Pawprints & Predicaments Read online

  It was hard to believe that Bernie had ever growled at anything, and I wondered, once more, what he’d seen back at the forest.

  An animal?

  Or a human, watching us . . . ?

  “What if Elyse Hunter-Black really killed Lauren?” Moxie suddenly asked, without looking up from her drawing. “You said she was arguing with Lauren, right before the murder, and that Jonathan basically admits she’s a suspect. What if she really did it?”

  Of course, I had told my best friend everything I knew about the homicide.

  “I don’t know, Moxie,” I said, resuming my perusal of her closet, where I next found, and rejected, a 1960s jumpsuit in a sunflower pattern. “Jonathan doesn’t believe Elyse would commit murder, and I think he’s a pretty good judge of character. Plus, Elyse is his ex-wife. He must know what she’s capable of.”

  “Ex-wife,” Moxie echoed me, emphasizing the first syllable. Her fingers were flying, like she’d hit upon some inspiration. “People change,” she pointed out. “And everybody harbors secrets.”

  That was true.

  Would I learn more about the strange stuff in Gabriel’s past, when we met up later that night?

  Was he a suspect?

  “Where’s Gabriel taking you tonight, anyhow?” Moxie inquired, abruptly changing the subject to the guy I’d just been thinking about. I wasn’t overly surprised. She could always read my mind. “Why do you have to dress up?”

  “Gabriel suggested we meet at Zephyr, that new place in the renovated train station,” I said, shoving aside a hanger that held what I believed was a 1940s flight attendant’s uniform. “I’ve heard it’s kind of fancy.”

  Moxie didn’t say anything, and I turned to see that she was gawking at me.

  “What?” I asked, with rising concern. “Did somebody get food poisoning there or something?”

  “Umm . . . not exactly, Daph!”

  I knit my brows, confused. “Then what?”

  Moxie also seemed baffled—by my ignorance. “You do know that Zephyr is the most romantic restaurant in the Poconos, right?” she asked. “The dining room is lit only with candles, and you can order snails!”

  Ignoring Moxie’s assertion that slimy, gray mollusks were romantic, I frowned, and not just at the dress with the full skirt and puff sleeves that I was inexplicably holding, like I had the slightest intention of wearing it. “This sounds like it’s going to be awkward,” I said. “Now I kind of wish we were just going to the Lakeside.”

  “Oh, Daphne . . .” Moxie suddenly seemed sad. She set down her pad and rose up from the floor, while Bernie stretched out, taking up half of the room. Joining me at the closet, Moxie took the dress from me, replacing it on a rod that sagged under the weight of her extensive wardrobe. Then she turned to me, her expression uncharacteristically grave, although it was hard to take her seriously, given that she wore a pair of Asian-inspired silk pajamas that I swore I’d seen on one of the fictional Haynes sisters in the movie White Christmas. “The Lakeside was your place with Dylan,” she told me gently. “You need to find new places, with new guys.”

  All at once, I suffered a pang of sadness, too. Surfer and vet tech Dylan Taggert and I had always been very clear that our relationship would be casual, and probably end when one of us got wanderlust—which struck Dylan just as I was setting down serious roots in Sylvan Creek. But even though I’d been prepared for Dylan to move on, I still missed him, as did lots of patrons at the Lakeside, a dive bar on a pier in Lake Wallapawakee, where Dylan used to play his original folk songs.

  Moxie was definitely reading my mind, right then, and I didn’t have to explain what I was feeling.

  “Don’t look so glum,” she urged, pushing me aside and digging deeper into the closet. “You and Dylan weren’t meant to be together forever. There’s someone else for you. I know it, for a fact.”

  My best friend was also somewhat psychic. For example, she’d predicted that Artie the Chihuahua would be adopted by someone who’d allow the little dog to remain part of my life. That had turned out to be true. And although I still didn’t believe in commitment, I almost asked Moxie if she knew who the “someone else” might be, just for fun. I was sure she could at least offer a description. But before I had a chance to inquire, she pulled an outfit from the very back of the dark alcove and held it up for my inspection.

  “Voilà!” she cried, grinning. “This is perfect for you!”

  Moxie had done a bad job of painting my van, and she’d once subjected my spiral curls to a disastrous Brazilian blowout, but I had to admit that she’d somehow conjured up a dress that was, indeed, perfect.

  “Wow, thanks, Moxie.” I accepted a hanger that held a floaty, knee-length cocktail dress in an unusual shade of grayish-green that almost matched my eyes. “This is gorgeous. And totally my style. Whatever that is.”

  Moxie knelt down and crawled into the closet, searching the floor. “I have shoes to match, too. They’ll be a little small for you, but it’s only for a few hours.”

  I stepped back to give her some space, and a moment later, she emerged, holding an open shoebox that contained a lot of white tissue paper, which cradled a pair of pale green suede kitten heels with a pretty wave pattern stitched on the toes. The heels were a little high by my standards, but I breathed a sigh of relief. Most of Moxie’s shoes were four-inch stilettos.

  But when I accepted the box, my sigh turned into a small but piercing shriek.

  Chapter 19

  “Just give him this treat,” Moxie urged, trying to hand me some small yellow cubes. For the first time in my life, I didn’t immediately accept an offering of cheese. I was warily eyeing Sebastian, who was crawling around on the top of a large cage that Moxie had placed near a window overlooking Sylvan Creek’s main street. The view was nice, but I doubted that Sebastian spent much time inside the confines of the well-appointed enclosure, which included three levels for climbing, a wheel for running, and two slides. “You two have cheese in common,” Moxie needlessly pointed out, still holding out the snack. “And I think you owe him, after scaring the living daylights out of him. That box is his safe place!”

  “I scared him?” I rested one hand on my chest and took a step backward. Sebastian had reared up onto his haunches and was sniffing around with his twitching pink nose. He stretched out his neck, and his little paws grasped at the air. I had to admit, that was kind of cute—if I overlooked his naked tail, which continued to be a deal breaker. “He nearly gave me a heart attack.” I suddenly recalled that Moxie also had an irrational fear. “You should understand how I feel. You’re afraid of turtles, for crying out loud. At least you can outrun those!”

  Moxie shuddered. “Turtles are terrifying. They’re tiny dinosaurs! Didn’t you ever see Jurassic Park?”

  “I think there’s a slight difference between a tortoise and a T. rex,” I noted, still watching Sebastian, who was on all fours again, creeping closer to me, his pink eyes blinking. I knew that rats had terrible vision, and that I was probably just a blur to him. I also understood that I needed to coexist with my best friend’s new companion, and I finally held out my hand. “Here. Give me the cheese,” I requested reluctantly. As she handed over the treat, I noted little dark flecks in the soft cubes. “Really, Moxie? Pepper jack?”

  She shrugged. “He likes spicy stuff.”

  “O-o-o-okay.” I wasn’t entirely convinced that jalapeños were good for animals. Then again, Sebastian was a rat. Left to his own devices, he’d eat garbage.

  I was suddenly struck by the nightmare image of rats swarming in a Dumpster, their naked tails twining, and I struggled to force the picture out of my mind.

  You are being ridiculous, Daphne! You LOVE animals!

  I kept telling myself that, but I had to take a deep, calming breath before bending down closer to Sebastian, who’d crept to the very edge of the cage’s roof, just a few inches from me. He was on his hind legs again, begging for a treat, and I reluctantly held out one of the cubes for him to ta
ke.

  But just as his little paws reached out, I dropped the pepper jack, not because I was freaked out by Sebastian’s tiny fingers—okay, I was a little freaked out—but because I’d spied something out the window. A person walking quickly and purposefully down the street.

  In my excitement, I forgot about my musophobia and offered Sebastian another cube to replace the one that had bounced to the floor, clearly disappointing him.

  Then, while he gulped down the snack, I apologized to him—and to Moxie and Bernie, too—telling them all, “I’m sorry, but I have got to go. Now!”

  Chapter 20

  Time was of the essence, and I raced across Market Street, doing my best to run in Moxie’s heels, which were at least a size too small and pinching my piggy toes.

  My mother kept a very rigid schedule, and I knew that her evening coffee run to my bakery would only take about twenty minutes.

  Needless to say, caffeine-dependent Realtor Maeve Templeton had not only mastered the complicated Italian coffee machine, but she had somehow secured a key to my storefront.

  I kind of wished I’d given myself an energy boost before hurrying through town, no doubt looking like a crazy person in my gauzy dress, which peeked out from under a wool coat that Moxie had also loaned me.

  Fortunately, the street was practically empty that cold winter evening, and I didn’t see anyone as I ducked past the tasteful black sign with gold lettering that told potential home buyers and sellers that they’d located Maeve Templeton Realty, Inc.

  Twisting the knob on a dignified, dark wooden door, I slipped inside the pretty 1800s white clapboard building, which was unlocked, as I’d expected. My mother didn’t leave much to chance regarding her empire, but she’d also spent her entire life in Sylvan Creek, and needless to say, she didn’t bother sealing her business up tight when she was only going down the street for a few minutes.

  Closing the door behind me, I passed through the dark reception area, pausing for just a second to grab a complimentary Belgian chocolate from a basket. Then I made a beeline to Mom’s office, where a single light burned on an immaculate desk.

  Honestly, aside from the gooseneck lamp, there was nothing on the gleaming wooden surface but an open laptop, a neat stack of papers, a phone, and a holder with business cards.

  Although I was trying hard to keep the bakery clean, my Lucky Paws office-on-wheels was a disaster, and I couldn’t help wondering, as I often did, how my mother made so much money without making a corresponding mess.

  Then I realized I was wasting time, and as I unwrapped my chocolate, I turned my attention to a big rack of keys that dominated the wall behind my mother’s desk. I knew that Mom kept spare keys to all of her rentals, and I had a sneaking suspicion that, as she showed properties, she quietly gained entré to buildings that were none of her business, too.

  Fortunately, the key that I sought was on one of the first pegs I checked; popping my treat into my mouth, I quickly snatched it down. Then I hurried out the back door of the office and rushed up a set of wooden stairs that led to an exterior door on the second floor.

  This entrance was locked, and my fingers fumbled as I tried to insert and twist the key.

  Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to focus. And the next thing I knew, I was inside Lauren Savidge’s apartment.

  The efficiency was very dark and I couldn’t see a thing, so, although I was reluctant to turn on a light, I felt around the wall for a switch.

  Finding one near the door, I flipped it, blinked a few times to adjust my eyes to the sudden brightness, then gasped, softly, “Wow!”

  Chapter 21

  When I first started Lucky Paws Pet Sitting, my mother, hoping that I planned to build my own business empire, had enrolled me in an adult-learner night class called Successful Entrepreneurship at nearby Wynton University. I didn’t recall much about that experience—at least, not the parts about accounting and taxes—but I had enjoyed making what the instructor had called a “vision board,” which was basically a bunch of pictures and inspirational quotes cut out of magazines or printed off the Internet, then assembled on poster board as a visual reminder of all that we students hoped to achieve.

  If I remembered correctly, my board for Lucky Paws had primarily featured pictures of puppies and kittens, interspersed with quotes from ancient Greek philosophers, none of which pertained to commerce. In fact, some of my favorite citations had cautioned against the acquisition of wealth. The instructor, a perky “career counselor” named Jean, had pointed that out, several times, as potentially problematic.

  As I stood in the apartment that Lauren Savidge had occupied for the last several weeks, I found myself wondering what Jean would think of Lauren’s version of a vision board, which hung above a small kitchen table furnished by my mother.

  “What is the deal with this thing?” I whispered, although no one was around to hear. “What the heck . . . ?”

  Clearly, the board, which was littered with sticky notes and photos attached by pushpins, was meant to help Lauren keep track of people and events she’d already filmed for America’s Most Pet Friendly Towns, as well as plan for future shoots. There was a photo of Moxie’s salon, with a date written in Sharpie on the margin. I presumed that was the day poor Marzipan had lost his puffball. I located a picture of my bakery, too, the image of the storefront marred by three big black question marks, which no doubt reflected Lauren’s frustration with my failure to set an opening date. And Tessie Flinchbaugh, the kind, matronly owner of Fetch! boutique, had been nice enough to pose for her photo. She stood waving outside her shop, which had apparently been visited by the crew in late December. Not only had Lauren also dated that shot, but Tessie wore one of her trademark seasonal sweatshirts, featuring a dog in a top hat, prancing under the phrase “Yappy New Year!”

  In a way, the board was innocent enough. A visual calendar of sorts, created by a woman who worked in the visual medium of television.

  But upon closer inspection, there was something unsettling and stalker-ish about the display, too. I found an image of me playing with Butterbean the bilious pig, which looked like it had been taken by someone who’d aimed a camera over the fence that surrounded his home—probably right after I’d told Lauren not to film on the property.

  “Creepy,” I muttered, allowing my gaze to roam around the rest of the corkboard.

  Not surprisingly, I quickly recognized more animals I watched, and more people I knew, including Mayor Holtzapple, who was tossing a ball for her Pomeranian, Pippin, in Pettigrew Park. That was a mouthful, and Lauren had expanded upon the “p” theme by attaching the phrase “Paranoid Wingnut!” to the photo. I thought that was unfair.

  At least, I’d never known Henrietta Holtzapple to be paranoid. Maybe slightly wingnutty, but no worse than most people.

  Then I saw a shot of Piper, whose image had been captured as she’d locked up her practice. I doubted that she’d been aware that she’d been photographed, either, and a judgmental sticky note complained that my sister was, “Uncooperative!! Stubborn!!”

  “Well, that’s kind of true,” I quietly agreed.

  Continuing to search the board, I next found a photo of Victor Breard, head of Big Cats of the World. Only that image was a little different from the rest. Most of the pictures seemed like Polaroids, to me. They were uniformly square, with distinctive, old-fashioned white borders. But the photo of Victor, who wore a dark, sober suit that was at odds with a flashy gold tie, was glossy with ragged edges, and obviously torn from a magazine.

  Victor was scowling, his head turned slightly away, like he was avoiding the photographer, and when I peered more closely, I could see part of the accompanying article’s headline, although most of the text was torn away.

  “Zookeeper Sen . . .”

  What did that mean?

  And why had Lauren circled Victor three times with her Sharpie, making heavy, black concentric circles around his face, like a target with a human bull’s-eye?

  �
�I definitely need to look into that,” I said, with a glance at the clock on a small microwave.

  7:12.

  My mother would return in less than ten minutes, and I had a date to keep, so I quickly checked the board again, only to notice two more very interesting things.

  The first was a picture of Arlo Finch, who stared straight into the camera, looking less than his usual mellow self. In fact, he appeared quite stern. And although his face was lean and lined, he seemed younger somehow than the man who’d just sold me a sweater. The scenery behind him was plain and largely obscured by one of Lauren’s notes, written on a pink Post-it.

  “USPT 2016?”

  I had no idea what that meant, and I moved on to the last photo that had caught my attention. The world’s only unflattering shot of Elyse Hunter-Black, who appeared to be shopping on Market Street, her two greyhounds, Paris and Milan, walking serenely at her side.

  Needless to say, Lauren had pasted a comment next to her boss’s image—although it was the kind of message that probably would’ve gotten Lauren fired, if Elyse had ever seen it. And the note wasn’t exactly G-rated, either. Lauren had lumped Elyse in with the two female dogs, then added a few of her trademark exclamation points after the expletive.

  “Ouch,” I whispered, wincing. “That’s harsh!”

  But perhaps not as harsh as the note that Lauren had stuck at the very top of the corkboard, which apparently summed up her opinion of Sylvan Creek, in general: “LUNATICS!”

  “That’s really not nice,” I muttered, right before I checked the clock again.

  Fortunately, I had a few minutes to spare, and I turned to move toward the door—only to hear footsteps outside on the stairs.

  There wasn’t time to turn out the light, or even think about hiding. So I simply stood there, frozen in place, in a murdered woman’s former home, as someone rattled the doorknob.