“Forget the murder for a minute,” he said. “I really called you here to finally ask a question I tried to get out the other day, only to get coffee spilled down the front of my pants.”
I couldn’t help grinning at the image, which was comical, in retrospect. “What did you want to ask?”
Gabriel assumed a mock air of formality, but I sensed that he was serious when he inquired, “Will you do me the honor of attending the Bark the Halls Ball with me?”
* * *
“I guess I will need a dress without a tomato-sauce stain now that I have a date,” I whispered under my breath as I walked down the dark street toward my van, which I’d parked near Flour Power. I’d intended to stop in the bakery, just for a moment, to stock the glass case with some treats I’d left cooling in the kitchen, but I really needed to check on the dogs and Tinkleston, so I abandoned that plan in favor of heading straight home.
As I crossed the street, headed for the VW, I saw a faint light gleaming in the window of Ivy Dunleavy’s shop, and I wondered if she was working on the big, black cloak I’d soon wear onstage.
I also couldn’t help noting that Jonathan’s truck was still parked on the otherwise empty road, near the trees Brett Pinkney had hastily dumped by the hut, without setting them on their display stands.
Jonathan must’ve ridden to the station with Detective Doebler and Moxie. And apparently they weren’t done talking yet. Moxie’s apartment was still dark.
“Poor Moxie,” I mumbled, digging in my pockets for my keys. I stepped up to the VW. “I hope she’s . . . Hey!”
My soft-spoken comment ended in a shout as a little pug in a red sweater darted out from beneath my van. The adorable, if troublemaking, dog gazed up at me with his bulging eyes, and his curly tail whipped back and forth on his wriggling behind. His pink tongue darted in and out when he breathed.
“Who in the world are you?” I asked, bending to let him sniff my hand.
That was when I realized he’d dropped an object at my feet. Something shiny and silver, which lay right in front of my favorite cowgirl boots. Then, yipping three times, his voice high and excited, he scampered away on his stubby legs.
I wanted to chase the pup and check for a collar under his high-necked sweater, so I could possibly help him get home, but my feet seemed rooted in place.
It was almost as if they’d been speared to the ground by the razor-sharp scissors that glittered on the pavement, the menacing-looking blades twinkling like the bulbs that were strung in the bare branches above me.
But those scissors . . . They didn’t fill me with holiday cheer.
On the contrary, as I stared down at them, I suffered an icy, growing sensation of dread, deep in the pit of my stomach.
Chapter 16
The whole time I was creeping down the alley that ran behind Flour Power and Spa and Paw, I could hear Piper’s voice in my head, telling me to contact Jonathan immediately about the scissors, which I’d carefully tucked into one of the clean plastic doggy-doo bags that I kept in my van.
“Don’t meddle, Daphne,” my sensible sister kept saying in my imagination, as I nevertheless approached the back door to Spa and Paw, which was dark and silent in the wake of the officers’ departure.
“This will only take a minute,” I continued the one-sided conversation, trying to convince imaginary Piper—and myself—that I was doing the right thing. Then I twisted the knob, which spun, allowing me entry to Moxie’s shop.
Moxie Bloom was better than me when it came to locking up, but not by much, and I wasn’t surprised that the door was open. Needless to say, the police officers, under Jonathan’s supervision, had locked the front door, which I’d tried first.
Slipping inside the retro space, I inhaled the familiar odors of dye and bleach and the peppermint-scented shampoo that Moxie always used during the holidays, for people and pets. Then I absently reached for a light switch on the wall, only to catch myself at the last moment. Instead, I dug into one of my barn jacket’s pockets and pulled out my cell phone.
Swiping the screen, I found the flashlight app and shined the beam toward the floor, moving quickly to the cheerful, red 1950s metal cabinet Moxie used to store all her prized styling tools. Using my sleeve to cover my hand, I opened the narrow, top drawer, which held an array of scissors arranged carefully by size on a black velvet cloth.
“Oh, no,” I whispered, shining the light into the drawer. It was quite obvious that one of the larger pairs was missing. There was a distinct empty spot on the velvet.
I knew that my best friend was innocent, but my hands still shook as I set down the phone and pulled the plastic bag from my pocket, knowing that I shouldn’t handle potential evidence. But I had to know if the scissors the pug had dropped at my feet matched the set that was missing from the drawer, at least by my layperson’s estimation.
The bag crinkled loudly when I uncovered part of the shiny, silver tool, being careful not to touch it, and my heart was thudding in my chest, too. Which was probably why I hadn’t heard a car pull up outside and found myself standing there, caught red-handed, when Jonathan Black opened the back door and stepped into the salon, joining me.
Switching on the light I’d avoided using, so I could see his grim expression, he said, in a low, grave tone of voice, “Please tell me you’re not holding a previously missing pair of Edelstein ‘ultimate curved’ shears featuring Japanese molybdenum alloy blades that are cryogenically tempered for long-lasting durability.”
Fingers still trembling slightly, I took a moment to look carefully at the object in my hand, noting the maker’s name, engraved in tiny letters on the handle.
Then I swallowed thickly and told Jonathan, “I’m not sure about the molybdenum or the cryogenic part, but I’m afraid these do match at least part of your description.”
He didn’t say a word. He just kept staring at me, until I broke the silence, asking, hopefully, “I don’t suppose you’d believe that a troublemaking, elfin pug in an anti-Christmas sweater delivered these to my feet, would you?”
Jonathan still didn’t speak. Yet it was clear, from the set of his jaw, that the answer was no.
Chapter 17
“This is not good,” I said, shaking my head and tramping up onto my porch at Plum Cottage. The temperature felt like it had dropped about ten degrees during the ride home, probably because the VW’s heater was being temperamental again that night. I still suffered an icy feeling in my core, too, as I relived my attempt to convince Jonathan that my tale about the pug was true. We’d parted with Jonathan telling me to leave Spa and Paw, so he could think about how to explain the sudden appearance of Moxie’s previously missing scissors without having to take me in for official questioning—which was not an option he’d ruled out. “Nope,” I sighed, opening my front door. “Not good at all!”
Truer words were never spoken.
Stepping inside my snug, toasty home, I took a moment to let my eyes adjust to the surprisingly dim room, which was lit only by some embers glowing in the fireplace, although I’d been pretty sure I’d left the Christmas tree plugged in.
Then I spied a sad heap in the corner of the living room and cried, “Oh, you poor thing!”
* * *
“Well, we’ll definitely need a new tree,” I told Socrates, Tinkleston, and Snowdrop. Not that Snowdrop would acknowledge me. While I had freed Tinks from the mangled pine, where I’d found him tangled up in the lights, just like Moxie had been, the haughty poodle had retreated to her posh, oversized carrier. She sat just inside the arched entrance with her nose in the air—although I was pretty sure I caught her eyes rolling in my direction now and then.
Socrates, meanwhile, kept pacing back and forth, his head low and his ears swaying, as if he were trying to shake off the evening’s events. And Tinks, once liberated, had leapt onto the mantel, where he was hissing like a broken teakettle. His back was arched and his tail stood straight up, so my festive display of greenery and deep-red candles took on a Ha
lloween air.
“Enough,” I chided him, but gently, because I was pretty sure he’d been provoked into destroying the already woebegone tree. Propping my broom near the fireplace, I paused in cleaning up the last needles and dared to stroke his back, a gesture he endured, for once. “Calm down, okay?”
Tinks seemed to heed my advice. Hopping down from the mantel, he retreated on his puffball paws to his usual spot on the kitchen windowsill without so much as a glance at Snowdrop, who made a point of not looking at the cat, either.
“This must’ve been quite an evening,” I told Socrates, who’d finally sat down near the fire. “I know you’re not to blame, but maybe you can offer some insights into what really happened . . . ?”
My voice trailed off, because I realized that Socrates wasn’t listening to me. His gaze was trained on Snowdrop, and he had a funny, dreamy look in his droopy eyes.
I nudged him with my leg, compelling him to look up at me. “You’re not star struck, are you?” I teased. The comment was ridiculous, because Socrates was not impressed by fame nor fortune. Still, he’d been so lost in thought that I joked, “You looked a little bit like a teenager with a crush on a pop star!”
Socrates could contain his emotions better than Jonathan Black, which was saying something, but I swore that my favorite baleful basset hound looked sheepish when I said that.
“I’m just kidding,” I assured him, with another nudge. Then I moved to Snowdrop’s carrier and knelt down. The pampered poodle edged around, showing me her back, but I knew she was listening. “Hey,” I said, in a soothing voice. “Are you sure you don’t want to come out and eat something? I’m not a fancy Beverly Hills chef, but I do make my own food. It’s good.”
I could barely see Snowdrop’s face, but I was pretty sure I glimpsed a pink tongue licking her muzzle, like she was hungry.
However, she wasn’t about to deign to eat whatever I cooked yet, let alone socialize.
“Suit yourself,” I said, rising and nearly bumping into the small table that held the manila envelope, which I still hadn’t opened.
“Maybe there’s something in there about your diet,” I said, again addressing Snowdrop, while I snatched up the envelope and tore open one end, messing up the note that Jeff Updegrove had hastily scrawled before disappearing. “Or, at the very least, I’ll find some information that will tell me how to take care of you.”
Needless to say, Snowdrop didn’t reply from her crystal-encrusted cave, so I went to the kitchen and dumped the envelope’s contents onto the slightly bigger table there—only to discover that Jeff hadn’t provided me with any instructions related to the persnickety pup, or even contact information, in case I needed to get in touch with him.
The only things he’d left—aside from the dog—were a key, stamped with a tiny number 37 and attached to a thin, burgundy velvet ribbon, and something I already owned, but had lost track of ages ago. A puzzling artifact, which he’d likely taken from his parents’ garage or attic—because, no matter how strong Jeff’s school spirit might’ve been, back in the day, I doubted he traveled with his copy of the Sylvan Creek High Magical Memories yearbook, dating back to our senior year.
Turning over the familiar, nostalgia-inducing volume, I discovered a sticky note, which didn’t exactly explain why he’d given me a book filled with old pictures.
In fact, all it said was, “I believe you may find this helpful.”
Which really wasn’t helpful at all.
Chapter 18
“I hate to admit it, but it sounds as if Moxie is in deep trouble,” Piper said, unwrapping one of the tamales she’d purchased at my favorite Mexican restaurant, Casita Burrito.
Chef and owner Sofia Medina only made the time-consuming treats at Christmastime, and the batches usually sold out shortly after noon each day. Fortunately, my sister had swooped in early that snowy morning and bought a half-dozen of the pork and vegetarian varieties, as well as three cups of Sofia’s special ponche navideño, which was a hot, holiday fruit punch made with Mexican hawthorn, apples, guava, and cinnamon. The small feast was set up at Flour Power, where Mom had also joined us for lunch.
The storm outside was bad enough that Piper’s appointments and Mom’s showings were being canceled, and my shop’s door hadn’t opened in over an hour. Still, we ate gathered at the counter, instead of in the kitchen, so I could keep an eye out for customers. Plus, the view of Market Street, out my front window, was quite charming as the snow frosted the town.
“I wish Moxie—and Socrates and Snowdrop—would’ve joined us,” I said, pushing aside a basket of Christmas-tree-shaped dog cookies, so we’d have more room for our plates. The treats, studded with tiny dried-cranberry “ornaments” reminded me of the Charlie Brown tree that I’d returned to the forest near Plum Cottage, and I momentarily crossed my fingers, hoping everything would be okay while I was away for the day. I also made a mental note to stop by Brett Pinkney’s lot, down the street, to pick up another pine on my way home.
“Where are Moxie and the dogs?” Piper asked, untying a thin strand of cornhusk from around one of the tamales, which looked like rustic, wrapped gifts. “I hardly ever see you without Socrates!”
“Moxie understandably claimed she was too tired after defending herself to Jonathan and Detective Doebler last night,” I informed Piper and my mother, who was picking delicately at the masa and meat on her plate. Mom was always wary of “foreign food,” even if it was made a few blocks away. “She wanted to use her snow day cancellations to stay home and work on her elaborate, nighttime, gingerbread re-creation of Sylvan Creek.”
Since no one even bothered to raise an eyebrow over my comment about the cookie village, I moved on to answer Piper’s question about the dogs. “As for Socrates and Snowdrop—when the poodle refused to come along, by burrowing into her posh crate, Socrates decided to stay behind, too. He seems to have some sort of clinical fascination with our resident star.”
“Hmm . . . Do you think it’s just clinical?” Piper mused, a funny smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
I had no idea what she was talking about. “What?”
“I saw Socrates gazing raptly at Snowdrop, at the theater,” Piper said, breaking into a full-fledged grin. “And, while I don’t normally ascribe human feelings to canines, I’ll admit that Socrates is rather special—”
“What are you getting at?”
“I think Socrates is in love,” Piper said, her eyes twinkling behind the lenses of her wire-rimmed spectacles. “To the degree that dogs are capable of romantic feelings.”
I couldn’t believe my sensible sibling had just admitted that animals might fall in love—something I was convinced was true. But she was dead wrong about Socrates and Snowdrop.
“You have got to be kidding!” I cried, through a mouthful of masa. I raised my hands to my lips, but kept talking. “Those two are complete opposites!”
Piper’s gaze cut to the bamboo plant. “Yes,” she noted slyly. “Those types sometimes attract.”
“You and Roger are cut from the same cloth,” I pointed out, knowing full well that Piper was talking about me and Jonathan. I appreciated that my newly-in-love sister wanted me to find the type of happiness she shared with her boyfriend. But, honestly, I almost wished she’d go back to rolling her eyes at my strange relationship with Jonathan Black, and I shifted the conversation back to the dogs. “And we’re talking about Socrates, here. There’s no way he has the slightest interest in a snobby canine actress!”
“Your dog is not in love, Daphne.” My mother ended the debate with a firm pronouncement that overlooked the fact that Piper had made that claim, not me. She waggled her fingers dismissively. “The whole idea is ridiculous!”
Maeve Templeton didn’t care about canines, who couldn’t sign leases or apply for mortgages. She was, however, concerned about me—or, more accurately, about how my increasing involvement in CeeCee French’s homicide investigation would reflect upon her.
“Poodles a
nd scissors and yearbooks from classmates!” she added, sounding like a disgruntled Julie Andrews, singing “My Favorite Things.” But clearly, those items did not please my mother at all, and I regretted an earlier mention of the curious objects Jeff Updegrove had given me, one of which was in my pocket. For some reason, I was carrying around the key, although I still had no idea what it was supposed to unlock. Then Mom shook her head, her too-asymmetrical bob swinging. “Why must you be involved in such strange, and public, mysteries, Daphne?”
“I’m honestly trying to stay out of this, publicly,” I said, sipping the punch. The blend of exotic and familiar flavors momentarily whisked me away to a Christmas I’d spent in the pretty Mexican town of Zacatecas. I set down the paper cup. “I haven’t even spoken to Gabriel about the case.”
“Well, he’s still covering it extensively,” Piper said, reaching for her phone, which she’d set on the counter near her paper plate. She tapped the screen a few times and held it out for Mom and me to see. “There’s a picture of poor Moxie exiting the police station last night.”
“Oh, no,” I groaned, studying the image, in which my best friend was descending the steps at the station. She wore a pair of elvish, red-and-white-striped tights, fur-topped boots, and the vintage green coat she’d worn to the Bijoux. “Do you think the fact that Moxie’s smiling and waving—no doubt greeting Gabriel—makes her look innocent, or like a heartless killer?”
“Hmmm . . .” Mom’s lack of an answer spoke for itself, and, although I knew that Gabriel was just doing his job, for a split second, I suffered a flash of frustration with him. We seemed much more compatible when he wasn’t covering murders that involved people I loved.
“I honestly don’t know if the shot does Moxie a disservice or not,” Piper said, setting down the phone and picking up her fork. She scooped up a healthy bite of her tamale. “It could go either way. But I do think she should get a lawyer about now.”
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