Pawprints & Predicaments Read online

  Chapter 11

  “How did you find him?” I asked, stroking the Saint Bernard’s broad head, which lay in my lap. I was sitting on an uncomfortable metal seat across from Gabriel, who was behind his desk again, leaning back in a squeaky old leather-upholstered chair, his hands laced behind his head and his feet kicked up on a blotter that featured a calendar from 1979. And the planner wasn’t the only thing trapped in time. The Weekly Gazette’s headquarters obviously hadn’t been updated much since the days of the hand-cranked printing press. Sunlight filtered through smudged, wood-framed windows; stacks of yellowing newspapers teetered on every spare surface; and an ancient typewriter sat on a bookshelf, as if waiting to be called back into service. I even spied a printer’s tray full of linotype letters, which were disturbed in their miniature compartments, like maybe they were actually being used. Then I glanced between the dozing canine and Gabriel, who was grinning like a big-game hunter who’d bagged a record-setting grizzly. “This really is the dog from Bear Tooth forest, right?”

  I’d asked that question several times, and I posed it yet again, mainly because I didn’t trust Gabriel. Plus, something didn’t seem quite right about “Bernie,” as Gabriel was unoriginally calling him. Still, as I ran my hand across a broad white blaze that ran from Bernie’s nose to between his ears, I had to admit that the Saint Bernard who was dreaming and drooling on my jeans certainly looked like the dog who’d pulled Lauren Savidge from Lake Wallapawakee.

  “Yes, I assume this is the dog from last night—unless there’s a pack of Saint Bernards roaming the woods,” Gabriel said. He swung his feet to the floor, so he could lean forward and study Bernie. “Not that I’m an expert on canine identification. Most dogs look alike to me.”

  Socrates, who’d been staring out one of the dusty windows, watching the street, gave the slightest “woof” of disapproval.

  To my surprise, Gabriel seemed to understand that he’d been rebuked. “Sorry, pal,” he told Socrates, with a grin. “Didn’t mean to insult you.”

  Socrates, who didn’t like nicknames like “buddy” and “pal,” ignored the apology, which was basically another insult in his opinion.

  “Does Bernie have tags?” I asked, slipping my hand down to the dog’s broad collar, which was almost hidden under his thick, reddish-brown fur.

  My fingers found the empty metal loop that should have held metal disks with Bernie’s real name and an address, as well as proof of immunizations, just as Gabriel said, “No, he doesn’t have any ID on him.”

  “How did you find him?” I asked. For a second, I forgot that the dog whose slobber was soaking through my jeans wasn’t the stuff of legend, and I added, “No one’s ever been able to capture him!”

  Gabriel laughed. “You don’t really believe this dog is some kind of spirit, do you?”

  “No,” I said, my cheeks getting warm. “I just grew up with the story, and then to have the old tale sort of come true last night . . .”

  My voice trailed off as I once again pictured Lauren Savidge’s bluish face and blank eyes, and Gabriel also caught the shift in mood.

  “I don’t know where he came from, or why he showed up last night, playing the hero, like Jonathan Black,” Gabriel said, his dark eyes clouding over. Was that a touch of jealousy in his tone? Did he wish he’d “played the hero” instead of snapping pictures? “But the dog’s not mystical,” he continued, studying Bernie again. “He’s flesh and blood, and I had a feeling that, if I went hiking with some treats in my pockets, there was a good chance I’d find him, if he was still in the woods—as I suspected.” He met my eyes again. “I saw him run off last night, and I doubted anyone was waiting for him in a lonely state forest after dark.”

  In spite of the fact that Bernie was messing up my jeans, I felt sorry for him, alone all night in the woods, and I resumed stroking his head. “And you found him . . . ?”

  “About a mile down Blackberry Bramble trail,” Gabriel said. “I offered him some food, clipped a leash onto him, and brought him back here.” Gabriel smiled again, but it was subdued. The merest lift of the corners of his lips. “He was a semi-willing hostage. I don’t think he likes me as much as he likes you.”

  Bernie snorted in his sleep, perhaps subconsciously agreeing with that statement.

  “I know he’s not mystical,” I said. “But I do wonder why he showed up when he did and ran into the lake. He obviously understood that Lauren was in trouble.”

  “I have no answers for you,” Gabriel admitted. “Maybe it’s just the breed’s instinct, to save people. That’s been their role for a long time.”

  We both stared at the dozing giant for a moment; then I asked quietly and hesitantly, “Were you friends with Lauren?”

  Gabriel leaned his head back and rubbed one hand over his goatee, taking his time before he answered. And when he replied, his response was cryptic. “Something like that.”

  I had no idea what that meant. He could’ve been implying that they’d been quite the opposite of friends. Or that they’d been much more. And Gabriel didn’t seem inclined to elaborate.

  “How about you?” he asked me. “Did you hate her, like nearly everyone else in town?”

  All at once, I recalled why I’d come to his office in the first place. “You can’t really expect me to answer that, can you?” I asked, pulling my hand away from Bernie’s head and folding my arms defiantly and protectively over my chest. “You put everything in the Gazette. And you don’t always portray things accurately.”

  Raising his eyebrows, Gabriel laughed. “So you weren’t ‘panicked,’ ‘foundering,’ and ‘wide-eyed with terror’ when Black hauled you out of the water? You dispute something in that description?” He just happened to have a copy of the day’s paper on his desk—of course—and he held it up, so I could see my photo again. “How would you describe the young woman in this image?”

  Okay, he had a point. But in my head, I’d been working hard to stay calm. “I didn’t feel as ‘wide-eyed’ as I look there,” I muttered. “I was trying to remain centered.”

  Gabriel dropped the newspaper back onto the desk. “You should write a letter to the editor, complaining that the reporter who wrote that story failed to read your mind. Maybe it would get printed!”

  For a split second, I considered that option. Then I remembered that he was a one-man show and realized he was mocking me.

  Before I could decide how to reply, he cocked his head at me. “So, Daphne Templeton, will you attempt to solve this murder?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said uncertainly, with a glance at Socrates, who had swung his head around to see how I’d answer that question. He appeared to approve of my response, and I turned back to face Gabriel again. “I mean, I don’t have any plans to get involved. . . .”

  “Good.” Gabriel leaned back again. I got the sense that I was being dismissed. “I guess I’ll just be competing with Jonathan Black on this one.”

  I blinked at him, confused. “What?”

  “I was an investigative reporter for The Philadelphia Inquirer before I came here,” he informed me. “One of the best in the business. Google it.”

  I definitely intended to do that. Mainly because I was very curious about why a big-city, big-shot journalist would leave such a prestigious job and buy a dinky paper in a sleepy town.

  Then Gabriel relaced his fingers behind his head. His feet thunked onto the desktop. “I’ll solve this case before you or Black come up with your first theories.”

  Seriously, did he have something against Jonathan?

  And had I just been issued a challenge?

  I wasn’t a competitive person. I even had a T-shirt that said: I AM IN COMPETITION WITH NO ONE. I RUN MY OWN RACE. But I didn’t like the way Gabriel Graham was smirking at me.

  “I may look into this homicide,” I informed him, changing my tune slightly. I didn’t look at Socrates, so I wouldn’t see the reproach in his eyes. I knew that he wasn’t eager to get mixed up in another murder. And,
although I didn’t like to be boastful, I added, “I have a pretty good track record for solving crimes, too, you know.”

  Gabriel’s eyes were glittering with amusement, and I suddenly started to worry that I would soon be featured in the Gazette again, in an article titled, “Local Woman Plans to Solve Murder!” Gently lifting Bernie’s head from my lap, I stood up, placed the dog’s big noggin on the chair, and summoned Socrates. “We should get going. We have test treats to bake.”

  But as I headed for the door, Gabriel said, “Daphne, wait.”

  I reluctantly turned back. “What?”

  Gabriel nodded to Bernie, who was awake again, watching me with something like betrayal in his brown eyes. “You forgot the dog.”

  I hated to sound like a broken record, but I had to ask again. “What?”

  “You rescue dogs. Not me.”

  “But . . . But . . .” I glanced down at Socrates, who was rolling his eyes, as if to say, Here we go again, taking in strays! Did we learn nothing from Tinkleston? Then I looked back at Gabriel. He was still reclining—and grinning. “You found the dog,” I reminded him. “He’s your responsibility.”

  Gabriel was not deterred. “Well, you’re also a pet sitter, right?”

  We both knew the answer to that question. My distinctive van was parked across the street. The misshapen pony-dog and the bulbous graffiti-like letters that spelled out LUCKY PAWS were visible through the Gazette office’s windows.

  “I’m not equipped to take care of a dog,” Gabriel continued. “I work crazy hours. So how about I pay you to take in Bernie? Just until I can solve the mysteries surrounding him, too, and find his rightful owner.”

  I first looked down at the huge dog, whose eyes now appeared hopeful. But I had no idea how I would fit him into Plum Cottage. And Piper might kill me. I usually sat for pets at the owners’ homes, and we’d never discussed how many dogs I was allowed to take into my . . . er, technically her . . . tiny house. Meanwhile, while I tried not to get attached to possessions, I had to admit that I was also a little worried about my new love seat. I didn’t think the fabric was treated for Saint Bernard–sized slobber stains, like the one on my pants.

  Then I looked out the window again, at the storefront I needed to pay rent on every month, even though I wasn’t ready to open Flour Power yet, let alone able to turn a profit. My mother’s concerns about my ability to afford my rent echoed in my head, and I could just imagine the lectures I’d get if I fell behind and broke my lease.

  My shoulders slumped. “Fine. I’ll take Bernie. For now.”

  Somehow, while I’d been staring at the street and silently debating, Gabriel had stood up and clipped a leash onto Bernie’s collar. “Thanks,” he said, handing me the lead. “You’re doing me a great favor.”

  “I’m going to bill you,” I reminded him, as Bernie lumbered up onto his feet. I felt like I had a bear attached to my hand, and Socrates edged aside when Bernie joined us near the door. The low-slung basset hound was probably worried that he’d get squashed under a plate-sized paw. Although I often forgot to bill clients, I warned Gabriel, “I’ll be sending you an invoice soon.”

  “And I’ll be happy to pay,” he said. Then he smiled. “You are doing me—and Bernie—a favor, though, and I’d like to thank you with something other than cash.”

  I immediately grew wary. “What, exactly, were you thinking?”

  The devilish reporter with the intriguing past had a ready answer for that question. Maybe too ready.

  “How about joining me for dinner?” he suggested. “Monday night?”

  Chapter 12

  “Thanks so much for helping me get Bernie settled in,” I said to Moxie, who was in my kitchen, taking some brie out of the oven. She was also trying to keep a very irate Persian cat corralled on a deep windowsill, where he was sulking among the potted herbs after using his claws on the new addition to Plum Cottage. Holding Bernie’s muzzle in my hand, I dabbed at some scratches on his nose with a damp washcloth. “This is not going well so far.”

  “I don’t know how Tinkleston can be mean to such a sweet . . . maybe overly sweet . . . dog,” Moxie said, abandoning her post to join me in the living room. She carried a bottle of pinot noir and a hand-carved wooden platter that held slices of toasted baguette and the warm round of baked brie, which she’d drizzled in locally produced goldenrod honey. Setting everything onto the old steamer trunk, she added, “You are going to have your hands full. Bernie is kind of like a bigger version of Artie. Only with no missing pieces.”

  “They definitely both slobber.” I released Bernie’s chin, wiped my hands, and put the cloth in a bowl of warm water. “But Bernie’s nowhere near as rebellious as Artie.”

  “They’re both love bugs,” Moxie pointed out. Plopping down onto my love seat, she picked some dog fur off her short-sleeved, cashmere cardigan, which looked like something out of her favorite Doris Day movies. Then she kicked off a pair of unusual red pumps with large crystals on the toes and curled her feet up under herself, settling in for a chat. “Bernie nearly knocked me off my vintage Charles Jourdans!”

  “Again, I’m really sorry about that,” I apologized for at least the tenth time as I carried the bowl to the kitchen sink, where I dumped out the water. Glancing at the windowsill, I checked to make sure that Tinkleston was still lurking amid the rosemary and thyme. Unfortunately, he had vanished. That didn’t bode well. However, the black cat was impossible to find when determined to hide, so I grabbed two plates containing Hero’s Hero dog-friendly sandwiches from the icebox and returned to the living room, where I set the snacks down in front of Socrates and Bernie. Socrates paused for a moment to let me know, as always, that he wasn’t the kind of desperate dog who gobbled up food. Then he neatly and slowly consumed his turkey-and-cheddar rollup, which was topped with poached egg “mayonnaise.” Bernie, meanwhile, gulped down his treat in one bite. It was gone before I even had a chance to sit down on an elaborately patterned, soft Moroccan floor pillow, which I’d dragged to within arm’s reach of the cheese. “Speaking of Artie, would you want to help me create a sled for him for the Cardboard Iditarod?” I added. “You’re way more creative than me.”

  Moxie clapped her hands together. “I would love that!” Then she leaned forward and poured some wine into two waiting tumblers, trying unsuccessfully to act more nonchalant. “I don’t suppose Jonathan Black will be involved in this project . . . ?”

  Moxie had a slight crush on Jonathan.

  Okay, a huge crush.

  “I’m afraid not,” I told her. “He’s not a big fan of dogs in costumes, comic sleds—or adorable sweaters.”

  I looked over at Socrates, who shared those opinions, and saw that he and Bernie were curling up by the fire, fairly close to each other. I was glad to see that Socrates, at least, was sharing his favorite spot with our temporary guest.

  “I can’t believe you got rescued by Detective Black, and you have a date with Gabriel Graham,” Moxie noted, with a wistful sigh. I shifted on my pillow to face her again and saw that she had a dreamy look in her green eyes. “You are so, so lucky!”

  “Jonathan pitied me,” I reminded Moxie, because we’d been over all this before. Reaching for a knife, I cut into the brie’s snowy rind. A river of pale gold gooey cheese spread onto the wooden tray. “As for Gabriel . . . I don’t think it’s really a date. I always get the sense that he’s laughing at me.”

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure he is,” Moxie agreed, with a nod to yet another copy of the latest Weekly Gazette, which lay folded on the trunk. She’d brought the newspaper along, just in case I somehow hadn’t yet seen my mud-covered, overwrought self being hauled out of Lake Wallapawakee by an action hero. “Gabriel probably shot a dozen pictures, and he obviously printed the most awful one. I don’t think you could have looked worse!”

  I should’ve been insulted, but Moxie was right about the photo. And probably about Gabriel’s methods, too.

  “So, we both agree that he tried to make me
look bad,” I said, spreading a big glob of cheese onto a slice of the toasted baguette. “Why would I want to go out with a guy who tries to embarrass me, when I am very capable of doing that myself?”

  “Don’t ask me.” Moxie lifted her glass and swirled the wine, like we were drinking Dom Perignon, when the label on the bottle I’d found under the sink said OLD ROOSTER, above a picture of a preening chicken. “I didn’t agree to meet Gabriel for dinner!”

  I set down the knife, and my shoulders slumped. “I don’t know why I did that,” I admitted. “He caught me off guard.”

  “Handsome men have a way of doing that,” Moxie pointed out. “Even the strongest women sometimes fall for a good-looking guy.”

  “I’m not falling for Gabriel Graham,” I protested, although I wasn’t sure Moxie understood me. My mouth was pretty full. I swallowed before adding, “But I think you’re right about even tough women falling for handsome guys. I kind of got the sense that Lauren Savidge had fallen for Gabriel’s questionable charms.”

  Moxie’s eyes widened with interest. “What makes you say that?”

  My best friend was desperate for information that she could take back to her clientele at Spa and Paw, but I was momentarily distracted by two black ears, which poked up from behind the love seat, followed by a pair of unusual orange eyes. At my warning look, Tinkleston sank back down, disappearing. I could never figure out how he managed to seemingly levitate up from the floor. The trick impressed—and sort of scared—me.

  “Daph?” Moxie reached down to shake my arm. “What did you see? Or hear?”

  I hesitated, then warned her, “You can’t tell any of this to your clients. Including the canines.”

  Moxie looked disappointed, but she crossed her heart. “Okay, I promise. Now spill.”

  I always trusted Moxie to keep my secrets, and I told her, “I only saw Lauren and Gabriel together for a few minutes at Winterfest, but they had a certain prickly, but teasing, rapport.” I dug into the brie again. “Kind of like Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn in Pat and Mike or Desk Set.”