Pawprints & Predicaments Read online

  Of course, Moxie was familiar with the classic movies, in which Tracy’s and Hepburn’s characters sparred endlessly, their banter barely masking simmering passion. Moxie nodded. “That could mean something. Did you notice anything else?”

  I thought back to the night of the plunge, and how Lauren’s gaze had followed Gabriel as he’d walked away.

  “Lauren muttered something about needing to get out of town,” I said, trying to recall her exact words. “She told me she couldn’t wait around for people to ‘get their acts together,’ or something like that. She was urging me to get Flour Power open, so she could get footage for her show, but the whole time, she was staring at Gabriel. And I thought she looked sad. Or hurt.”

  Moxie flopped back, nearly spilling her red wine on my cream-colored love seat.

  And I’d been worried about Bernie, who was snoring peacefully on the floor.

  “Oh, they definitely had something going on,” Moxie declared, with a satisfied smile. “I’m a little surprised, because Gabriel’s hair, while on the long side, is actually pretty stylish, while Lauren’s hair was always a rat’s nest.” She seemed to realize that she’d spoken ill of the dead, and she glanced toward the heavens. “No offense.”

  I wanted to ask Moxie if couples tended to have coordinating hairstyles—if that was something she’d noticed, professionally—but I was suddenly struck by two more important questions.

  Was Gabriel a possible suspect in Lauren’s murder? Because, even though I’d never been to the police academy—as Detective Black liked to point out—I knew that crimes of passion were pretty common. And, as a former big-city investigative reporter, Gabriel probably knew quite a bit about murder. Including, perhaps, how to get away with one.

  And, more urgently, where the heck was Moxie’s rat, whom I’d completely forgotten about, until she’d described Lauren Savidge’s hair?

  “Um, Moxie?” I ventured nervously, with a glance at her hands, which weren’t hidden by a muff that could conceal a rodent. Nor was there room for a rat to hide in her sweater’s sole pocket. “Is Sebastian with you tonight? Do you have him hidden somewhere on you?”

  Moxie laughed off the suggestion. “Of course not! Even if there was a place to put him, this sweater is vintage cashmere. What if he snagged it with his claws?”

  “Oh, good,” I said, with too-obvious relief. I was still getting used to the idea of Sebastian, and I didn’t want him to spring out at me, stealing my cheese. I was also worried that, if he was roaming around, Tinkleston might eat him. “So he’s at your apartment, then?” I asked. “Not here somewhere?”

  “Oh, he’s here,” Moxie said, still smiling. “I told him to stay in my purse.”

  I looked over at a small table near the door, just in time to spy a little white face with pink eyes and a twitching nose peep out over the clasp on a quirky red handbag designed to look like an old rotary dial phone.

  Unfortunately, someone else had noticed Sebastian, too. A small black shadow whose nose also twitched as he stalked closer to the purse on silent, fluffy black paws.

  I’d thought Bernie or Moxie would be the first to mess up my poor love seat. But I was the one who spilled the wine when I attempted to stop another homicide by jumping to my feet and crying out, “Tinkleston! No!”

  Chapter 13

  “Tinkleston, I know you were acting on instinct, but I swear, you were also just being difficult,” I said, lecturing the cat, who was still acting bratty, after nearly killing one of our houseguests. I was kneeling next to my love seat, trying to scrub out the red wine stain with another damp cloth, and when I looked over my shoulder, I saw Tinks poking his paw at Bernie’s closed eye. “Stop that!” I scolded him. “You’ve already chased away Moxie and Sebastian. Don’t bother Bernie again, too.”

  I knew that Tinks had ruled the roost at his former home, where he’d been the sole, spoiled companion of an elderly woman. But I also knew that cats could adjust to live in harmony with a variety of animals. And Tinks was making progress with Socrates. But, as I watched, he stared at me with defiance in his orange eyes and batted at Bernie again.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” I said, starting to rise. I intended to scoop him up, but, as I’d expected, Tinks darted off, retreating to his favorite hiding spot on the windowsill. I was pretty sure he believed he was a fierce jungle cat when he crouched behind the basil.

  “Maybe I should hand you over to Victor Breard, and we’ll see how you do with real lions,” I muttered, returning my attention to the stain, which wasn’t coming out. Tossing the cloth onto the steamer trunk, I sank down next to the love seat, resting my back against the ruined piece of furniture. “I suppose I can toss a throw over the stain,” I told Socrates, who was awake and watching everything with a skeptical eye from his spot by the fire. “As Epictetus said, ‘Wealth consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants.’ And we have no wants, really. So there’s no use being upset.”

  Socrates, who didn’t even own a chew toy, clearly agreed with the ancient Greek philosopher. He curled up on his rug and closed his eyes, content with a small spot by the fire on a cold night.

  Soon, the cottage was quiet, except for Bernie’s snoring, and I continued to sit on the floor, enjoying the peace while I studied the slumbering Saint Bernard.

  It seemed odd to me that no one had put up “lost dog” flyers around town or inquired at Piper’s practice, which was always a hub for anyone seeking information on a missing pet.

  So where had Bernie come from?

  Was anyone worried about him?

  I intended to take Bernie to Piper’s office the very next day, to see if he might have a microchip, but in the meantime, I climbed onto the love seat and reached for the newspaper Moxie had left behind, after insisting that I might want to frame the offending photo.

  “Not going to happen,” I said softly, unfolding the Weekly Gazette and searching for the article Gabriel had written about Bernie, the night of Lauren’s murder. But the story, which was completely overblown, didn’t really tell me anything I didn’t already know.

  “. . . local legend appeared to come true . . . dog attempted to rescue doomed swimmer Lauren Savidge . . . in two to three feet of water . . . the lumbering beast disappeared into the depths of Bear Tooth forest . . .”

  Folding the paper again, so it was still open to the article about Bernie, I tossed it back onto the coffee table, only to realize that perhaps I had learned something new. Or, at the very least, something nagged at me. But I couldn’t put my finger on what seemed out of place.

  “Something bothered me about Bernie back at Gabriel’s office, too,” I whispered, talking to myself, because Socrates was snoring, too, and Tinks was out of earshot. “Something’s not adding up.”

  I glanced at the Weekly Gazette again, studying the photo that accompanied the story. The picture showed Bernie standing on the lakeshore after releasing Lauren. He looked deceptively spooky, since the flash made his eyes—and something on his collar—glow. The caption read: “Ghost dog who haunts the ski trails captured on film . . .”

  Once again, Gabriel had managed to take, and choose, a photo that would sell papers, this time by reinforcing the legend of the spectral dog.

  And although he’d laughed at me for implying that Bernie was “mystical,” he was obviously willing to suggest that in print.

  Was he a smart businessman or a deceptive journalist?

  Or both?

  “He worked for The Philadelphia Inquirer, not the National Enquirer,” I muttered. “Did one of the nation’s most reputable newspapers really let him get away with, at best, stretching the truth?”

  All at once, I realized that I might’ve been wrong to assume that Gabriel Graham had voluntarily left his prestigious big-city job as an investigative reporter.

  Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out a phone I’d recently purchased, to replace an old broken one that had caused me quite a bit of trouble related to previous homicides. A m
oment later, I was connected to a search engine. Piper had kindly hooked me up with Wi-Fi, because she was worried about me being isolated out in the woods, and service was actually pretty good. Within a few more seconds, I was reading all sorts of things by and about Gabriel Graham, who was all over cyberspace.

  There were lots of links to articles he’d written for the Inquirer, and a few pictures of him getting awards for investigative journalism. And then I found what I’d been seeking: the reason Gabriel had probably abandoned his job in the city and moved to Sylvan Creek.

  But that story, bigger and more dramatic than anything Gabriel had thus far semi-conjured up for the Weekly Gazette, was nothing like I’d expected.

  Chapter 14

  “Bernie seems perfectly healthy to me,” Piper said, draping her stethoscope over her neck and taking a step back as the Saint Bernard, who was too big for the exam table, tried to jump up and give her one of his trademark dog hugs and slobbery kisses. Like Moxie, Piper was used to dealing with all kinds of animals, both the hostile and the overly demonstrative, and she deftly sidestepped. “Along with being people-friendly—to say the least—he seems well-fed and even reasonably well groomed, for a dog who supposedly lived in the woods.”

  “Well, I did brush him this morning,” I said, stumbling slightly when Bernie pressed himself against my legs. I stroked his head, which probably reinforced his clinginess. But he was such a sweet, big lug that I couldn’t help myself. Socrates, who got uncharacteristically edgy when we visited Piper’s practice and had stayed home that morning, wasn’t exactly snuggly. And while Tinks would sometimes sit on my lap, he usually sank his teeth into my hand before hopping down. It was kind of nice to have a cuddly dog around, even if he sometimes nearly bowled me over. “Bernie wasn’t covered in burrs when I first saw him, though,” I added. “And he’s pretty clean.”

  “That’s because, in spite of not being microchipped, he has a home,” my always skeptical sister said flatly. “I bet Gabriel Graham knows more than he’s letting on. He’s charming, but not completely trustworthy, if you ask me.”

  I agreed with that assessment, and I didn’t tell Piper that I planned to have dinner with Gabriel that very night. Nor did I mention that a small part of me wondered if Gabriel was harboring more than information about a lost dog. I was a little worried that he had a very shady secret in his past. I found it hard to believe that he’d committed murder, but there was that strange stuff online, and now Lauren Savidge was dead . . .

  “I can’t help thinking that Bernie is somehow mixed up in Lauren’s murder,” I told Piper, shaking off my concerns about Gabriel. “For two such strange things to occur simultaneously . . . It just seems odd.”

  Piper was washing her hands. “What do you mean, ‘strange things’? And what happened ‘simultaneously’?”

  “A murder, and the sudden appearance, in the flesh, of a dog who used to be just a campfire story,” I said, patting the pup in question. I was definitely feeding Bernie’s voracious craving for affection, and Piper shot me a warning look, which I pretended not to understand. “Before the other night,” I continued, “the Lake Wallapawakee Saint Bernard was just an old legend that, let’s face it, nobody but Moxie really believed. Now here he is, caught by a reporter who did nothing more than put some treats in his pocket and wander around the woods.”

  “Yes, you have a point,” Piper agreed. She dried her hands with a paper towel, then tossed that into a waiting trash can. “But the two things aren’t necessarily related. To be honest, I think somebody—either Gabriel or Lauren—‘borrowed’ Bernie from heaven knows where, then let him loose in the woods, with plans to get some fake footage or photos of the ‘ghost dog.’ Then, acting on instinct when he heard people struggling in the water, Bernie likely took it upon himself to run into the lake. He probably wasn’t even supposed to be there.”

  “Most of that makes sense,” I agreed. “But if Gabriel knows where Bernie belongs, wouldn’t he just quietly return him? Why pay me to keep him?”

  “That is a flaw in my theory,” Piper conceded. She leaned back against the exam table and tucked her hands into the pockets of her lab coat, taking a moment to think. My sister usually discouraged me from getting involved in murder investigations, but her logical side couldn’t resist a good puzzle. “I guess that makes Lauren the more likely suspect,” she said. “Which makes sense. TV is a visual medium. She couldn’t really feature the ‘ghost dog’ in her show without running some kind of footage behind the narration. And, now that she’s . . . gone, the dog seems homeless.”

  “Wouldn’t the rest of the Stylish Life crew know where Bernie belongs?” I ventured. “If Lauren ‘borrowed’ Bernie for the show, to use your term, everybody involved in the production must’ve known about him.”

  “You would think so,” Piper concurred. “But they are likely reeling from Lauren’s death, both personally and professionally. They’re probably in mourning. . . .”

  It was my turn to be skeptical, and Piper could obviously tell that I doubted Lauren’s underlings were wracked with grief.

  “Well, even if they aren’t mourning,” she amended, “they’re likely worried about their jobs, and not even thinking about Bernie.”

  “I’m going to have to talk to the crew,” I said softly. I absently fiddled with Bernie’s ears. He was nearly asleep against my legs, and I could feel saliva seeping through the fabric of my tiered peasant skirt. “Maybe Joy or the cameraman knows where you belong,” I told the half-dozing dog. “And they might’ve noticed some things the night of the murder, too.”

  I’d nearly forgotten that Piper was in the exam room with us, until she said firmly, “Daphne Templeton, don’t you dare get mixed up in another homicide. We were just speculating about Bernie’s origins. Not launching an investigation of Lauren’s murder.”

  I looked up to see that she was ready to move on to her next appointment. She stood near the door, her laptop cradled in her arm.

  “Seriously, Daphne,” she warned me. “Don’t. Meddle.”

  Then she left the room before I could even protest that my “meddling” solved crimes.

  “Come on, Bernie,” I said, rousing the dog. “We can probably just leave out the back door. I don’t think Piper will bill me.”

  As I talked to the sleepy Saint Bernard, I clipped his lead onto his collar. And when the latch clicked around the metal loop, something clicked in my brain, too.

  Bernie’s collar... The photo in the Weekly Gazette . . . A glint of metal . . .

  Dropping the leash, I pulled my cell phone from one of the deep pockets of my barn jacket, searched an online directory for a phone number that took forever to find, and waited impatiently until someone answered my call.

  “Please put me through to Detective Jonathan Black,” I begged the woman who was trying to put me on hold. “I have some information about Lauren Savidge’s murder!”

  Chapter 15

  Jonathan Black was, of course, early for our appointment, while I was predictably late, thanks to my van’s touchy ignition system. My usual technique of jiggling the key seven times before slapping the steering wheel twice hadn’t worked as well as usual, so I’d been stuck outside Piper’s practice for about twenty minutes longer than I’d expected.

  As Bernie and I slipped and slid down the last few feet of the icy path that led from Bear Tooth forest to Lake Wallapawakee, I saw Jonathan standing alone on the shore, staring out over the water at the setting sun. His feet were planted wide, his hands were clasped behind his back, and his black hair was riffled by the strong breeze that blew across the lake, creating small whitecaps.

  I was really glad that he was facing away from us, because the path was very slippery, and when we were about twenty feet away from him, my cowboy boots went out from under me, and I fell right onto my butt.

  Pushing aside Bernie, who was trying to console me with sloppy kisses, I quickly scrambled to my feet and rubbed my rear end—only to hear Jonathan inquire over his
shoulder, “Are you all right, Daphne? Do you need help?”

  “No, I’m okay,” I promised him, not sure how he knew I’d fallen. I hadn’t cried out—at least, not too loudly—and he continued to study the beautiful orange setting sun, from just outside a less aesthetically pleasing temporary barricade of yellow tape, which cordoned off the crime scene.

  All at once, the fact that Jonathan wasn’t inside that tape, poking around for clues while he waited for me, struck me as odd.

  “How come you’re not combing the beach?” I asked him, when Bernie and I stepped up next to him. “You must’ve known I’d be late. I’d expect you to make productive use of your time!”

  Jonathan didn’t answer my question or respond to my teasing. He turned and looked down at Bernie, his expression unreadable. Then he finally met my gaze. “I’m not taking this dog home,” he noted drily. “My cleaning lady already complains about Artie’s issues with saliva retention.”

  As someone who liked to read, I appreciated Jonathan’s interesting phrasing.

  I was also shocked to learn that he paid someone to clean his house. I didn’t think he’d like anyone nosing around his stuff.

  Then again, I’d seen online pictures of Jonathan at a fancy party in the Hamptons. I was pretty sure that, although he’d chosen a career in the military, like his father, and then taken a job in law enforcement, there was money growing somewhere in the Black family tree. Maybe he was used to having servants.

  I wanted to learn more about his domestic help, but I was mainly curious about the question he hadn’t answered yet, and gesturing to the yellow tape, I posed it again.

  “Why are you outside of the crime scene, when the clues are probably inside?”

  I was half joking, but Jonathan wasn’t amused. In fact, his blue eyes were nearly as dark as the night sky that was unfolding above us, as the sun sank below the trees.