Pawprints & Predicaments Page 3

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” I said, although I still didn’t understand why my business was her concern. “It’s going to be called Flour Power, because I’m going to use healthy, organic, and locally sourced ingredients, when possible. The kind of stuff that ‘powers’ up pets. Plus the name ties in with my old VW van, so Lucky Paws and the bakery will be connected. . . .”

  Lauren obviously didn’t care about any of that, and I gave up explaining a name that I thought was kind of clever.

  “So when’s the grand opening?” she asked again, peering at me from behind those glasses. “Huh?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, getting exasperated. I was already being nagged by my mother, Realtor Maeve Templeton, who’d arranged my lease. I didn’t need a TV field producer bugging me, too. “And, no offense, but what does it matter to you, anyhow?”

  “If I’m going to make this town look all sugary sweet and pet-perfect, I need footage of your business, which is literally saccharine,” she said, her voice dripping sarcasm.

  I ignored her snide tone. “Actually, I would never use saccharine, which is terrible for pets,” I started to explain. Then I also gave up trying to educate her about pet-safe sweeteners. She clearly wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. Nor did I bother explaining that I was trying to finish remodeling Flour Power, but someone in town had hired just about every local contractor to overhaul a mansion that I could see right across the lake. As the Chinese philosopher Sun Tzu once said, “He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight.” Nobody was going to win any battles with Lauren Savidge that night. Especially not a peacenik like me. “Don’t you already have plenty of proof that Sylvan Creek is pet friendly?” I added, again employing that kinder word. “We’ve got Spa and Paw, Fetch! boutique, the Saint Bernard legend, the Howl-o-Ween Pet Parade, and the Winterfest Cardboard Iditarod, which you can film in just a few days.”

  The festival always ended with a dogsled race, except the comic “sledges” were made of old boxes and judged on theme and originality, as opposed to speed. Some of the smaller and lazier dogs didn’t even run. They were pulled by their owners.

  “And you’ve interviewed our resident holistic pet healer-slash-dog-sweater-knitter, right?” I added, glancing at Arlo Finch’s stand again. He was folding sweaters, but watching us. I waved again, but he didn’t wave back. I returned my attention to Lauren. “Arlo’s pretty unique!”

  “Yes, I’ve spoken with him,” Lauren muttered under her breath. She was also looking in Arlo’s direction. “Believe me, if I get my way—and I usually do—he and Peaceable Pets will be featured prominently on TV soon.”

  She sounded ominous, and I hoped that she wouldn’t portray Arlo, who always smelled of incense and used phrases like “sacred animal energies,” as too eccentric.

  “I really don’t think you need my bakery to prove that we love pets here,” I said, drawing Lauren’s attention back to me. “There’s plenty of evidence without my little shop.”

  She clearly disagreed. “Just try to get your bakery up and running,” she urged through gritted teeth. White powder was starting to coat her rat’s nest of hair, and she looked past me again, in the direction Gabriel had just departed, before adding, in a lower, softer voice, “I can’t stick around this town forever, waiting for people to get their stuff together.”

  There was something almost sad, or hurt, about her slightly altered tone.

  Or maybe I’d imagined that she’d softened, because the next moment, her eyes were hard again, and her mouth was set in a grim line. “I’d like to film at your shop by the end of next week,” she said, starting to walk away. “Please see what you can do.”

  I glanced across the lake at the mansion, which was dark right then, but where every reputable local painter, plumber, and contractor reported on a nearly daily basis, and I almost did defend myself. Unless I figured out how to install cabinetry and repair a walk-in refrigerator so it didn’t freeze everything I put inside of it, my hands were kind of tied.

  But before I could say anything, Lauren looked me up and down, adding, “And you might want to skip the plunge tonight. These things are not for the faint of heart. People have died jumping into cold lakes.”

  “Hey!” I finally had to speak up. “I am not ‘faint of heart.’ I once ran with the bulls . . . by accident, but still . . .”

  Lauren wasn’t interested in what I considered to be a fairly compelling tale about the dangers of ignoring barricades in Pamplona, Spain. She trudged off toward the lake, leaving me and Socrates standing in a winter wonderland, with snow falling around us. The gently drifting flakes added to the ambiance, but as I watched Lauren disappear into the darkness, I had to admit that I began to suffer a faint sense of foreboding.

  “No one’s really going to get hurt, right?” I asked, looking down at Socrates. His sober expression was not reassuring, but I forced myself to shake off my concerns. “Let’s go see if Arlo will exchange the sweater I bought,” I suggested. “I’m not sure I got the right one.”

  I fully expected Socrates to somehow convey that a return would be even better than an exchange. But his muzzle was pointed toward Arlo’s stand, like he wanted me to see something. And when I looked in the direction he’d indicated, I realized that the hut was dark and Arlo was gone.

  I had no time to be disappointed. As I stood there already shivering in my cowboy boots, a familiar, thin, and reedy voice cut through the frosty air.

  “Attention, swimmers!” Mayor Henrietta Holtzapple announced, with what I considered to be overblown enthusiasm. “The first annual Sylvan Creek polar bear plunge will begin in ten minutes!”

  I knew that the event I’d signed up for was supposed to be fun, by my heart sank like a stone tossed into the inky waters of Lake Wallapawakee when she added, “Plungers . . . assemble!”

  Chapter 4

  By the time I made it to the lake, the shore around the expanse of water that was cordoned off for the plunge was crowded with people who were shedding their clothes, although it couldn’t have been more than thirty degrees outside.

  “You and Piper were right,” I told Socrates, while I stuffed the bag from Peaceable Pets into one of my jacket’s big pockets, pulled off my mittens, and began to unbutton my coat. My teeth chattered when cold air hit my collarbone. “This was a really bad idea.”

  Socrates rarely expressed himself vocally, but he gave a low “woof” of agreement, then shambled off to hang out with Piper, who was folding blankets with a guy in a jacket that announced him as “Safety Crew.”

  “Six minutes!” Mayor Holtzapple announced into a bullhorn, with cheerleader-esque pep. Looking up, I quickly found Sylvan Creek’s middle-aged, bumbling leader on the water’s edge. She was dressed in a robe, which presumably covered a bathing suit. I wasn’t surprised that she was taking part in the plunge. Henrietta Holtzapple—probably in her early fifties, with broad shoulders and frizzy orange hair that matched her Pomeranian Pippin’s coat—wasn’t considered the most competent public official, but she was Sylvan Creek’s most enthusiastic supporter. She’d been mayor for four terms, mainly because no one had the heart to vote against someone who loved the town as much as she did. “Five minutes to go,” Mayor Holtzapple added, prompting me to resume struggling with my buttons. My fingers were freezing. “Five more minutes—”

  “Yes, yes! We swim in only cinq minutes!”

  All at once, the countdown took on an air of even greater excitement, not to mention a French accent, and I looked up again to see that Victor Breard had snatched the bullhorn from Mayor Holtzapple. The head of Big Cats of the World was stalking around the small beach, his slicked-back dark hair gleaming, like he’d already gone into the water. And his use of “we” wasn’t a slip of the foreign tongue. He was obviously prepared to take part in the event that would benefit his shelter-slash-zoo. Like Mayor Holtzapple, he wore an easy-to-shed robe, but his was silky and red, reminiscent of a boxer’s prefight attire. And he spoke like a ringmaster. Rais
ing one hand in the air with a flourish, he cried, “The endangered, unwanted lions et tigres at my preserve thank you for your support this magnifique evening. Merci beaucoup!”

  Okay, maybe Piper was right. He did seem a little bit like a snake oil salesman.

  Then, while I resumed messing with my buttons, my fingers shaking harder, Victor continued the countdown, calling, “Quatre minutes! Four minutes!”

  That announcement was greeted by an inexplicable cheer from the crowd, which had caught Victor’s excitement, while I silently cursed Moxie. I could’ve sworn she’d insisted we participate in what seemed like an increasingly ill-advised escapade. Maybe as bad as accidentally running with bulls.

  “Really, Moxie?” I grumbled, finally shrugging out of my coat. “I will get you back for this!”

  Then I quickly ditched the rest of my clothes and stood hugging myself and hopping on my bare feet, like everyone else who’d been foolish enough to sign up for an ice bath.

  As I jumped up and down, I scanned the crowd and located Arlo Finch, who’d apparently suspended sales so he could join the plunge. He was stripped down to a sleeveless T-shirt and cargo shorts, but he wasn’t shuddering or hopping. He stood very still, facing the water, his graying hair pulled back into a ponytail and a meditative look on his lined, lean, bearded face. I envied his ability to put mind over matter in such a challenging situation. Then Arlo raised his hand to smooth his long hair, and I glimpsed an unusual tattoo on his wrist.

  I tried to get a better look at the inked design, but my view was suddenly blocked by Joy Doolittle and Kevin Drucker, who were edging to the front of the crowd.

  I assumed that Joy was eager to get the whole thing over with, but I thought Kevin should hang back. The big camera that again swung from his hand didn’t look waterproof to me.

  Joy, meanwhile, looked like she might also short-circuit when she hit the water. She’d taken off her jacket and pants, stripping down to a thin T-shirt and nylon running shorts. Even from where I was standing, I could see her arm shake when she gestured to Kevin, apparently giving him the order to start filming, because he swung his camera onto his shoulder and pressed his eye against the viewfinder.

  But what, exactly, did they plan to capture for a show about pets?

  I searched the crowd again, noting that there were only a handful of canines there, including a Bernese mountain dog who would probably get his feet wet, a cold-loving Newfoundland, and a very familiar chocolate Labrador retriever named Axis, who sat at the feet of the man who’d reluctantly adopted him.

  Detective Jonathan Black.

  He was last person I’d expected to see at a frivolous festival event. And, not surprisingly, the ex-Navy SEAL, who had probably logged countless hours in frigid water during his military training and service, wasn’t dressed to splash around in Lake Wallapawakee. He wore a pair of jeans and a black down jacket that matched his hair, which was slightly longer than when I’d last met up with him, back in October.

  For a moment, I couldn’t imagine why he was there, until I also spotted Jonathan’s ex-wife, Elyse Hunter-Black, who had likely dragged Jonathan along for moral support.

  Elyse, a high-powered executive producer with Stylish Life Network and the driving force behind America’s Most Pet Friendly Towns, looked predictably stunning in a bona fide, and probably warm, wetsuit that hugged her slender form and accented her delicate curves. For once, however, she wasn’t calm and composed. On the contrary, Elyse was in the midst of what appeared to be a heated argument with her underling, Lauren Savidge, who’d shed her military-inspired coat and boots, but still looked like a Marine at boot camp, in a pair of camo shorts and a white tee.

  As I observed the two women, Elyse tossed up her hands, clearly exasperated. She held an unusual deep blue bottle, like she was hydrating for the event, and some liquid sloshed out when she gestured.

  Lauren was gesticulating, too, jabbing her blunt finger at Elyse’s face.

  I didn’t think that was a very smart way to treat one’s boss.

  Then, since I couldn’t hear them, and their spat didn’t concern me, I turned toward Jonathan again, only to realize that he was accompanied by two dogs: Axis and a one-eared Chihuahua, whom I’d also foisted upon him, over some pretty strong protests.

  In spite of how cold I was, I grinned to see Artie happily tucked inside Jonathan’s jacket.

  The duo had clearly come a long way since the day Jonathan had refused to even look down at the little dog who’d drooled all over his feet, waiting hopefully to be picked up by a man he clearly worshipped.

  I was so pleased for Artie that for a moment I kind of forgot where I was, and I almost began to walk toward them, to deliver the sweater I’d purchased, just as Jonathan spied me, too, but Mayor Holtzapple, who’d reclaimed the bullhorn at some point, made a loud and forceful announcement.

  “Plungers! Go!”

  I didn’t even have time to wave to Jonathan, Axis, and Artie.

  The moment the excited crowd was released, I was swept backward, toward the icy, murky depths of Lake Wallapawakee, and everything went wrong.

  Chapter 5

  The first shock of the water took my breath away, and I wanted to run right back to shore and claim one of those blankets Piper had been folding. But I couldn’t. My sister had been right. The plunge should’ve been organized better. The whole scene was chaos, a mess of thrashing, splashing arms and legs, impossible to fight through. And the night air was filled with a raucous cacophony of what I thought was laughter, but there were screams and shrieks, too, as about eighty people collided, running in and out of the black lake. Observers onshore—probably including Gabriel Graham—were taking pictures, too, so the darkness was interrupted by intermittent, strobing flashes of bright light, which only added to the anarchy.

  I was a fairly calm person, but I found myself fighting to breathe evenly and stay composed as I got pushed deeper into the water, where the lake bed got softer and more slimy.

  I couldn’t help flailing my arms, which only made things worse, and in a split second, during which someone else who must’ve lost her footing grabbed on to me, I slipped in the muck.

  Suddenly, I was underwater and struggling to right myself. In seconds, my whole body felt like it was going numb, and when my head, fortunately, popped above the surface, I began to paddle furiously, only to get my hand snagged in something that felt like a huge spider web.

  The crowd was receding, everyone else retreating from the water, and I tried to follow. But when I attempted to free my numb hand from whatever was tangled around my fingers, I gasped not with the cold, but with a different kind of shock, as Lauren Savidge’s pale—no, bluish—face rose to the surface.

  “Help!” I screamed, loudly. And almost immediately, someone came to my rescue.

  Actually, two someones.

  Detective Jonathan Black, who was missing his jacket but otherwise fully clothed, dripping wet, and calmly in charge as he wordlessly wrapped his arms around me and lifted me out of the water, and a Saint Bernard, complete with a barrel under his chin, who showed up seemingly out of nowhere and pulled Lauren’s stiff, lifeless body to shore before disappearing into the chaos and the night.

  Chapter 6

  “Are you okay, Daphne?” my sister asked for the hundredth time, pouring me yet another cup of soothing, warming chamomile tea. Crossing the few steps that separated my cottage’s tiny kitchen from the equally miniature living room, she handed me a pretty, blue-glazed earthenware mug. “Keep drinking this, to bring up your core temperature.”

  Piper wasn’t normally maternal, but she was trained to care for shivering, traumatized creatures, and she’d helped me and Socrates get home to Plum Cottage. Then she’d ordered me to change into dry pajamas, set me on the love seat that barely fit into the small living room, wrapped me in two layers of warm blankets, and lit a blazing fire in the arched stone fireplace. My recently adopted, still only semi-friendly black Persian cat, Tinkleston, had deigned to
climb under the blankets, too, and he was sitting on my lap like a living, breathing heating pad. Yet I was still shivering. Not so much because I had nearly succumbed to hypothermia for the second time in just a few months, but because I couldn’t stop picturing Lauren Savidge’s blue face and recalling how her stiff body had bumped against mine in the frigid water.

  Sipping the tea, I tried to shake off the memory and forced myself to smile at Socrates, who wasn’t dozing in his favorite spot by the fireplace. He sat rigidly in the center of the room, guilt and regret in his brown eyes. I knew he felt terrible that he hadn’t come to my rescue.

  “You’ve saved me several times,” I reminded him. “And I know you weren’t watching the plunge. I’m sure you had your back turned to the whole event!”

  Socrates still seemed apologetic, and perhaps unhappy to have been upstaged by a human and a Saint Bernard—a breed known for slobbering. He plopped down onto his belly and huffed, loudly, to tell me that he was sorry and disappointed in himself.

  I knew he’d eventually forgive himself, and I took another sip of tea.

  Piper, meanwhile, headed to a coat rack near the door and began to suit up for a short hike through the woods, on paths that led back to her farmhouse.

  “If you’re okay, I’m heading home,” she said, already zipping up her jacket, so it would be hard for me to argue that she should stay. “It’s late and really starting to snow out there. It’s easy to get disoriented in the dark, even on familiar trails.”

  As if on cue, a gust of wind smacked against the walls of the cottage, and the plum tree that gave my home its name scratched its limbs against one of the windows. That was always a sign that the weather was getting bad. I knew that Piper should get going, but while she pulled on her hat and gloves, I said, “Speaking of getting lost on trails . . . where the heck did that Saint Bernard come from?” I set my mug on a steamer trunk that served as my coffee table and shook off some of my blankets. I’d buttoned myself into my warmest, softest, striped flannel pj’s, and I was finally getting too toasty. Tinkleston yowled to let me know he didn’t appreciate being disturbed, then hopped to the floor. “The dog ran in out of nowhere and disappeared just as fast.”