“Yip!” Artie barked shrilly and wriggled on the seat, his brown eyes bulging with excitement. He loved costumes, even scary ones, and probably thought I should’ve dressed like the personification of Death and strolled onstage, seeking a role.
“Well, I think I’m stuck doing the play now,” I informed him, steering the van carefully down the dark, narrow country road, which was lined with snow-covered pine trees. The VW’s unpredictable heater was working overtime that night, and I tugged at my plaid scarf, feeling too warm. “I can’t let Ms. Bickelheim—and the whole community—down!”
That was probably an exaggeration. The annual production of A Christmas Carol, always held at the high school, was probably the least popular of the town’s many holiday events. Still, if Ms. Bickelheim honestly believed I’d accepted a key, if tiny and wordless, role, it hardly seemed nice to leave her high and dry.
“I’m not sure about the gown, either,” I noted, turning off the main road onto a path that was nearly hidden by the trees. The van jolted and bumped, which caused one of the headlights to blink out, just for a moment. “It really is gorgeous on paper, but don’t you think hiring someone to create a dress I’ll only wear once is a little extravagant? It’s not like when Moxie alters something for free.”
Artie yipped again, and I could tell he thought I should commission Ivy to make the gown, which really had looked amazing. I was downplaying how pretty the dress had been—and how much I wanted to wear it to Bark the Halls.
“Vanity blossoms, but bears no fruit, as the old Nepalese proverb says,” I reminded Artie, who strained at his harness when we drifted to a stop, right behind a black truck that was parked where the lane dead-ended. The Chihuahua paused in his attempt to slip out of his safety gear to bark at me again. “I know,” I agreed, unclipping the harness. “That quote wasn’t very relevant. I’m just trying to convince myself not to spend a lot of money on a frivolous outfit.”
Artie, who had a short attention span, had lost interest in the conversation, so I got out of the warm VW, cringing when the cold air hit me. Then I went around to the passenger side and released both dogs, who bounded toward an A-frame log cabin that loomed against a sky dusted with swirling stars and smudged with smoke from a big stone chimney.
Seeing lights on inside the house, I followed Axis and Artie, my feet crunching loudly in the snow on that still night. Clomping up onto the porch, I pulled off one of my mittens and raised my hand to knock on the door, only to hesitate when my ears picked up another faint and unexpected sound.
As Jonathan Black opened the door before I could even rap, I asked him, with confusion, “Do I hear sleigh bells?”
Chapter 13
“Jonathan, this is amazing,” I said, leaning against a split-rail fence he’d built behind his house—along with a rustic, pine barn that was the perfect complement to the cabin. The homespun, honey-colored structure replaced ugly, warehouse-like, corrugated-metal buildings that had housed a dog-training academy run by the property’s former owner. It was difficult to believe those oversized sheds had ever existed on the snow-covered clearing where three blanketed horses—and two dogs—now played under the moonlight. And parked just inside the long, low-slung barn, visible under a soft spotlight, was a lacquered, black, old-fashioned sleigh, with a velvet seat and curved, red runners. I looked up at Jonathan, who was observing the horses with a half-smile on his handsome face. “When did you do all this? And I didn’t know you rode!”
“Yale equestrian team,” he said, surprising me with a glimpse into his past. Jonathan Black almost never referenced his personal history, unless I dragged the information out of him. I nearly fell over when he added, unprompted, “That is, I rode competitively before I dropped out of college to join the Navy.”
I wanted to ask for more details, but before I could pick up my jaw, which had thudded to my boots, he answered my question about the renovations. “I built the barn and fencing piecemeal, with the help of two former convicts who needed work experience as they transition back into society.”
I wasn’t surprised that Jonathan had given ex-prisoners an opportunity. He was something of a mentor to a young, troubled, former murder suspect, who considered Jonathan like an older brother. “That was a really nice gesture,” I told him.
He shrugged. “If you put people away, you probably have a responsibility to help them when they get out.” His smile faded, and he looked out over the pasture again, speaking more softly. “The project ended up taking quite a while. Much longer than anticipated.”
I felt like there was something he wasn’t telling me. Something related to the delays. “Jonathan . . . ?”
“As for the horses . . .” He spoke over me, pointing at the animals, two of which were lean and long-legged, standing at least eighteen-hands high. The other steed was a jet-black draft horse with a flowing mane and tail. When he pranced in the snow, he raised his hooves high, his steps exaggerated. Axis and Artie darted in and out between his legs, making me a little nervous, but it was obvious they all enjoyed the game. “The gray and chestnut thoroughbreds are mine,” Jonathan explained. “But the draft horse—the Friesian—is on loan to pull the sleigh.”
“Umm . . . pull the sleigh where?” I inquired, thinking I’d like a ride in the pretty vehicle.
Jonathan grinned at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Sorry. I’ve said—and you’ve seen—too much.” He lightly touched my arm and nodded toward the house behind us, where, through a wall of windows, I could see his floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and the fire roaring in the fireplace. “Plus, you’re shivering. Let’s go inside. Where you’ll promise me that you won’t mention the horse or the sleigh to anyone, quite yet.”
I had no idea what the mystery was all about, but I would do my best to keep my mouth shut until instructed otherwise. Then I realized that I shouldn’t make any promises until I received something in return.
Pulling back slightly, I told Jonathan, “I’ll keep quiet about your secret sleigh and horse, if you’ll answer my questions about CeeCee’s murder—and Moxie Bloom.”
Jonathan hesitated for a long moment. So long that I thought he was going to tell me to trudge back to my van and be on my way.
Then he took my arm again and said, quietly and seriously, “Come on, Daphne. For once, I think we should discuss a murder—and the fact that your best friend seems determined to get herself convicted of the crime.”
Chapter 14
“Is Moxie in serious trouble?” I asked Jonathan, who was opening a bottle of merlot. I sat across from him at his poured-concrete breakfast bar, perched on a surprisingly comfortable wood-and-metal, rustic-meets-industrial-chic stool. He hadn’t put up a tree or set out any holiday knickknacks, but the house—decorated by his professional-stylist ex, Elyse—was a winter wonderland in its own way, between the blazing fire, the hundreds of books waiting for snow-day reading, and the inviting, butter-soft, worn-leather furniture. Artie and Axis, tired from their adventures, were already curled up and sleeping on matching beds, which awaited them on a huge, faded, antique Turkish carpet that anchored and warmed the space. The scene was cozy, but I couldn’t relax as I accepted the tumbler of deep-red wine that Jonathan slid across to me. “It sounded as if her interrogation went poorly.”
Jonathan had been about to sip his own drink, but he set down the glass and dragged one hand down his jaw, which was stubbled. I could barely see the scar that always intrigued me. “Honestly, I shouldn’t tell you any of this. But I suppose I’m starting to accept that the rules I learned at the police academy don’t always—perhaps shouldn’t always—apply in Sylvan Creek.”
I grinned at him. “In other words, you’re becoming a ‘local’!”
“Let’s not go that far,” he said, resting back against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. He wore a long-sleeved, pale-blue T-shirt that made his eyes look even deeper blue than usual and accented his biceps pretty nicely, too. A shock of his dark hair fell over his forehead.
Moxie would’ve swooned and fallen off her stool, if she’d been there.
The thought of my friend brought me back to reality. “So, what’s happening with Moxie?”
Jonathan inhaled deeply, then let out his breath with a sigh of frustration. “She would not stop incriminating herself. No matter how I tried to help her—which I have never done, with any other suspect—she kept rambling on about how CeeCee French had wronged her in high school, and how Spa and Paw would have been . . . maybe still will be . . . destroyed by the new store, if the plans go through.”
I sat up straighter, while my heart went in the opposite direction, sinking fast. “You think we might still get a French’s Poodles & More? Because I’d assumed that, with CeeCee gone, that plan would vanish, too.”
Jonathan had opened his stainless-steel refrigerator and stuck his head inside, but he withdrew from the chilly compartment to shoot me a funny look. “Should I be questioning you?”
“Ha . . .” I started to laugh, only to realize that he was serious. “No. No, you shouldn’t,” I assured him, as he began searching the fridge again.
A few moments later, he emerged once more, this time with several varieties of cheese and a bunch of red grapes balanced in his hands. Setting all those items on the counter, he pulled a plate down from a cupboard. “French’s Poodles is more than just CeeCee,” he reminded me. “It’s a national chain. I doubt that decisions about locating stores were—are—made on a whim. The plan that was unveiled at the theater had likely been in the works for months, if not longer. And her death probably won’t signal the end of the company or the new store.”
I hadn’t considered any of that. CeeCee was such a force of nature that I’d imagined her running her stores like I ran Lucky Paws and Flour Power, making decisions alone and sometimes quickly. But, of course, that wouldn’t have been the case with a national, publicly held corporation.
All at once, I realized that CeeCee’s death’s potential failure to impact the establishment of the Sylvan Creek franchise could be a good thing for Moxie and other local merchants, at least in terms of making them less likely suspects in her murder.
“So, it wouldn’t make sense for Moxie, or Tessie, or anyone else to kill CeeCee to stop the store from coming here,” I noted, watching Jonathan wash the grapes and add them to the plate. “It probably won’t change anything.”
His back was to me, and he shrugged his broad shoulders. “I can’t assume that the killer thought things through. You assumed that Ms. French’s death would signal the end of the store. And it’s quite possible that whoever committed the crime was acting on pure impulse. From what I understand, based upon Elyse’s report and other accounts, Celeste French knew that she was dropping a bombshell on the whole town, and she appeared quite pleased with herself.”
That was all true.
Sipping my wine, I pictured chamber of commerce president Norm Alcorn’s pale face when CeeCee had commandeered the Bijoux. “Still, how could Norm not have known anything?” I muttered softly. “Especially if the store had been in the works for months . . .”
“What’s that?” Jonathan inquired, setting the plate, now laden with a richly veined blue cheese, a creamy wedge of goat cheese, a variety of crackers, and the grapes, onto the counter before me. “What did you say?”
“Nothing,” I fibbed, but only because I didn’t want to cast suspicion on Norm without real reason. I wasn’t going to bring up the man I was almost certain I’d seen around town lately, either. Not until I was 100 percent sure of his identity, at which point I’d probably have to tell Jonathan—and Moxie. In the meantime, I reached for a knife that Jonathan had also provided and cut myself a sliver of the pungent Roquefort, adding that to a cracker. Then I smiled at my host, who was well aware of my fondness for cheese. “It’s almost like you knew I was coming.”
“Someone’s been murdered, and, as usual, members of your cohort are involved,” he reminded me, leaning back again. “Even if you hadn’t watched the dogs—whom I should’ve picked up earlier . . . my apologies—I knew you’d show up at some point.”
I spoke through a mouthful of the best blue I’d ever tried, covering my mouth so I wouldn’t spray him with cracker crumbs. “This really was for me?”
“I do owe you for taking care of Artie and Ax when I was in a bind,” he said, downplaying his thoughtful gesture. “So I thought I’d pay you in your favorite currency—curds—and knock fifty more dollars off your debt, too.”
“Aw, thanks,” I said, smearing another cracker with goat cheese and topping that with a grape. “We must be about even, by now.”
He picked up his glass and raised it to me. “Let’s call the debt settled.”
“Deal,” I said, lifting my glass, too. We clinked and sipped. “And I don’t think I’ll be borrowing from you again, any time soon,” I noted. “Along with selling a lot of pet treats this year, and keeping my books, with the help of Fidelia Tutweiler . . .”
Jonathan lowered a skeptical eyebrow at the mention of my part-time accountant, who was also one of his former murder suspects. However, I trusted Fidelia and didn’t acknowledge his obvious doubts.
“. . . I also have a very exclusive client right now,” I informed him. “And I expect that I’ll be paid handsomely to watch her.”
Jonathan had been popping some grapes into his mouth, but he paused, his eyebrows arched. “You’ve got the poodle from the commercials?”
I nodded and took another sip of the wine, which was smooth, earthy, and warming. “Yes, Jeff Updegrove dropped off Snowdrop—who is as icy as her name—sometime this morning. I found her . . .” I suddenly realized that I was about to admit that my door had been unlocked, and quickly skipped ahead to, “. . . with an envelope full of what I assume are instructions and paperwork related to her care.”
Jonathan glanced at Axis and Artie. “So, Socrates stayed home with the cat whose name I’d rather not speak, because it makes me feel ridiculous, and a high-strung canine celebrity, rather than come here with Artie and Axis?”
“I thought it was weird, too,” I agreed, reaching for more of the blue cheese. Jonathan wasn’t indulging, and I wouldn’t want it to go to waste. “And speaking of weird . . . Don’t you think it’s odd that Jeff had to race off, right after his boss’s death?”
“Yes, I agree,” Jonathan said. “And his alibi, which places him alone in a room at the Sylvan Creek Hotel, isn’t exactly airtight—unlike your friend Tessie Flinchbaugh’s. You’ll be happy to know that Tessie was at that new coffee shop, Oh, Beans”—he rolled his eyes at the name—“where her laptop records and the barista—”
I sat up straighter. “Bitsy Bickelheim? My former English teacher, now director?”
Jonathan appeared confused. “No. Her name was Jane Landon. And what do you mean by ‘director’?”
My cheeks flushed with more than the wine. “I might’ve agreed to play the Ghost of Christmas Future in the Sylvan Creek Players’ production of A Christmas Carol.”
I could tell that Jonathan was picturing me in a big, black robe, because he covered his mouth and pretended to cough, to hide his laughter.
I waved my hand, urging him to move past the image. “Anyhow, about Tessie . . .”
“Oh, yes,” he said, his eyes still gleaming with poorly concealed mirth. “It seems pretty clear that Tessie Flinchbaugh was shopping extensively on a Web site called ‘seasonal sweaters dot-com’ at the time of the murder.”
“That makes sense,” I said, with a rush of relief on Tessie’s behalf. She and Tom had already endured one emotional homicide investigation. “Getting back to Jeff,” I said. “Did you know that Moxie and I went to school with him?”
Jonathan nodded. “Yes. He mentioned that you were all classmates. Which didn’t surprise me in the least, since you tend to have a history with every suspect, in every homicide I investigate.” He paused for a long time, and I could tell he was debating whether to ask me for background on Jeff. Then he sighed again and said
, “Go ahead. Tell me what you know about him.”
I grabbed a grape and popped it into my mouth, talking while I chewed. “First of all, I don’t think he remembered me at all, when I saw him at the Bijoux, which was kind of insulting.”
“And surprising, if not exactly pertinent,” Jonathan noted.
I wasn’t sure if he thought I was memorable in a good way or a bad way, so I forged ahead. “But from what I recall about Jeff, he was always the guy who tried really hard, but never quite excelled.”
Jonathan took some more grapes, too, and tossed them absently in the palm of his hand. “How so?”
“He was on student council, but, while CeeCee was president, Jeff held one of those offices nobody even understands, like sergeant at arms.”
Jonathan finally swallowed the fruit. “Or parliamentarian.”
I nodded briskly. “Yes! Exactly! I think he was that . . . thingy.”
Jonathan, who’d probably been class president in a string of foreign schools, leaned forward, resting his arms on the counter, so we were eye to eye. “Go on.”
“And while CeeCee was valedictorian, Jeff was . . .” I couldn’t recall the title of the person who came in second, in terms of class rank, either.
Jonathan supplied the word. “Salutatorian.”
I snapped my fingers. “Yes! That was Jeff. Always striving, but never quite matching up to CeeCee, especially.”
Jonathan leaned back again and frowned. “Yet he took a job with her company, right out of business school, and did work his way up. . . .”
A Midwinter's Tail Page 7
