Flopping back in his chair, Mike dragged his hands down his face. “Oh, Tiny Tim . . .”
The little pug rolled over, playing dead about as well as I would in a few days, onstage. I wanted to smile at Tiny Tim’s pathetic attempt to avoid a scolding, but I had a serious question on my mind. One that I was half-afraid to ask, even though I couldn’t really believe Moxie’s former love was a killer.
“Mike,” I nevertheless ventured, gently. “You were at the park, too, weren’t you? Not long before the body was found. I’m pretty sure I saw you walking near the creek.”
Mike’s whole body stiffened, and he didn’t respond for a long minute. The only sound in the room was Tiny Tim’s rapid, snuffling breathing. Then Mike sat up, looking at me again and nodding gravely. “Yes. I had hoped you hadn’t seen me. You seemed very focused on the man you were with.”
I felt warmth creep into my cheeks. “That was actually Jonathan Black.”
Mike nodded. “Yes, of course. I forgot that the Gazette’s first story mentioned that a detective had been among the first on the scene.”
I wondered, for a moment, if I had been identified in that article. I’d left the park before Gabriel had arrived, and Jonathan didn’t make a point of sharing information if he could help it. But Gabriel had texted me that quick note—Another body!—so he must’ve known about my role in the grim discovery soon after it had happened. Making a mental note to check the paper’s online archives, I returned my attention to Mike, who had finally sat back in his chair, although I wouldn’t have called his posture relaxed. “Why didn’t you tell the police you were there?”
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” he said reasonably. “I was looking for Tiny Tim, who had disappeared again.” Mike nudged the dog with his foot, and the pug popped to his feet, then jumped up on the chair with Mike, who stroked him absently. “I was gone before anything really happened, and—like any normal person—I don’t want to be involved in a murder investigation, so I never came forward. Never thought I had a reason to come forward.”
I hoped he was telling the truth. I hoped he really didn’t have cause to speak up. Yet, I thought he should talk to Jonathan. In fact, that was probably unavoidable.
I rose, thinking it was time for me to leave soon. Right after I urged him to do the right thing. “Mike . . .”
“I know,” he said, his jaw clenched with resignation. Setting Tiny Tim on the floor, he stood up, too. It was getting late, and the fire cast shifting shadows on his face. “I’ll talk to the detective. Not only because I am involved, at this point. But because it might help Moxie.”
I’d been slipping on my coat, which I’d set down near the fire, but I jerked to a stop with only one arm in a sleeve. “How so?”
“Suspicion will be shared with me,” he said. “I’ll make it clear that I had no fondness for CeeCee French.”
“You’d do that for Moxie?” I asked, stunned by the gesture. “But . . . ?”
“Of course, I’d do that.” Even in the dim room, I spied a faint flush on his cheeks. “I owe her that much. And more.” He hesitated, as if considering whether to tell me something. Then he confided, quietly, “I sometimes walk around in the evening, trying to build up strength in my leg. I often pass through the alleys—keeping that low profile—and I stopped one time at the back door to Spa and Paw, telling myself I should go in. At least let Moxie know that I was in town, so she wouldn’t get an unpleasant surprise in a more public place.”
I had no idea where he was going with the story. And I wasn’t sure if muddying Jonathan’s pool of suspects was a good idea, even if Mike’s heart was in the right place. Not that I hadn’t interfered in a few investigations, myself, with similarly good intentions. Regardless, I stayed quiet, letting him finish his anecdote.
“I actually twisted the knob, and the door was open, but Moxie wasn’t there,” he continued. “I think she was gone for the day, because the place was very quiet.” He shrugged. “I suppose, if she makes a habit of leaving Spa and Paw wide open, it would be easy enough for anyone to take something from the salon.”
That was true, and I felt a surge of hope that, if the scissors did turn out to be Moxie’s, it would also be easy to prove that someone else had removed them from her shop. Then I realized how badly Mike would be implicating himself, if he related his tale and theory to Jonathan, and I said, firmly, “No, Mike. Don’t tell Detective Black that story. Don’t make yourself look guilty, unless you . . .”
The words tumbled out almost before I could stop them. I hadn’t even realized I’d been about to say “unless you are guilty” until it was too late.
Mike knew where I’d been headed with my comment, but he didn’t say a thing. He just took a few steps toward the door.
Tiny Tim and I followed, the pug attempting to trip me, while I tried to figure out if I should apologize, or if it was too late for that.
All three of us stopped at the threshold, and I bit my lip, then decided I had to try to fix my error. “I’m really sorry, Mike,” I said. “I don’t believe you killed CeeCee.”
He tried to smile, but it was bitter. “Well, I am a cheater. It probably doesn’t seem like that big a leap to killer.”
“No, it’s not like that.” I heard the misery in my voice. “That dance was years ago. We were all kids, and we all did stupid things.”
He didn’t respond right away, and I said, “You really should reach out to Moxie. Tell her, yourself, that you’re back in Sylvan Creek. Because you will see her sometime, in a town this small,” I reminded him. “Especially if you’re both mixed up in a murder case. So why don’t you just contact her? It might go well. And, like I said, coming home can be a good thing.” I gestured around his small home. “But not if you lock yourself away, no matter how charming the space.”
He was shaking his head, his attempt at steeling his eyes failing miserably. “No. I don’t think contacting Moxie is a good thing. I’ve been glad, ever since I stopped by her salon, that she wasn’t there.”
I didn’t see why they couldn’t at least have a cup of coffee. Unless he was hiding something, perhaps related to the mysterious circumstances surrounding that long-ago dance. I kept watching his eyes, which weren’t meeting mine. “Mike, what really happened at the formal? Why did you cheat with CeeCee? Because I know you really cared about Moxie.”
He jerked, like I’d slapped him. Then he said, through gritted teeth, “I didn’t actually cheat, Daphne. And I loved Moxie. But I’ll never share what really happened that night. Ever.”
I couldn’t believe that the story I’d assumed to be true, for years—the tale that had messed up Moxie’s and Mike’s lives—might not be accurate. And I suddenly felt this surge of hope that two high school sweethearts, both of whom almost certainly still carried, at the very least, flickering little torches for each other, might get another chance at love.
But that hope was quickly dashed when I asked, “Why not tell the truth, Mike? Why not just set the record straight?”
He shook his head again, the gesture more vehement. “No, never,” he said. “Because the truth involves people I haven’t seen nor heard of in years. And it’s much, much worse than what anyone—discounting one living individual and one who’s dead—imagine.”
Chapter 21
By the time I returned to Flour Power, after convincing Mike that we, at least, should exchange contact information, there was no sense in keeping the bakery open. Sylvan Creek was basically deserted, the sidewalks were deep with snow, and fat flakes continued to fall hard past the streetlamps that were flickering to life as night fell.
Removing Piper’s neatly hand-lettered sign from the door, I made sure the ovens were turned off, then switched off most of the lights, too, with the exception of the holiday bulbs around the window and door. Then, bracing myself, I stepped back into the storm and locked the door behind me.
When I turned around, I took a moment to look up and down Market Street, in spite of the wicked weathe
r. In fact, the town looked especially pretty as the snow settled on the bare branches of the trees, muting the canopy of white lights, while the windows of the otherwise dark storefronts glowed with holiday color. The Bijoux’s marquee was lit, advertising White Christmas, but showings had been canceled for the evening, and someone had spelled out, STAY WARM & SAFE! where the show times would normally be posted. Even Gabriel, who usually worked almost around the clock, had called it a day. The offices of the Weekly Gazette were shuttered for the night. And Brett Pinkney must’ve assumed that no one was going to buy Christmas trees in a near blizzard. I saw him down the street, climbing into his old-fashioned pickup truck, his shoulders hunched against the wind.
I tried to wave to him, but I was too late. The taillights of his truck lit up like Rudolph’s nose, and a few seconds later he was gone, swallowed by the swirling flakes.
Pulling my knit cap down over my ears, I started wading toward my VW, which was the only vehicle parked for the length of the block, only to notice that one local business owner hadn’t given up and gone home to weather the storm.
A light burned in Ivy Dunleavy’s tailoring shop, and, as I watched, a slender, shadowy form flitted quickly past the single, small window.
I stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, picturing the dress Ivy had shown me in her sketchbook. The gown I didn’t really need, and which would be an unnecessary extravagance.
Then I dug my mitten-clad hands into my pockets, ducked my chin against the rising wind, and trudged across the street.
* * *
“I know I don’t need a fancy gown, but I couldn’t resist,” I confessed to Socrates, as I prepared a bedtime snack for him and Snowdrop, who, to my knowledge, continued to fast.
I’d arrived safely at Plum Cottage after lingering in Sylvan Creek a little too long, given the conditions outside. I still wasn’t sure what had compelled me to rap on Ivy Dunleavy’s window and hire the very eager seamstress, last minute, to sew the gown I’d first seen in her sketchbook. Vanity, I supposed. A weakness that had been punished immediately with a harrowing drive up Winding Hill in the continuing blizzard. I was happy to be home in my flannel jammies and fluffy slippers, puttering around my warm, safe cottage, where, thankfully, creatures hadn’t stirred too much in my absence. The Christmas lights were in place, the greenery on the mantel was undisturbed, and Tinks was on top of the icebox, eating a Cranberry-Chicken Stocking Stuffer, made from rolled oats, dried cranberries, and boiled chicken breast.
Snowdrop had poked her head out of her crate when I’d opened the front door, only to shoot me, then Socrates, disappointed and disdainful looks before retreating into her private domain.
“Has she been in there all day?” I asked Socrates and Tinks, while I placed two Snicker-Poodles dog-friendly cookies onto white, snowflake-shaped plates. I hoped the pretty presentation—at least, the plates, while flea market finds, were pretty in my opinion—would meet Snowdrop’s high standards and convince her to dine with us. I set the treats on the floor in the kitchen. “Does she ever come out?”
Tinks stopped eating long enough to hiss, which I thought meant Snowdrop had, indeed, trotted around snootily while I’d been away.
Socrates didn’t respond. He looked despondently toward Snowdrop’s snazzy lair, then wandered over to his rug by the hearth, where he lay down with a thud, without eating his snack. It was not like Socrates to break his nightly routine, and I took a moment to watch his doggy eyebrows twitching, while his gaze remained fixed on the standoffish poodle’s abode.
“Oh, goodness,” I muttered softly to myself. Then I grabbed a mug of tea I’d brewed, joined him by the fireplace, and sat down cross-legged on the edge of his rug. “Hey.” I bent slightly to nudge him with my elbow, getting his attention. And when the basset hound I’d known since his puppyhood met my gaze, I knew that Piper had been right all along. Socrates was lovesick for a dog who wouldn’t give him the time of day. I could see the mixture of confusion and misery—topped off with a heaping pile of self-reproach—in his normally wise, stoic brown eyes.
“Apparently, Snowdrop doesn’t have such great taste, after all, if she’s snubbing you,” I whispered. “She might have a diamond collar and a cashmere sweater, but she doesn’t recognize real quality when she sees it.”
I’d kept my voice low, and the wind was rattling the shutters loudly, but Snowdrop must’ve heard. At the very least, she’d picked up her name, and the disapproving tone of my voice, because a bark of disagreement echoed from inside her lair.
I ignored her, figuring two could play at that game.
“And everybody falls for a complete mismatch at some point,” I added softly, nudging Socrates again. “It just . . . happens.”
Lying beside me, Socrates drew a deep breath and huffed, as if he wished that weren’t the case.
We all got very quiet then. Even the wind died down, and the sounds of the night were muffled by the falling snow, which was piled at least six inches high on the windowsills and the branches of the plum tree, which dripped with lacy icicles, too. The crackling fire warmed my back, and I sipped my tea, thinking about what I’d just told Socrates—and, for the first time, fully admitting to myself that Piper had also been right about me.
I was drawn to Jonathan and scared to admit it, because we were total opposites. Plus, early on, he hadn’t given me any reason to believe he had any interest in me. I still wasn’t convinced that he saw me as more than an amusing, sometimes frustrating friend.
However, as I sat there next to Socrates, who approved of Jonathan Black, I knew in my heart that, if Jonathan and I ever did move beyond friendship, I wouldn’t be able to keep the relationship casual and noncommittal, as I’d done with surfer and vet tech Dylan Taggart, and like I was doing with Gabriel Graham, who didn’t want or expect more than a date for dinner or a dance, now and then.
“I’ve been a big commitment chicken,” I told Socrates, who raised his head and shot me a sympathetic glance. Then I reminded myself that, while Jonathan and I had shared some charged moments, he wasn’t exactly busting down my door to ask me out, and I added, “But, in my defense, Jonathan wasn’t the guy who invited me to Bark the Halls. Only Gabriel asked me to be his date.”
Socrates gave me a funny look, like he knew something that I didn’t, as I believed was often the case. Unfortunately, our conversations were always somewhat one-sided, and I couldn’t ask what was on his mind.
Resisting the urge to pat him, because he would’ve hated that, even in his confused state, I stood up and shuffled to the kitchen, where I set my empty mug in the sink before giving Tinks, who was curled up on the windowsill, a quick scratch behind the ears. I was pretty sure he purred.
Not wanting to press my luck by trying again, I withdrew my hand and padded over to the small table by the door, where I’d placed Ivy’s sketch of my dress. She’d loaned me the drawing so I could plan for shoes and accessories while she hopefully delivered on her promise to whip up the gown in record time.
Picking up the paper, I saw the yearbook, too, with its strange note—I believe you may find this helpful—so I also grabbed that and went to the loveseat, where I curled up, pulling a soft throw over my legs.
Opening the annual to a random page, I sucked in a sharp breath, even though I shouldn’t have been surprised to see CeeCee French smiling at me, in a group photo of class officers.
Needless to say, CeeCee’s image would be all over a compendium of high school memories. Yet I briefly wondered if Jeff Updegrove had looked at that particular page often, since the book had naturally opened to that spot. Then I studied the image more closely, noting CeeCee’s dominant posture—and parliamentarian Jeff’s sweater vest and bad case of acne.
Again, nothing unexpected.
“It would be ‘helpful’ to know what I was looking for,” I noted quietly, with a glance at Socrates, to see if he was listening.
His eyes were closed, but I suspected that he was awake and meditating upon our recent
talk, so I didn’t bother him and flipped a few more pages.
All at once, I broke into a wide grin, having spotted an image of me and Moxie washing dogs in the school parking lot to raise money for Sylvan Creek High Shelter Partners—a club I’d completely forgotten organizing, in an early attempt to support local pet rescues. I wore a flannel shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a “Fur-Ever Friends” T-shirt, and ripped denim shorts over leggings. I looked like a cross between a roadie for a Seattle grunge band and an extra from the TV show Blossom, while Moxie was primly attired in vintage pedal pushers and a blouse with a Peter Pan collar.
“You are always timeless, Moxie,” I whispered, turning to another page, where Bitsy Bickelheim was shown in what passed for a classroom action shot. She stood before a whiteboard, holding a pen and gesturing broadly to students who were slumped over their desks, failing to match her enthusiasm.
Although not that many years had passed, Ms. Bickelheim appeared dramatically younger in the photo. Her hair—now gray and usually wild—was dark and pulled into a sleek chignon, and my mother would have approved of my former instructor’s pencil skirt and silky-looking blouse, which was open perhaps one button too low, given the situation. That was the only minor, and perhaps accidental, thing I could find to critique regarding her appearance.
“Ms. Bickelheim was really pulled together—and pretty,” I said, addressing Tinks, who’d levitated up behind the loveseat in his spooky way to peer over my shoulder. “I bet some of the guys secretly drooled over her.”
Tinks reached out one of his puffball paws and swatted at Ms. Bickelheim, perhaps offering his stamp of approval.
“What do you think happened with her?” I mused, meeting Tinks’s orange eyes. “Why’d she quit teaching?”
Unlike Moxie, who could probably tell me the whole story in detail, the prickly Persian had no answers for me. He jumped down next to me, curling up to sleep on the edge of the throw, while I turned yet another page, heading into unfamiliar territory, where I knew Moxie and I wouldn’t make an appearance: sports.
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