Pawprints & Predicaments Read online

  “I can’t search the site again,” he informed me. “I’ve taken myself off the case.”

  For once in my life, I had no idea what to say. My jaw actually dropped, and I took a step backward, stumbling into Bernie.

  Fortunately, before I could fall again, Jonathan reached out and grabbed my elbow, which he held on to, firmly.

  “Come on,” he said, guiding me and Bernie toward the path that led to the festival grounds. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter 16

  “Thanks for the snack,” I told Jonathan, who was handing me a steaming paper cup full of vegetarian chili, sold at a Winterfest booth operated by one of Sylvan Creek’s best restaurants, the Wolf Hollow Mill. Jonathan took Bernie’s leash from my other hand so I could use a spoon, and I quickly took a bite of the rich, fragrant stew of tomatoes, beans, and spices. Suddenly, the evening felt much warmer. “Really, I appreciate this,” I added, digging into the cup again. “I don’t know what happened to my wallet, which I swear was with me when I left Plum Cottage.”

  “I have a few theories,” Jonathan said. He held Bernie’s lead loosely, and as I’d expected, the dog fell quietly into step with him. Jonathan acted like he had no more interest in canines, but he was a natural pack leader. He bent slightly to look me in the eye, and I was glad to see that he wasn’t quite so somber, even if he was laughing at my—or would that be his?—expense. “It’s probably buried under the burrito wrappers on the floor of your van.”

  “If you had a mobile business, your vehicle would be a mess, too,” I said, defending myself.

  “I don’t really think so,” Jonathan countered, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement.

  He was right, and I decided to drop the debate.

  Besides, we’d reached the bonfire, which was blazing, and he was gesturing for me to take a seat on one of the empty benches that ringed the circle of stones. Tail Waggin’ Winterfest was primarily a nighttime affair, much more quaint when the lanterns glowed against the snow, and the festival grounds were still quiet just after sunset. Arlo Finch hadn’t even shown up yet to sell his dog sweaters, which kind of surprised me. All of the other vendors were open, if lacking patrons. I also noted that Max Pottinger wasn’t there yet to spin his yarn about the dog who was stretching out at Jonathan’s feet, oblivious to the cold and snow.

  All at once, I wondered if Bernie’s appearance in the flesh would ruin Max’s story.

  “We should probably talk, then move on,” I suggested. “I don’t think Max Pottinger wants the legendary Saint Bernard to be quite so visible. I’m pretty sure he gets paid for leading his walks to ‘find’ the dog.”

  Jonathan sat down next to me and finally reached down to scratch Bernie behind the ears. “Yes, you’re probably right,” he agreed. “Bernie’s existence—in furry, quite normal, form—definitely makes the old tale less compelling.” He rested back on the bench, turning to me and growing more serious. “Monsters and ghosts, once unveiled as ordinary phenomenon, tend to lose their mysterious appeal.”

  Wow, he had a nice way of speaking.

  “But there is something strange about Bernie,” I said, forcing myself to focus. “You need to know—”

  Jonathan raised one hand. “I told you. I don’t really need to know anything. This isn’t my case anymore.”

  I’d finished my chili, and I set the cup down next to myself. I was almost too warm at that point. The chef hadn’t skimped on the jalapeños, and the bonfire was roaring, filling the air with the comforting, familiar scent of burning hickory. “What happened?” I inquired. “Why aren’t you investigating?”

  “I think you know,” Jonathan said, watching my eyes. The fire cast shadows on his face. “I think you tried to tell me, the other night, that I might have a conflict of interest.”

  I suddenly grasped something that should’ve been obvious from the start.

  Elyse.

  Of course, he couldn’t impartially investigate his ex-wife.

  “So, Elyse told you that she had a fight with Lauren, right before the murder?” I asked, quietly. Not that anyone was around. “You know about that?”

  Jonathan’s expression was grim again. “Yes, of course, she told me everything. Even if she wasn’t an honest person, which she is, Elyse is smart enough to realize that quite a few people saw her and Lauren arguing.”

  “About?” I ventured tentatively.

  Not surprisingly, Jonathan didn’t answer that question. He would only indulge my amateur detecting to a small degree.

  “It’s not important,” he said, with a shrug. “But, apparently, the dispute was heated. And Elyse admits that she’d argued with Lauren several times, more privately. An impartial investigator would have to consider her a suspect.”

  “Are you impartial enough . . . ?”

  “That’s difficult for me to answer,” he admitted, stretching out his long legs, past Bernie, and staring thoughtfully into the flames. “I like to think that I would collect the facts and examine them objectively.” He shifted to meet my gaze again, and I saw that his guard was lowered, which only happened on rare occasions. “But she was my wife, Daphne,” he said, evenly. “I know Elyse. And I find it impossible to seriously consider her capable of murder.”

  I was the tiniest bit wounded by that comment, because Jonathan had previously, if not too seriously, considered me a potential murder suspect.

  Then again, at the time, he’d barely known me.

  “I had no choice but to excuse myself from the investigation,” he continued. “If only because I would appear biased, and perhaps cast doubt on any resolution that didn’t implicate Elyse. If I arrested someone else for the murder, and the case went to trial, any decent lawyer would raise questions about whether I’d looked hard enough at Elyse.”

  I understood what he was saying. But I wasn’t sure why he was telling me any of this. He certainly didn’t have to justify his actions to me.

  “Why are you sharing all this with me?” I asked, point-blank. “Why did you want to talk to me?”

  Jonathan took a long time to answer that question. I could tell that he was, as usual, choosing his words carefully. And while he gathered his thoughts, I looked past the fire to Arlo Finch’s stand again, only to see festival organizer Mayor Henrietta Holtzapple hang a cardboard sign on the still-shuttered hut. I could barely make out the hand-lettered words, but I was pretty sure the small poster said, CLOSED INDEFINITELY.

  That was odd. And disappointing. I really wanted to buy Artie another sweater as soon as I found my wallet.

  Her task complete, Mayor Holtzapple, who looked like a giant grape in a puffy purple down parka, turned to leave, then caught sight of me.

  For a split second, she appeared surprised, like I shouldn’t have been there. Then she smiled and waved one mitten-clad hand.

  I waved back, then returned my attention to Jonathan, studying his face by the firelight. He was almost impossibly handsome, in spite of the darkness that I sometimes glimpsed in his eyes. Heck, the fact that he’d endured, and understood, profound loss only made him more attractive, in a way, and I could understand why Moxie insisted that Elyse had come to Sylvan Creek to win him back.

  I’d been studying him so closely that I’d almost forgotten our conversation, until he said quietly and seriously, “I know that we’ve joked in the past about your attempts to solve murders. Or, at least, you’ve acted like I was kidding when I’ve discouraged you from getting involved in homicides.” He leaned closer to me, so I could see that he was deadly serious. “But I’m asking you, sincerely, to stay out of this case.”

  “But . . .”

  He squeezed my wrist, silencing me. His grip was as firm as his expression was grim. “You’re already getting involved. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have called me here.” He released my arm. “But what if your luck doesn’t hold out this time?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you can take care of yourself, and that you have a good partner in Socrat
es. But you have to admit, it was fortunate that I came along when you nearly got killed in Plum Cottage, and when Larry Fox tried to hurl you down a flight of stairs at Flynt Mansion.”

  I was pretty glib about the dangers I’d faced the last two times I’d investigated murders. And he was right. In spite of having Axis and Socrates to help me when Winding Hill Farm’s former caretaker, Mr. Peachy, had tried to knock me out with a hammer, I wasn’t sure what would’ve happened if Jonathan hadn’t arrived. Jonathan had been late on the scene when I’d nearly been shoved down a flight of stairs, while solving my next case, but he’d aided me then, too. And yet, I didn’t like him thinking that I was some sort of damsel in distress. I was glad when he added, “I’m not asking you this because you’re a woman. Or because you aren’t strong enough or smart enough to look out for yourself. You are certainly very intelligent, very resourceful, and—much as I hate to admit it—you have a knack for stringing clues together and solving puzzles.”

  I appreciated the compliments, even though I knew there would be a “but.”

  “However,” he said. “You lack the training, the tools, and—most importantly—the backup to go around solving crimes. I have a human partner, and a whole police force, standing behind me when I confront a killer. You have a basset hound.” He must’ve known I was about to defend Socrates, and perhaps note that he’d relied on a canine partner in a war zone, because he quickly added, “Not that Socrates isn’t also clever and good in emergencies. But he lacks formal training and backup, too.”

  That was the longest speech I’d ever heard Jonathan Black make, and I took a second to let everything he’d just said soak in. Both the compliments and the cautionary words. And while I was considering how to respond, he said softly and sincerely, “Please, Daphne. Don’t give me more to worry about, right now. I’m very concerned that Detective Doebler won’t show up at the right place and time, if you get yourself into trouble.”

  I was touched to realize that, in his own reserved way, he honestly did care about me. And I wanted to assure him that I wouldn’t get myself into any dangerous spots. But I was also practically bursting at the seams to tell him something that might be related to the murder.

  “I really appreciate you looking out for me,” I said. “And I understand your concerns. But can I at least tell you one thing that I noticed, which might be relevant to the investigation?”

  Jonathan opened his mouth, and I knew that he was about to remind me that he wasn’t on the case. And he almost certainly planned to tell me again that I shouldn’t even think about the murder. So I quickly cut him off by blurting, “When Bernie pulled Lauren from the lake, he had a barrel around his neck, like a Saint Bernard in an old movie. Don’t you think it’s odd that the cask is gone now?”

  Chapter 17

  Jonathan didn’t say much as we walked to the parking lot at the edge of Winterfest. I couldn’t tell if he was frustrated with me because I didn’t seem to be taking his advice about not meddling, or if he was thinking about the missing collar with the barrel attached.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” I finally said when we’d reached the gravel lot, which was nearly empty and ringed by the thick forest. Jonathan’s truck was parked closest to the festival, and we stopped next to it. Bernie came to a halt by my side. I couldn’t help noticing that his ears were pricked and alert, and his face was turned toward the trees, like he wanted to run into the woods. Then I looked up at Jonathan. “You’re not upset with me, are you?” I asked him. “I just couldn’t keep that strange fact to myself.”

  Jonathan gazed off into the dark forest, too. Then he rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “To be honest, I’ve mainly been considering what you told me about the missing barrel. I’d seen that on Bernie at the lake. It had struck me as odd. But I’d just assumed that you—or Graham—had removed the collar.”

  As we’d walked from the lake to Winterfest earlier, I’d told him about how Gabriel had found Bernie and hired me to watch him. He’d already known half of that story, from reading Gabriel’s articles about the dog in the Weekly Gazette.

  “I suppose whoever removed the cask might’ve taken Bernie’s tags, too,” Jonathan added. We’d both been studying the dog, who continued, in turn, to stare into the trees. Then Jonathan’s gaze shifted to me. “How long do you think Graham really had Bernie . . . ?”

  He seemed to catch himself, like he realized that he was getting dragged back into the case, while I suddenly recalled that I had plans that evening. Using my free hand, I pulled my cell phone from one of my jacket’s deep pockets and checked the time.

  “Oh, no,” I muttered. “I’m going to be late for dinner with Gabriel. I almost forgot, until you mentioned his name.”

  Dropping the phone back into my pocket, I saw that Jonathan had a strange look on his face. An expression that I couldn’t quite identify.

  “You should probably get going,” he said, bending to pat Bernie, who continued to stand stiffly. “Before this guy returns to the forest. He seems very focused on the woods.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. I tugged lightly on Bernie’s leash, trying to snap him out of his trance. “I probably should get moving.”

  “Have a nice evening, Daphne,” Jonathan said, opening to door to his truck. He got behind the wheel, adding, “And, please, listen to me about delving deeper into this case. It’s not mine—or yours.”

  I watched while he drove away, glad that he hadn’t given me a chance to respond before closing his door. I couldn’t stop thinking about a place I wanted to check out, maybe even later that evening. A spot that might hold some big clues to solving the murder. I would just have to be careful, because he was right. I couldn’t always rely on him to show up in the nick of time.

  “Come on, Bernie,” I said, jiggling his leash again, because his tail was suddenly sticking straight out, and the ridge of fur along his spine was raised, too. That struck me as very strange. Bernie was probably the least aggressive and most affectionate dog I’d ever met.

  He was starting to give me the willies, and I pulled harder on the leash, forcing him to walk toward the van. “Let’s go,” I urged, glancing nervously at the trees.

  It was getting pretty dark, and from what I understood, Bear Tooth State Park supposedly harbored quite a few of its namesake creatures.

  Plus, someone had just been murdered not too far from the parking lot.

  Then, just as we reached the VW, the back of my neck began prickling like crazy, because sweet, lovable, protective Bernie hunkered down and growled.

  Chapter 18

  “Thanks so much for loaning me an outfit and for watching Bernie while I’m at dinner,” I told Moxie, who was sitting on the floor of her quirky, eclectic garret apartment, which was located on the third floor of a turreted Victorian structure that also housed my favorite book store, the Philosopher’s Tome. Moxie was resting against Bernie, who curled around her while she sketched possible sled designs for the Cardboard Iditarod. Stepping over Bernie’s fluffy tail, I headed for the alcove that served as Moxie’s closet. “I didn’t have time to take him back to Plum Cottage, change clothes, and return to Sylvan Creek by seven thirty.”

  I didn’t mention that I also needed a few minutes to conduct what might or might not be a break-in.

  “It’s no problem,” Moxie assured me, her pencil continuing to scratch against her sketch pad. Although she had a look of intense concentration on her face, she managed to follow the conversation. “I can imagine that you lose track of time when you’re sharing chili with Jonathan Black.”

  I pushed aside a mod, floral fabric panel that hid the closet, revealing Moxie’s huge wardrobe, which was crammed into a small space under a peaked eave. “Jonathan was warning me not to investigate Lauren’s murder,” I reminded her. “It wasn’t a date.”

  “Whatever.” Moxie waved off my comment. “And he should encourage you to nose around. You noticed that Bernie’s barrel is missing. I think that might be important.”


  “I’m pretty sure Jonathan believes it, too,” I said, beginning to flip through Moxie’s clothes. I wasn’t sure what I hoped to find. We didn’t exactly share the same style sense. The alcove was packed with outfits that screamed “Jackie O,” while I was more . . . I didn’t know what I was. Definitely not someone who would wear the admittedly gorgeous, but scratchy-looking, vintage, red-wool Chanel suit that I was holding up for inspection. “At the very least, the missing barrel indicates that someone met up with Bernie in the woods after Lauren’s death and removed it, for some reason.”

  “Unless Gabriel’s got the barrel,” Moxie noted. “Maybe, when he caught Bernie, he thought the cask looked uncomfortable, hanging under the poor dog’s chin, and he took it off.” She stopped sketching long enough to look up at me and prop her fists under her own chin, mimicking a sleeping dog. “It would be hard to rest with a big keg digging into your throat!”

  I pushed aside more hangers. “I don’t think Gabriel was too worried about Bernie’s comfort. But I will ask him if he has the barrel. Although I kind of doubt it. We talked about Bernie’s collar, and how he didn’t have any tags. I think something as odd as a barrel would’ve come up.”

  We got quiet for a moment, both of us no doubt puzzling over the missing cask.

  Well, I was puzzling. Moxie put the finishing touches on a sketch, then turned the pad so I could see her design.

  Yikes.

  “I don’t know,” I said, trying to be diplomatic. “I think a sled that looks like a giant taco is a bit cliché for a Chihuahua. And the serapes and Mexican hats on the dogs . . . It might be . . .”

  I had been about to say “overkill.” Or maybe “culturally insensitive.”

  But before I could finish my thought, Moxie put her own spin on things. “Too warm and sunny for winter festival,” she said, flipping her pad to a fresh page. “I see what you mean.”

  I hadn’t said anything about the sled being too “sunny,” but I didn’t bother pointing that out. Moxie was biting her lip, her brows knit in concentration as she settled back against Bernie to begin a new sketch. I thought most dogs would’ve objected to being used as a cushion, but he remained curled around her, like one of those pillows with arm rests for reading.