The section’s very first page—titled SYLVAN CREEK’S FIGHTING SQUIRRELS SUPERSTARS!—featured standard group shots of the four most prominent teams: girls’ softball and basketball and boys’ football and baseball.
I quickly found Mike Cavanaugh and Brett Pinkney on the football team, because they’d been co-captains. They stood in the foreground with their arms draped around each other’s shoulders, big grins on their youthful faces and swagger in their postures.
I’d forgotten that they’d been friends, because they hadn’t socialized much off the field. Probably because Mike had spent most of his free time with Moxie, and Brett had dated CeeCee, who hadn’t exactly been in our social circle. Sports had been the nexus of Brett and Mike’s relationship.
And yet, when I scanned the photo of the baseball team, Mike’s posture was different—shrunken—and Brett wasn’t there at all.
That was strange, because, while I hadn’t followed the Sylvan Creek Squirrels very closely, or at all, I knew that Brett had been a star athlete in every major sport.
“Did he just miss picture day?” I mused aloud, tapping the pages with my fingers. The innate sleuthing sense I seemed to possess was starting to tingle. “Or was something else going on?”
No matter how hard I stared, the photos didn’t seem to yield any more answers, so I turned to the next page, where I again encountered CeeCee French, this time in full cheerleader regalia, standing triumphantly atop a human pyramid.
CeeCee wasn’t the most petite girl in that stack of teen females, but I couldn’t imagine her accepting a lower role on the totem pole.
As the snow continued to float past the windows and the fire flickered softly, I studied CeeCee’s face. Her dark eyes gleamed with whatever victory she’d just achieved, or perhaps with the anticipation of inevitable victories to come. Her then-chestnut hair was long, slicked into a high ponytail held in place with a scrunchie in Sylvan Creek’s signature green and white. Her nose was definitely broader than when I’d seen her at the Bijoux, so I was pretty sure my guess about plastic surgery had been correct. And her smile was wide and . . . hungry. Even at seventeen or eighteen, CeeCee French had looked ready to take big bites of the world and swallow them whole.
Regardless of how I felt about the questionable methods I suspected she’d used to reach the top of the corporate pyramid—the scandal I needed to look into came to mind—I had to admit that CeeCee had gone after whatever future she’d envisioned, standing atop that heap of girls, and made her dreams come true.
“I’m sorry, CeeCee,” I said, suddenly suffering a genuine pang of loss as the years seemed to melt away. The icy wind blowing outside was forgotten, and I could almost feel the late-summer air and smell the freshly cut grass on the athletic fields that stretched behind the cheerleaders. The fields were crowded with football players and coaches, the scene full of life. It was easy to imagine the girls in the foreground— maybe even CeeCee—giggling and gossiping right before the photo was snapped. “What a shame.”
All at once, I heard a soft, whining sound right next to me, and I looked down to discover that Snowdrop had emerged from her crate. She’d padded across the room on silent paws and was watching me with alert and, I thought, disappointed eyes. But I didn’t think she was judging me again. I was pretty sure she’d heard me mention CeeCee’s name, and perhaps thought her person had returned.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized to Snowdrop, too. The sweater she was still wearing was rumpled, and her fur wasn’t as fluffy as before. “This is difficult for you, isn’t it? A big change?”
Her eyes flashed, like she couldn’t drop her attitude and let me in, even for a moment. Then her tail, with a slightly matted puffball on the end, drooped.
“I honestly don’t know what kind of gourmet food you’re used to, but I really am a decent cook,” I told her, moving to shut the yearbook. But at the last moment, I noticed a figure in the field behind the cheerleaders. One of several people I recognized, but an unexpected presence, nonetheless. Ms. Bickelheim. I wanted to check the photo again, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment I was sharing with Snowdrop, so I shut the annual and carefully extricated my legs from the throw, without moving Tinkleston, who was sound asleep. Standing up, I set the yearbook on my steamer trunk coffee table. “Please, let me get you a fresh treat, okay?”
Snowdrop blinked at me, and I thought she was going to assume her haughty, defiant air again. I was pretty sure we’d all see that side of her in the future. But she was also confused and hungry, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she followed me to the kitchen, where I retrieved a fresh Snicker-Poodle cookie, replacing the perfectly good one that was already on the plate. I would try to meet her royal highness halfway.
Snowdrop sniffed the snack for a long time, then she took a few delicate nibbles before finally digging in with gusto.
As she ate, I smiled at Socrates, who was observing his crush from his spot near the fire.
“Your snack’s waiting, too,” I reminded him, with a nod to the plate next to Snowdrop’s.
Socrates hesitated, then rose and joined Snowdrop, who looked up at him, challenge in her eyes, as if she couldn’t believe he’d dared to dine with her. Socrates didn’t back away. Nor did he fawn and act lovestruck. He merely watched her with the intelligent, impassive gaze I knew and loved. Apparently, our discussion and some meditative time had helped to center him again. A moment later, they both began to eat, as if, at the very least, an accord had been reached.
I kind of wanted a snack, too—there were some freshly baked sugar cookies calling my name—but I quietly backed out of the kitchen and headed upstairs, grabbing the yearbook on my way to bed, in case I wanted to keep paging through, either to solve a mystery, or to see what other interesting fashion choices I’d made back in high school.
In fact, I opened the book before I was halfway up the spiral staircase, and I stopped in my tracks, my eyes widening with surprise as I spotted something intriguing on the very last page—and it wasn’t a photo.
Chapter 22
“So, Jeff Updegrove forgot you, after you promised never to forget him in a yearbook inscription,” Piper said, helping me haul a tarp off an old, red truck with wooden slats around its bed, the day after the storm.
The vehicle, which had belonged to Winding Hill’s former caretaker—who was currently in prison—had been parked in the barn ever since the day Mr. Peachy had been arrested. Since no one seemed to be claiming it, Piper sometimes used it to run errands, and she was loaning the truck to me, because the plow she’d hired to clear the main road up the hill hadn’t been able to fit down the narrow access road to Plum Cottage. The trees were too close to the lane, leaving no place for the snow to go. At a certain point, the plow driver had given up, meaning the VW might be stuck for several days—which was fine. The truck was cute, especially since Piper had affixed a pine wreath with a red bow to the old-fashioned grill. And both Piper and Mr. Peachy were fastidious about maintenance, so I trusted that the tires would be in great shape for winter driving.
“I don’t see why you’re insulted,” Piper noted, dragging the tarp to an unused stall, where she tossed it so it hung over a low wall. She brushed off her hands, while I cleaned mine on my jeans. “He didn’t make any promises in your yearbook, did he?”
“I lost mine years ago, but, no, probably not,” I admitted, thinking that perhaps I had overreacted, upon spying my handwritten pledge in Jeff’s annual. I pulled my mittens from my pocket, because the barn wasn’t heated. When I did that, the key I was still carrying in my pocket came out, too, and fell to the floor. I bent to pick it up, telling Piper, “But his expression was completely blank when I greeted him at the Bijoux.”
My sister wasn’t listening. She was frowning at the shiny object in my hand. “Why don’t you put your keys on a ring?” she suggested. “You’re going to lose that, too.”
Tucking my mittens under my arm, I held up the key, letting it dangle from the ribbon. “I don’t eve
n know what this unlocks,” I said. “It’s the key Jeff Updegrove left me, with the yearbook—and without a way to contact him.”
“Can’t you just call French’s headquarters?”
“I tried that.” I stuffed the key into my pocket again and slipped my mittens over my frosty fingers. “Jeff is on leave, and the person who answered wouldn’t give me his personal number or e-mail, even.”
Piper pursed her lips. Then she said, “Jeff’s not coming back, is he? You’re going to watch that poodle forever.”
“Socrates would be fine with that,” I noted, smiling. “You were right. He’s fallen hard for Snowdrop—who has at least emerged from her royal castle to mingle, now and then, with us peasants.”
In fact, when I’d left Tinks and the dogs, who couldn’t enter some of the places I needed to visit that day, Snowdrop and Socrates had been eating breakfast side-by-side.
Piper, who was always correct, jabbed a finger at me and grinned triumphantly. “I told you he was in love!”
“I just hope he doesn’t get his big, basset heart broken,” I said, more seriously. “Because eventually someone will come to claim Snowdrop. She’s a valuable, trained dog with acting experience. I’m sure CeeCee left some provision for her in her will.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Piper disagreed, grabbing a broom that rested against a wall and sweeping the floor, which was already clean, for a barn. “CeeCee almost certainly has legal documents drawn up, in the event of her demise, to protect her business empire. But I bet they don’t cover small, personal things like Snowdrop. Because I recall CeeCee French from high school. I bet, deep down inside, she thought she’d defeat the Grim Reaper, just like she won every competition she entered.”
“Speaking of the personification of Death, I really need to get going,” I noted, with a glance out the barn door, which was open to reveal sunlight glittering on a snowy field. “I have to deliver dog cookies to the hotel for Bark the Halls, then hopefully get a Christmas tree before rehearsal tonight.”
Piper paused in mid-sweep and furrowed her brow. “Rehearsal?”
I reached for the silver handle on the truck’s front door. “Didn’t I tell you that I’m the Ghost of Christmas Future in Ms. Bickelheim’s production of A Christmas Carol this year?”
Piper blanched, no doubt recalling how I’d flown across the stage the last time I’d played a holiday spirit.
“There’s no flying,” I assured her, hauling open the door, which squeaked with age and the cold. “I just have to stand there in a big, black cloak and point.”
“Good luck,” Piper muttered doubtfully, leaning on the broom. “Break a leg.”
“Thanks.” Climbing into the truck, I slammed the door, only to hear a rap on the window. Using the old crank, I rolled it down, so I could hear Piper, who looked concerned again. “What’s wrong?”
“Why are you carrying around that key, anyhow?” she asked. “What’s the point, if you don’t know what it unlocks?”
My cheeks got warm. “I’m not sure, myself.”
Piper narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re investigating CeeCee’s murder, aren’t you?”
“Moxie’s potentially in big trouble,” I reminded my sister, fumbling for the truck’s key, which was already in the ignition. Piper might’ve been more cautious than me, but she was still a lifelong resident of Sylvan Creek, where crime was practically nonexistent. Discounting the occasional murder. I twisted the key, and the engine turned over. “Now, I’ve really got to get going.”
“Just be careful, Daphne,” Piper said, as I rolled up the window. “Don’t end up a real ghost this Christmas!”
“I won’t,” I promised, although I wasn’t sure she heard me. I’d managed to crank the window up, and I put the truck in gear, steering it carefully through the wide door into the sunny but still frigid day.
Driving past Piper’s farmhouse, I looked in the rearview mirror and was surprised to discover that my sibling had followed me outside, where she stood waving, making big sweeping gestures with her arm.
I thought the farewell was a little over the top, given that I was only going to town, a trip I made nearly every day.
It wasn’t until the truck was skidding on a patch of ice at the very bottom of the hill, where the private lane met the main road into Sylvan Creek, that I realized she’d probably been trying to warn me that the tires weren’t quite as good as I’d expected.
Chapter 23
Resting my head against the steering wheel, I closed my eyes for a moment, regrouping after the crash.
Well, what I’d suffered hadn’t been so much a collision as a slow, but relentless and somewhat unnerving, slide across a rural road, until I came to a halt in a wide, deep gulley, where I sat at a weird angle, trying to figure out what to do next.
Luckily, I was about to have help.
For the second time that morning, someone rapped on the driver’s side window. However, when I opened my eyes, I discovered not my sister, but a tall, handsome detective, who looked me up and down, scanning for bumps and bruises before asking, “What do you need more after your slow-motion mishap? A trip to the ER—or a tall stack of pancakes?”
* * *
“The whole thing was scarier than it looked,” I told Jonathan, who was laughing at me from across a table at the Silver Moon Diner, just outside Sylvan Creek.
Needless to say, I’d chosen hot cakes over a hospital visit, and I’d hitched a ride with Jonathan to the restaurant, which served the best breakfasts around. The towing service I’d called, after Jonathan and I had determined that the truck was fine, if stuck, had promised to drop the vehicle at the diner, which was housed in a 1950s, silver trailer, where locals gathered at the counter on red-upholstered swivel seats. Silver garlands, dripping with metallic red Christmas balls, were draped in the windows, and the jukebox played a steady, soft string of holiday hits by the Andrews Sisters, Dean Martin, and Frank Sinatra.
I could feel my Christmas spirit returning as I poured warm syrup over a fluffy stack of pancakes, piled six high. The sweet-smelling maple waterfall melted a big pat of butter, which dripped down the sides of the tasty pile. Picking up my fork, I waved it at Jonathan. “Things could’ve gone worse!”
“Yes, I know,” he said, the mirth in his blue eyes flickering out. “I actually felt helpless when I saw you skidding.” Then the corners of his mouth twitched. “Very, very slowly—”
“Enough!” I told him, although I was close to laughing, too. I had to admit that the image of the old-fashioned truck drifting across the road, with me frozen at the wheel, was funny in retrospect. Picking up my knife, too, I cut through the stack. “I suppose I’ll never live this down.”
“I’ll probably mention it now and then,” Jonathan agreed, dipping a slice of wheat toast into the bright yolk of one of his three sunny-side-up eggs, which shared a crowded plate with a tangle of crispy bacon and a pair of golden hash browns. “I need something to tease you about, now that you don’t owe me any money.” He hesitated, frowning. “Unless, of course, you forgot your wallet today.”
For a moment, I nearly panicked, until I recalled that I’d stuck my wallet into my coat pocket, along with the mysterious key and my cell phone, before leaving Plum Cottage. And my barn jacket hung on a hook attached to the booth we shared. “Actually, I can treat today.”
Jonathan, who was the only customer wearing a dress shirt and tie—Moxie’s dream outfit—grinned. “No. This is on me. I invited you, remember?”
I speared a big bite with my fork. “Rescued me is more like it.”
“My pleasure. As always.”
Before I could thank him again, a waitress, clad in a pale-blue polyester smock and Santa hat, stopped by to refill our mugs with fresh coffee. As Jonathan and I both leaned back, giving her room, I quickly recalled several occasions when he’d shown up on the scene at precisely the right time.
Well, maybe a few minutes too late, in the case of my entrapment in my own walk-in re
frigerator.
I supposed he was reliving those instances, too, because after we’d thanked the waitress—Imogene—and she’d sashayed off, he leaned forward again, his voice lower. “Daphne, I admire the fact that, any time you’ve gotten into trouble, it’s happened while you’ve been protecting your family and friends. You take risks on behalf of the people you love. And I know that you are quite capable of taking care of yourself. I wasn’t there for all of your adventures overseas, and you came through just fine.”
Swallowing some pancakes, I opened my mouth to assure him that I really was able to fend for myself. But before I could speak, he raised a hand, requesting permission to continue.
I closed my mouth and nodded, granting it.
“That said, I’m going to ask you to back away from any private investigation of CeeCee French’s murder that you might be conducting. Because the case is growing more . . . complicated.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. Syrup dripped off my fork, which I held in midair. “What does that mean?”
Jonathan leaned back and reached for his mug, absently tapping the smooth ceramic. “When I told you about Moxie’s interrogation, I honestly believed she’d be exonerated almost immediately. But that hasn’t been the case.”
My breakfast suddenly felt like a lump in my stomach. “The scissors . . .”
Jonathan nodded, but spoke obliquely in the public space. “Moxie’s identification of the pair was positive. And Vonda Shakes couldn’t rule them out.”
He was trying to tell me that Moxie had confirmed that the scissors the pug had brought to me belonged to her, and that the coroner considered them a likely match with the wounds.
“Was there any trace of—?”
“I can’t tell you more,” Jonathan interjected, before I could ask about blood or fingerprints.
“Okay.” Then I jerked upright, struck by a sudden thought.
A Midwinter's Tail Page 12
