joy Doolittle, and her cameraman, Kevin Drucker, she added, ominously, “In private.”

  Chapter 2

  “Why do you want to talk to me?” I asked Lauren, who continued to give me a dead level stare, her arms folded over her chest. She was shorter than me—which was saying something, since I was a petite five-two, even in my boots—but she looked intimidating in a military-inspired jacket and laced-up Doc Martens. Her pretty features were obscured by large, thick eyeglasses, and her mass of dark hair was piled into a tall, deliberately teased, and, I thought, purposely eccentric rat’s nest. Sebastian would’ve felt quite at home on Lauren’s head.

  “Did I do something?” I added uncertainly, with a glance down at Socrates, who rolled his eyes, clearly exasperated by the human drama. Then I looked to Joy and Kevin, too, like they might provide some answers to their boss’s strange behavior. But Joy—slight, fair, and nervous—clutched a clipboard to her chest and studied her clunky snow boots, while Kevin—squat and wearing a red knit cap pulled low over his brow—placidly chewed gum and swung a big video camera that dangled from his hand. I turned back to Lauren, who was still staring at me, as Gabriel finally pulled out that notebook I’d known he’d had stashed in his pocket. “Is something wrong?” I asked Lauren one more time.

  Before she could answer
, Piper wisely excused herself from the conversation. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to run,” she said, backing away toward a lantern-lit trail that led to the lakeshore. I noticed that a few people were starting to make their way toward the expanse of water, which glittered cold and black in the distance. “I want to let the plunge organizers know I’m available, if needed.”

  “I’ve gotta scoot, too,” Moxie added, backing up in a different direction, toward the parking area at the edge of the festival grounds. She raised her hands slightly, showing us all the muff. “Sebastian is getting restless. He keeps nibbling my pinkies.”

  Everyone, including those of us who knew that Sebastian was a rat, took a moment to give my best friend a funny look. It seemed like eventually everybody who spoke with Moxie got that opportunity.

  Then, as Piper and Moxie disappeared into the crowd of festivalgoers, Gabriel, ignoring Lauren’s bad mood, grinned and noted, “I don’t have anywhere to go. I’ve shot enough pictures of puppies romping in the snow, old Max Pottinger, and kids eating s’mores. I could stick around.”

  “I want to speak to Daphne in private,” Lauren reminded him, in an even, warning tone. Apparently, she was also unhappy with Gabriel, probably over one of the many stories he’d printed about the Stylish Life crew, because she added, bluntly, “I don’t want to see our entire conversation reprinted—and misquoted—in the Gazette.”

  “Ouch!” Gabriel winced at the insult. But he wasn’t really offended. His eyes glittered with amusement when he shifted to address me. “Much as I would like to see what’s about to unfold, and save you from Lauren’s wrath, if necessary, I suppose I should take a quick hike and try to get a shot of the ‘ghost dog’ before the plunge.” Then he cocked his head at Lauren and smiled, like he knew some secret. “Do you have any thoughts on that, Ms. Savidge? Might I actually spy this mystery pup tonight?”

  “Oh, goodness . . .” Joy Doolittle finally spoke up, her pale blue eyes wide and her voice thin and nervous. She clutched her clipboard more tightly to her chest, pressing it against a nylon jacket that was too thin for the cold night, and her hands, not protected by gloves, were white at the knuckles. “That seems unlikely, doesn’t it?” Joy looked uncertainly to her colleague, Kevin, and tried to force a smile. “It’s just a silly legend, right . . . ?”

  I’d met Kevin Drucker a few times, but he never made much of an impression. His eyes, which were dark and impassive, were usually hidden by the big camera that he’d hoisted onto his shoulder, and his entire wardrobe seemed to consist of oversized sweatshirts that advertised his loyalty to the Pittsburgh Steelers. Kevin didn’t stand out in terms of personality, either. “I don’t know,” he told Joy with a shrug. “I just do my job.”

  “Can we be done with this ‘ghost dog’ idiocy?” Lauren complained. I thought the comment was mainly directed at Joy. Then she told Gabriel, “I have things to do and places to be, if you don’t mind . . .”

  “Aw, relax, Lauren,” Gabriel cajoled. But all at once, his smile faded away, and he lost his joking tone, addressing her more softly. “You take everything too seriously.”

  Lauren didn’t respond, except to jut her chin defiantly, and I suddenly wondered how well they knew each other. Gabriel’s last comment was kind of personal, and there was a familiar quality to their one-sided banter, too, like they’d engaged in similar sparring matches before and knew their roles. Last, but certainly not least, there was something odd—charged—about the way they were staring at each other.

  I kept looking between them until Gabriel broke the tense moment by smiling again and telling us, “I’m going to catch up with Max Pottinger’s walk—even if that makes me an ‘idiot.’” Then he pointed his camera at me, as if he was about to take a picture. “But I’ll be back in time to get a few shots of you at the plunge, Daphne.”

  I was about to again protest that I’d prefer not to be on the front page of the Gazette, but Lauren spoke up first, to express a similar concern.

  “Don’t you dare take a picture of me or Joy jumping into the lake,” she warned Gabriel. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Lauren’s eyes were narrowed, but Joy’s were huge. “No . . . Please . . . Don’t . . .” she begged Gabriel. But her gaze kept flicking to the still impassive Kevin, like she was also appealing to him for some reason. “I’d really rather not have any pictures taken. . . .”

  Gabriel didn’t make any promises. And Kevin ignored Joy, too. He fiddled with a doohickey on the camera, making an adjustment, like he wasn’t even aware of the conversation going on around him.

  For my part, I was keenly aware of, and very curious about, the irritable, aggressive TV producer’s plan to take part in a chilly, and let’s face it, silly ritual.

  “Are you really doing the plunge?” I asked Lauren, with an uncertain glance at Socrates, who’d been quietly observing the whole discussion. He huffed loudly, this time at the folly of leaping into lakes. I looked up at Lauren again, asking a question that might’ve been a little rude. “But . . . why?”

  Gabriel also seemed surprised by Lauren’s decision to take part in a frivolous charitable activity. For the first time since I’d met him, he spoke uncertainly. “You’re not really . . . ?”

  “Yes, I am.” Lauren jutted out her chin again. “Joy and I are both signed up. I like to push myself, physically.”

  I wondered if Lauren’s assistant also liked to “push herself,” or if she was under orders to participate. Joy was already pale and shivering, clinging to her clipboard in a futile attempt to ward off the icy breeze from the lake. It was hard to imagine that she was eager to get colder. And her expression struck me as more concerned than excited.

  Then I looked at Kevin, who continued to fidget with the camera and chew his gum in a slow, steady rhythm.

  Why wasn’t he participating . . . ?

  “Well, good luck, ladies,” Gabriel said, interrupting my thoughts. He frowned at Lauren, almost like he was worried about her. Then he nodded at me, Joy, and Kevin. “I’ll see you all later.”

  Apparently, Kevin had been tuned in to the conversation on some level. Although still distracted by his gear, he grunted what I assumed was a farewell, while the rest of us watched Gabriel walk away.

  In spite of claiming that he had enough pictures of kids and dogs, he stopped by the bonfire to take a photo of the Samoyed twins, who now both sported sweaters, presumably knit by Arlo Finch. Then he resumed heading toward the forest, his progress carefully observed by Lauren.

  “Um, you wanted to talk to me?” I reminded her, reluctantly drawing her attention back to me, although Socrates was nudging my leg with his strong shoulder. I was pretty sure he was suggesting that I also make a discreet exit.

  But it was too late.

  Lauren jolted out of her reverie and her expression, which had softened as she’d watched Gabriel, grew hard again.

  “Joy, Kevin . . . You head down to the lake,” she said without taking her eyes off me. “I need to talk to Daphne about how she’s holding up production of an entire television show.”

  Chapter 3

  “What in the world did I do?” I asked, trying to pull my cap down lower, because, like Joy, I was getting pretty cold. Unfortunately, my mittens made that task awkward, and I ended up just batting at my head before giving up. “Is this about Whiskered Away?” I guessed. “Or Butterbean? Because I had to slam those doors in your face!”

  I’d had two recent encounters with Lauren, and both had ended badly. First, she’d insisted on filming at Sylvan Creek’s cat shelter, Whiskered Away Home, where I served on the board of directors. I’d tried to shoo her away, because the old barn that housed the cats was under repair and not quite ready for its close-up. Plus, the shelter’s former director, an unstable cat hoarder named Bea Baumgartner, had been there, acting especially ornery and off-kilter that day. I hadn’t wanted Bea to embarrass herself in front of a camera. A few days later, Lauren had tried to bully me into giving her access to one of my clients, a
slightly bilious and sometimes stinky potbelly pig named Butterbean. I really didn’t think poor Butterbean—or his people—would appreciate having his unfortunate condition highlighted on national TV, and I’d semi-forcibly evicted Lauren and her crew from the porker’s front porch, although I really didn’t like to use physical means to resolve conflicts.

  “Butterbean’s condition is a serious burden for the family—and to those of us who watch him,” I added, waving my hand in front of my nose, just to think about the gassy swine. Still, I defended him. “He’s not a curiosity!”

  “I don’t care about the old lady with the cat issues or that smelly pig right now,” Lauren informed me. “Apparently, as things now stand, I’m not allowed to show the world the truth about this pet-crazy town!”

  I pulled back, confused and slightly concerned. Socrates, by my side, also seemed baffled and maybe borderline worried. His tail was stiff, and his wrinkly brow was scrunched up even more than usual.

  “I thought the show was called America’s Most Pet Friendly Towns,” I reminded Lauren, emphasizing the word friendly. I watched her face closely, thinking she’d just hinted that the folks at Stylish Life Network weren’t being completely honest about how they intended to portray my hometown. “And what do you mean by showing the world the ‘truth’ about Sylvan Creek?”

  “Nothing,” Lauren grumbled, in a way that didn’t reassure me or Socrates. His tail remained rigid and straight. He didn’t like getting dragged into people’s drama, but he really disapproved of deceit. “I’m over the pig and the cat barn . . . for now,” she added. “I’m here to talk about your bakery.”

  It was my turn to scrunch up my brow. “My bakery?”

  “Yes,” Lauren said, jamming her hands into two of the many pockets on her olive drab coat. “When are you going to open up?” She never struck me as a pleasant person, but she seemed especially irate that night. “Do you even have a name for the place yet?”