Pawprints & Predicaments Page 5

  I was trying to decide if I should tell him that I’d seen his ex-wife arguing with Lauren Savidge right before we’d all run into the water, when all at once, his cell phone rang, and he raised one finger, silencing me while politely excusing himself. “Sorry. I need to check this.” Then he slipped a sleek black iPhone from the back pocket of his jeans, tapped the screen, and, bypassing pleasantries, said, “Yes?”

  He listened for a minute, frowning, then signed off with equal simplicity. “Thanks. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  A moment later, he returned the phone to his pocket and addressed me again. “Thanks for the dessert and the coffee, which were both great. I think we can consider another part of your debt repaid now.” He glanced at the Chihuahua, who had given up preening, but whose eyes still gleamed with pride over his new duds. “And it was nice of you to buy Artie a sweater. I think.”

  “You are very welcome,” I said, ignoring his last, uncertain comment and following him to the door, where he slipped on his down jacket and silently summoned Artie and Axis by holding out his lowered hand. I noted that the formerly incorrigible little dog was continuing to shape up since moving in with Jonathan. Artie trotted right over and raised up on his back legs. At that cue, Jonathan reached down to pick him up. Apparently, the trainer was also a trainee, whether he knew it or not.

  “So, do you still want me to tell you what I saw?” I asked, although clearly he planned to leave without interviewing me further.

  “Not tonight,” he told me. “I will want to get your story, though—when I have my partner with me.”

  I blinked at him. “What?”

  “I’d hoped to ask you a few questions, informally, before this became a full-blown investigation. But Vonda Shakes works quickly. And the next time we talk, I’ll be officially investigating Lauren Savidge’s murder.” He nodded to the doorknob, which he’d updated by installing a lock the last time I’d been involved in a homicide. “And, please, lock your door.”

  He didn’t wait for me to make a promise I probably wouldn’t keep. He left without another word, with Artie tucked into his coat, safe from the gale, and Axis trotting happily alongside him, probably enjoying the snow.

  Although it was freezing outside, and icy flakes were blowing into Plum Cottage, I watched them disappear into the dark woods while I tried to figure out what, exactly, had just happened.

  Had by-the-book Jonathan Black just bent a rule by trying to get some information out of me before the death was officially declared a homicide?

  I also wondered if I should’ve insisted on telling him about Elyse’s lakeside argument with Lauren. But Elyse would no doubt admit to fighting with her field producer. I didn’t know Elyse that well, but I was fairly certain that the Ivy League–educated TV executive was smart enough to realize that lots of people had witnessed the quarrel.

  Last but not least, as cold wind rushed into the room, I started to worry that I might’ve just moved from informant to potential suspect. Because I’d been the one with Lauren’s hair tangled in my numb fingers, and he’d mentioned getting my “story” as opposed to my “observations.”

  There was a subtle, but potentially important distinction between those two terms. And Jonathan tended to choose his words carefully....

  My concerns were interrupted by a feeling of pressure against my calf, and I looked down to see that Tinks had joined me at the door and was rubbing against my legs, possibly in a friendly way, or as a precursor to sinking his teeth into me. It was still hard to tell sometimes with Tinkleston.

  Socrates was standing right behind me, too. He was watchful, like he wouldn’t let anything more happen to me that night.

  Not wanting any of us to freeze, I finally shut the door and leaned against it, thinking about poor Lauren Savidge, lying lifeless on a state park beach, and Jonathan, who hadn’t seemed worried about wandering lonely trails in a near blizzard. Then I sent up three little prayers to the universe.

  One for Lauren, who might’ve been hard to deal with, but who hadn’t deserved the fate that had befallen her that night.

  And two for Jonathan: my usual request that the powers-that-be watch over him and an extra appeal, too. Just for good measure.

  Chapter 8

  When I woke up the next morning, the sun was shining brightly through the window above my bed, which was centered under the peaked eaves in my small loft bedroom. The few noises outside were muffled, so I knew that the cottage was buried under a thick blanket of snow. I was content to linger under my heavy, snowy white comforter, too. And Tinkleston and Socrates weren’t moving quickly, either. Tinks was curled at the foot of the bed, sunk down in the feathers so just the tips of his black ears were visible, while Socrates was stretched out on his purple velvet cushion, his eyes closed but his mind likely active. He liked to engage in quiet contemplation before rising to greet the day.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t fully enjoy the lazy morning. My thoughts kept returning to Lauren Savidge and the events of the previous night.

  Then the peace was also shattered by the ringing of the old landline phone on my nightstand. It was pretty early, and I eyed the black rotary dial phone warily before picking up the heavy receiver. “Hello?”

  I was right to be concerned. The person on the other end of the line didn’t bother to introduce herself or engage in small talk before asking me, “Daphne, what in the world is going on with you?”

  I was about to argue that nothing had been “going on” with me. I’d been quite comfortable in my bed.

  Then my mother caused me to jerk upright by adding, “Have you seen today’s newspaper?”

  Chapter 9

  “I can’t believe you’ve gotten yourself involved in another murder,” my mother, Maeve Templeton, complained, stalking around the small kitchen in the storefront I’d rented in November. Although it was Sunday and half of Sylvan Creek’s sidewalks were still buried under two feet of snow, Mom wore a pencil skirt and a pair of Michael Kors pumps that clicked on the old wooden floor, causing Socrates, who was lying near the warm oven, to wince with every step. I supposed Mom’s shoes were a small concession to the snow; on days when the sidewalks were clear, she usually wore even pricier designer heels, like Prada or Saint Laurent. “And this time, your antics are so public!” she added. “On the front page of the newspaper!”

  I was rolling out dough for dog treats I called Cinnamon Roll-Overs, but I stole a peek at a copy of the Sylvan Creek Weekly Gazette, which Mom had slapped down onto the worn butcher block counter. Catching sight of a large photo on the front page, I cringed again, like I’d done the first ten times I’d seen the image of me being carried out of Lake Wallapawakee. My wet hair was straggly, my eyes were wide with horror, and although the photo was black and white, it was obvious that my bare legs were covered in mud. Jonathan, of course, looked like he’d been styled for an action movie. His expression, shown in rugged profile, was grim but calm; his wet shirt clung to his body in a way that emphasized his strong arms; and a shock of his black hair fell artfully over his forehead.

  Gabriel Graham, who was starting to produce the paper on more than a weekly basis, had captured a picture of the Saint Bernard, too. There was a whole sidebar about the dog. I intended to read that story, as soon as my mother stopped nagging me about the traumatic event I’d endured.

  “What in the world were you doing swimming in the lake in January?” she continued, raising her hands and rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. Maeve Templeton seldom allowed her face to exhibit agitation—emotions bred wrinkles—but she was quite unhappy with me right then. “Who does that?”

  “Um, about eighty people,” I reminded her, as I shaped the Roll-Overs so they’d look like traditional cinnamon rolls. Although Flour Power wasn’t open yet, I stopped by several times each week to perfect my recipes, most of which were original. Not that my mother was giving me credit for preparing for a successful launch. “The plunge was a pretty big event.”

  “And yet, you were th
e only one to find a body in the lake,” Mom noted, helping herself to a mug of free coffee from a machine that she had somehow figured out how to use.

  I, meanwhile, was baffled by the massive, complicated contraption I’d inherited from the shop’s previous tenant, an Italian woman who’d fled her abusive boyfriend, leaving everything behind, including her imported coffee and espresso maker, which had so many knobs and levers that I sometimes worried I might accidentally time travel if I used the wrong combination. That fear was heightened by the fact that everything was labeled in Italian. And the two clocklike dials on the stainless-steel surface didn’t help, either.

  My caffeine-addicted mother wasn’t the least bit concerned about landing in a different century while making a latte. She brewed herself at least three cups of coffee a day, on a regular schedule, and took a sip before resuming scolding me. “Can you see how your repeated involvement in homicides and your embarrassing hijinks might reflect poorly on me?”

  By “me,” Mom meant her mini real-estate empire, Maeve Templeton Realty. The two entities were inseparable. And I could not see how my “antics” nor my “hijinks” affected my mother or her business. Would someone refuse to buy a house just because I’d stumbled across a few bodies?

  I didn’t bother directly arguing that point. It was usually a waste of time to debate with my mother, or with Piper, who shared Mom’s determination to win any challenge, at all costs.

  That gene had definitely skipped me. Or, more likely, I took after my laid-back, itinerant father, who’d drifted out of our lives when I’d been a kid. Not that I’d ever abandon my family. I glanced at Socrates. On the contrary, I had a habit of drawing souls around myself and had difficulty letting them go. I still missed Artie, even though I knew the little Chihuahua was happy with Jonathan and Axis....

  “Daphne, are you listening to me?”

  My mother’s voice interrupted my musings. “Yes,” I assured her, sidestepping Socrates. I grabbed some big mitts from a hook on the wall and retrieved my first trial tray of Roll-Overs from the hot oven. The treats, made from whole wheat flour, milk, cinnamon, and honey, looked and smelled delicious. Socrates, who seldom allowed himself to appear enthusiastic about food, lifted his big head, his nose twitching. I slid the tray onto a cooling rack and turned to Mom. “I am listening to most of what you say.”

  “Please tell me that you are not a suspect in this crime,” Mom begged, setting down her mug. “I don’t think I could bear to have another daughter accused of murder!”

  I’d solved my first case because Piper had been implicated in the death of her ex-boyfriend. And I’d spent the previous night parsing Jonathan’s words—“observations” versus “story”—and worrying that I really might be a suspect in this latest homicide.

  “If you can’t bear that possibility, you’d probably better stop reading the Gazette for a while,” I advised Mom. I began to set the second batch of sweet-smelling treats onto a new tray. “And don’t you have any sympathy for Lauren Savidge? This isn’t about me. And it’s really not about you, at all.”

  I shouldn’t have accused Maeve Templeton of being heartless. She reared back and rested one manicured hand on the ruffles that ran down the front of her professional-looking blouse, blinking at me with disbelief. “I will have you know that I am probably one of the few people in Sylvan Creek who liked Lauren. She was a strong, driven woman who got her way. And she was an excellent tenant who paid her rent in advance.”

  I had forgotten that my mother, who not only sold properties to other people but occasionally invested in them herself, had rented rooms to Lauren on a short-term lease. In fact, the cute efficiency apartment was located right above Mom’s offices, about two blocks away from my bakery and across the street from my sister’s practice. Most storefronts in Sylvan Creek had apartments overhead.

  I was just about to apologize for insinuating that my mother was acting callously about the murder when she had to bring up my potential shortcomings as a tenant. “And speaking of renting,” she said, crossing her arms and squashing those ruffles again, “when are you going to open for business? And how are you paying rent here?”

  I slid the second tray into the oven. “My pet-sitting business is actually doing well right now,” I informed Mom. “In fact, I’ll be sitting for Mayor Holtzapple’s Pomeranian later this week. And she pays well, to ensure that Pippin gets pampered.”

  “Oh, Henrietta and that dog,” Mom said, with disdain. She waved one hand dismissively. “I swear, that woman is obsessed with that animal—and this town!”

  Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. My mother was the most obsessive person I knew. Her real-estate business was everything to her. And, not surprisingly, she quickly steered the conversation back to leases and rent.

  “Honestly, Daphne, you need to bake less and renovate more,” she advised me, buttoning up her wool coat. I assumed that she was going to show a house and add to her own fortune. “What is taking so long?”

  “It’s impossible to get anyone to work,” I said, looking around at the bakery, which was stuck in mid-overhaul. I’d liked the former café’s Tuscan theme, but I wanted to create a more vibrant, yet mellow atmosphere in keeping with my new business’s hippie-esque name. In a leap of faith, I’d allowed Moxie to paint the walls with pretty pink and yellow, mod-looking flowers, reminiscent of the late 1960s. And to my delight, my best friend had redeemed herself and could officially be forgiven for painting a horse-dog creature on my van. The walls were beautiful. However, the floors weren’t refinished yet, and the cool 1975 olive-green cabinet I’d bought online, to hold the cash register, lacked a countertop. The creepy walk-in refrigerator, which gave me claustrophobia, was also still balky, refusing to maintain a temperature above freezing.

  I turned back to my mother. “There aren’t that many contractors and handymen in Sylvan Creek to begin with, and they’re all busy working for—”

  “Excuses, excuses, Daphne,” Mom said, cutting off my complaints. She wrapped a Burberry plaid scarf around her neck. “There’s no room for excuses in business! Just get the work done!”

  Then my mother swept out of the kitchen and straight through the front door, tossing the scarf over her shoulder in dramatic fashion as she left, while I began to tidy up the small kitchen. I was trying to make an effort to be neater, now that I was about to be a commercial baker.

  And while I put things away, I thought about what Mom had just said about completing work.

  Would someone finish Lauren’s job on America’s Most Pet Friendly Towns?

  Or would the remaining crew just pack up and leave?

  “What do you think, Socrates?” I asked, although I hadn’t voiced my other questions out loud.

  My longtime sidekick nevertheless seemed to grasp that I was growing curious about a homicide, and he lowered his freckled muzzle and buried it under his large paws, groaning softly, like he wished I would just mind my own business.

  Ignoring him, I wiped my hands on my apron and picked up the newspaper, which my mother had left spread out on the counter.

  Eyes moving quickly, I skimmed the article about the tragedy at the lake—cringing when I saw my picture again. I swore, Gabriel Graham had deliberately tried to make me look terrible. The Saint Bernard, while slightly out of focus, looked better than me.

  “Seriously?” I muttered, holding up the Gazette so Socrates could see my photo. “Isn’t this kind of insulting?”

  Socrates agreed. He shook his head and snuffled with regret, indicating that he felt sorry about my public humiliation, although I also knew that he’d never supported my decision to jump in a lake.

  At least he wasn’t laughing at me, like probably everyone else in Sylvan Creek was doing that morning.

  “Come on, Socrates,” I said, dropping the paper back onto the butcher block. Then I took the second tray of perfectly baked Roll-Overs out of the oven, switched a dial to turn off the heat, and pulled on my big barn coat. “We are going to
confront Mr. Graham,” I told the basset hound, who was reluctantly rising and joining me at the door. “I’m pretty sure I saw lights on in his building, too.”

  Socrates hung and shook his head, like he thought I was on another ill-fated mission, but he followed me out into the cold sunshine and across the street, toward the offices of the Weekly Gazette.

  And when I opened the door, which was unlocked, I discovered that not only was Gabriel Graham at his desk that Sunday morning, but my arrival had apparently been anticipated—and a huge, slobbery surprise was lying in wait for me, prepared to knock me off my feet.

  Chapter 10

  “Are you okay?” Gabriel asked, barely suppressing his laughter, even as he came around from behind his desk and attempted to pull a 150-pound Saint Bernard off me, while I lay flat on my back, fighting off the most slobbery dog kisses I’d ever endured. Normally, I was a fan of canine smooches, but the dog who had tackled me the moment I’d walked through the door didn’t know his own strength. Plus he had a wicked case of puppy breath. “Come on, now,” Gabriel said, hauling on the dog’s collar. “That’s enough!”

  The massive mutt relented just enough to allow me to slide backward, scooching on my butt and wiping my coat sleeve across my face to clean off the drool. Then, while the dog strained against Gabriel’s hold, I quickly stood up and stepped backward. “This isn’t really . . . ?”

  Gabriel’s arms were practically being pulled out of their sockets, but he grinned more broadly with self-satisfaction.

  “Yup,” he informed me smugly, lurching when the dog made one last attempt to smother me with affection. “Daphne Templeton, meet the Lake Wallapawakee Saint Bernard!”