“You like your independence, don’t you?” I asked him, daring to stroke his back while I gazed out the window. The snow was falling more steadily, so Sylvan Creek would be a winter wonderland for Bark the Halls. I smiled down at Tinks, who’d finished his treat and was gazing up at me with his intelligent orange eyes. “Too bad there’s no Meows and Mistletoe dance for cats.”
Tinks shook his head quickly in response, and I gathered from his expression that he wasn’t interested in donning an outfit and mingling with other felines.
Then again, his smooshed-in face, with its severely downturned mouth, always made him appear to be grouchy.
“I know you’re happy sometimes,” I told him, moving to the stove. The soup, which I’d made using corn I’d frozen during the summer, was bubbling away, and I ladled some into a small earthenware crock. Grabbing a spoon from a drawer, I sat down at the table, where I’d left Jeff Updegrove’s old yearbook.
Tinks hopped off the windowsill and jumped up onto the icebox behind me, the better to peer over my shoulder as I flipped a few pages, still trying to figure out why Jeff had given me the annual.
“Maybe if I go through all the senior portraits, I’ll spot something or someone,” I mused, taking a big bite of the creamy chowder, which gained extra depth and warmth from the pinch of curry powder I’d added. Then I located the senior portraits and began to scan the faces, some of which were familiar and some, to my surprise, I’d forgotten until their features and names triggered memories.
A few minutes later, my crock of soup was empty—and I’d gained nothing except regret over wearing earrings that looked like two dream catchers for a portrait that would define my late teen years for generations to come.
“I don’t think those earrings were ever in style,” I told Tinks, who stood up, arched his back, and yawned.
Closing the yearbook, I also yawned, rose, and stretched before taking my crock to the sink and washing it out, along with the dirty pot. I next stoked the fire, being careful not to wake Socrates and Snowdrop. Then I grabbed my cell phone from my coat pocket and climbed the spiral staircase to the loft, where I burrowed under the down comforter. A moment later, Tinks joined me at the foot of the bed.
I was about to place my phone in its usual spot on the table next to the old landline. However, at the last moment, I changed my mind and sent a text to Jonathan.
Is it okay to enter CeeCee’s room at the hotel and get some outfits for Snowdrop? And would you do me a favor?
Jonathan replied promptly.
Personally, I’d rather you didn’t take any outfits—because dogs shouldn’t wear novelty clothes. As a detective, though, I have no objections, assuming you can gain entry.
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” I noted quietly, as a second text popped up.
As for the favor—I need to know what it is before making any promises. I’m sure you can understand why I’m wary.
“Yes, I suppose I can,” I admitted, texting a thank you for the permission to pick up some clothes and outlining the favor, too.
Jonathan’s reply was immediate. A strange request, but, yes, of course.
“Great!” I said loudly, disturbing Tinkleston. His head popped up from the nest he’d made on the comforter, and he shot me a dark look. “Sorry,” I apologized. When he disappeared again, I sent back, Thanks! Will make someone very happy!
Then I moved to put away the phone for the night, only to stop myself again, as I finally made a decision on a topic I’d been thinking about all day.
Sending one more message to a person whose contact information I’d never used before, I snuggled deep under my blankets, hoping I’d done the right thing. Because, if my instincts were wrong, I’d probably just set Moxie Bloom up for a Bark the Halls disaster.
Chapter 36
“Thanks so much for grooming Snowdrop and for my updo,” I noted, as Moxie, Socrates, Snowdrop, and I prepared for the dance, all of us gathered at Moxie’s apartment, which I swore was strung with even more colorful lights. She’d completed her gingerbread version of Sylvan Creek, and the miniature village took up the whole table she’d used as a workspace. The surface was dusted with sugar “snow,” while the real thing continued to fall softly outside.
The heart of the storm had passed overnight, leaving Sylvan Creek glittering like a town in a softly swirling snow globe, and I went to the French doors to look down at Market Street, where icicles dripped like jewels from the storefronts and the Bijoux’s marquee was glowing. Across a side street, people and pets—all attired in holiday finery—were already entering the Sylvan Creek Hotel for the ball. Then I noticed something odd, and I turned back to Moxie and the dogs. “Why is Market Street plowed, but Linden Lane is covered in snow and blocked off with pine roping, all the way to the corner by the hotel?”
Moxie, who didn’t have much preparation to complete, since she’d donned her vintage, emerald-green satin gown around noon, shrugged. “I have no idea,” she said absently, turning pages of the yearbook I’d brought along, in hopes that she might spot some clue I was missing. She sat in one of her two rockers, Sebastian on her lap. The white rat wore a bow tie, although Moxie said he wasn’t attending the dance. He was just “in a party mood,” according to my best friend, who added, “The garland was in place when I woke up this morning, and no one’s disturbed the snow since. I had to add half a bag of sugar to my Linden Lane to maintain accuracy!”
I expected Socrates, who had mixed feelings about edible artwork, to groan at Moxie’s insistence upon replicating the community down to its last gumdrop detail. However, for once, the normally curious basset hound wasn’t listening to the human conversation. His gaze was fixed on Snowdrop, who was already attired for the evening’s event.
I’d stopped by the hotel earlier that day to select a few outfits and had brought them to Moxie’s garret. We’d laid them out on the floor, on a throw, and Snowdrop had selected a red velvet, gold-beaded “gown” that went beautifully with her pure white fur, which Moxie had poofed and shaped into perfect snowballs on her head, feet and hips. The doggie dress, from Park Avenue Pets—the same company that had created Snowdrop’s cashmere sweater—must’ve cost a bundle, but she looked quite fetching.
Socrates clearly agreed. He wasn’t even fussing with his bow tie.
Moxie remained distracted, too, by the yearbook, which I was starting to regret sharing with her. She was almost too absorbed in the photos, a look of solemn concentration on her face as she slowly turned pages.
“Moxie,” I said softly, sitting down across from her.
“Maybe you should stop looking at that. It doesn’t seem very helpful.”
Moxie ignored my advice and flipped another page, apologizing, “I’m sorry, Daphne.” She stroked Sebastian with her free hand, until he hopped down, scurried across the floor, and shimmied up onto the table, where he stole a bite of the Pettigrew Park gazebo, compromising Moxie’s attempt at authenticity. She didn’t seem to care. Her gaze remained fixed on the images from our senior year. “I didn’t notice anything that seems like a clue to solve a murder,” she added. “Although CeeCee’s picture shows up on nearly every page.”
“Yes, so why don’t you—”
I reached out to claim the yearbook, which Moxie was turning, so I could see the open pages. To my surprise, she was showing me the pyramid of cheerleaders. “I do have to say this strikes me as odd,” she said, raising my hopes that she’d found a clue—only to dash them when she explained, “Usually the tiniest girl gets the top spot. CeeCee was slim, but tall.”
I’d noted that anomaly, too, but I didn’t think it would help to solve the murder. However, I again noticed Ms. Bickelheim in the background, and I pointed to her. “Did you know that Bitsy Bickelheim was the squad’s adviser? Because I had no idea, until she told me last night, during our private rehearsal.”
Socrates and Snowdrop must’ve started listening at some point, because both dogs growled in harmony.
Moxie gave them a
curious glance, then answered my question. “I’m afraid I had no idea.” She shrugged. “I had a lot of pep, and always support rodents . . .” She next shot Sebastian an indulgent look, while he continued to consume the gazebo. “But I had no interest in pompoms and megaphones or the Fighting Squirrels.”
“You didn’t hear any rumors about Ms. Bickelheim during our senior year, did you?” I asked, keeping the question vague. I didn’t want to impugn our former teacher’s reputation—I’d already speculated too much with Gabriel—but Moxie had always known all the local gossip, even back in high school. I was curious to know if she’d ever heard tales of a liaison between Ms. Bickelheim and a student. “Anything about why she left Sylvan Creek High?”
“No, not a thing,” Moxie said, turning to another page.
I suddenly wished I’d insisted upon reclaiming the yearbook, because she’d stumbled across the photos of the boys’ sports teams. She must’ve immediately spied Mike Cavanaugh, standing with his arm around football co-captain Brett Pinkney, or the shot of Mike in his baseball uniform, without Brett, because I heard her suck in a sharp, but quiet, breath. Then she muttered, “Oh, goodness.”
“I know Mike’s in there a lot, too,” I noted quietly. I wanted to ask her about Brett’s absence from the spring shot, but I was more worried about my friend’s state of mind than about solving the murder, right then. “You’re not upset, are you?”
Sighing, Moxie finally closed the book and set it on her coffee table. “No, I’m not upset. To be honest, I just wish I would run into him and get it over with.”
I’d been worried all evening, but I felt a surge of hope. “Really?”
“Yes.” Moxie nodded. “I’m tired of looking for him every time I leave my home.”
“You . . . you know there’s a chance he might come to Bark the Halls, right?” I ventured nervously. Then I blurted the truth. “Because I texted Mike and urged him to come, and bring Tiny Tim.”
Moxie’s green eyes got huge, and for a moment I worried that I’d messed up not just her evening, but one of the most important relationships in my life. Then she took a deep breath and said, “It’s okay, Daphne. I’ve been thinking about what you said back at the pond.” Her cheeks flushed, and I thought she meant the part about how Mike still cared for her. “I was sort of hoping he might show up. It would be like a reunion from a movie, you know? Two old flames, parted at a high school holiday dance, only to meet again as adults at a Christmas ball.”
“Moxie . . .” I didn’t want her to think something magical was going to happen. “I only invited him because he seems so isolated, missing out on everything. And Tiny Tim deserves to go, too. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
Moxie reached out and squeezed my hand, a wistful smile on her lips, which were a bold shade of crimson. “I don’t really expect him to explain everything, then sweep me away on a white horse. I’m just ready for some closure.”
“Okay.” I was relieved that her expectations were realistic, by Moxie’s standards. In truth, I was probably more hopeful than my best friend. I secretly wanted them to at least dance once, if Mike showed up. I was increasingly convinced that Mike hadn’t killed CeeCee, in part because I kept recalling his haunted look when he’d discussed combat. He hadn’t relished hurting people. He’d also seemed genuinely surprised when I’d mentioned the weapon. And I knew there was still something between him and Moxie.
Of course, I didn’t say that. I stood up, wiping my hands on the jeans I was still wearing. My palms had gotten a little sweaty when Moxie had given me that wide-eyed look. Then I glanced at Socrates and Snowdrop, who were waiting patiently in their varying degrees of finery.
In truth, Socrates probably wished we could all just hang out in the garret, sans ties, ribbons, and bows, but I suggested to Moxie, “Why don’t you take the dogs to the dance? I don’t want to hold you up, since I’m running late.”
“Yes, why aren’t you dressed, Daphne?” Moxie inquired, looking around her apartment, as if my missing gown might materialize. Then she looked me up and down. “You’re not going to wear jeans, are you? Because both your dates will probably wear tuxes!”
Moxie hadn’t given up hoping that I’d manage to pull off some sort of two-dates-at-once, movie-worthy caper, although I’d told her, dozens of times, that I didn’t plan any shenanigans.
Well, I had schemed a little, but my plan was pretty much the opposite of Moxie’s cinema-style fantasy—in which things always went wrong, as she, of all people, should know.
“I only have one date,” I reminded her. “And I’m not wearing jeans . . .”
I was about to admit that I was getting a tiny bit worried about my gown, which Ivy Dunleavy should’ve delivered by then, when all at once, Moxie’s doorbell rang, and I grinned, telling her, “. . . because my gown is here now!”
Chapter 37
“Oh, Ivy, this is gorgeous,” I said, pulling a garment bag off the gown she’d created for me. I wished that Moxie, Socrates, and Snowdrop could’ve been there to see the dress, but they’d headed across the street. I suspected that Moxie was eager to see if Mike had arrived, while Snowdrop was excited for the party—and Socrates probably wanted to get the whole thing over with and get out of his tie. I freed the gown from the last of the plastic and stood back. “It’s just beautiful!”
“Thanks.” Ivy smiled, but in a distracted way. She wasn’t as captivated by her own creation as I was. She was gazing raptly around at Moxie’s apartment. “This place is amazing!”
“Yes, Moxie goes all out for the holidays,” I agreed, still focused on the dress. It was a deep pewter satin, and I knew from our fittings that when I put it on, the fabric would bring out the gray in my greenish-gray eyes. The design was off-the-shoulder, with a wave-like hook-and-eye lace pattern down the front that was like a nod to my usual bohemian style—only taken to a dramatic, glamorous place. All at once, I got cold feet and looked nervously to Ivy. “Do you think it’s too much for me? I don’t usually dress up. As Socrates—the philosopher, not the dog—once said, ‘Beauty is a short-lived tyranny!’”
Ivy gave me a funny look. Then she assured me, “It’s perfect, Daphne. And I don’t think you’ll suddenly become insufferably vain.”
“I suppose not,” I said, running my hand down the lace, while Ivy wandered over to the gingerbread re-creation of Sylvan Creek, where she bent down, peering closely. Some of her long, coppery hair slipped over her shoulder, and she quickly caught it, before it could sweep down mini-Market Street, Godzilla-style, and wreck the town. “Look!” Ivy gasped, oblivious to the near tragedy. She didn’t seem to notice that Sebastian had wreaked havoc on the park before disappearing, either. She was too pleased to have spied a small storefront. “It’s my shop! Even smaller than usual!”
I abandoned my dress for a moment to join her, bending down, too. Our eyes met across the tiny street, and I saw that hers were twinkling. “There should be a light on in my window,” she joked. “I feel like I’m always working lately.” Ivy quickly amended, “Which is a good thing! At first, I was afraid I’d fail, although Norm Alcorn assured me that the chamber would have my back.”
“Lucky you,” I muttered, under my breath.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” I assured her. We both straightened. “You’re going to the dance, right?” I asked, noting that she wore a hoodie and a pair of leggings. “You can get away for that, can’t you?”
The light in her eyes dimmed. “No. Not this year. I need to make some last-minute alterations for Ms. Bickelheim, who requested changes to Scrooge’s and Bob Cratchit’s costumes. I’m going back to work.”
“You’ll attend the play, won’t you?” I asked, worried that she had no social life. “You’ll at least see your handiwork onstage, I hope!”
“Yes, I wouldn’t miss that,” Ivy promised. “But, for the most part, I keep my nose to the grindstone. My goal is to save my pennies and make the shop a success, so I’ll have more free ti
me next year.” A shadow darkened her eyes. “It would be nice to visit my parents in Appleton, too, if I could swing a plane ticket.”
“What’s Appleton?”
“My Sylvan Creek,” she explained. “A small town in Iowa where I grew up.” She suddenly seemed wistful. “I always thought I’d go back there, after New York, but circumstances—like a reasonable lease on a small storefront in a tourist town—seem to keep me on the East Coast for now.”
Her comment triggered a memory. Something Mike Cavanaugh had said about returning home. But I couldn’t quite make the connection, and Ivy’s attention was drawn elsewhere. She wandered over to the area that served as Moxie’s living room, where she gave the yearbook a funny look. However, she was mainly interested in the dresses that Snowdrop hadn’t chosen, which were still spread out on the throw.
“Oh, goodness!” Ivy gasped, giving me a questioning look. “These are fabulous. Do you mind . . . ?”
“No, please check them out,” I said, moving closer as she knelt down. “They’re all from a shop, or manufacturer, called Park Avenue Pets.”
Ivy had picked up one of the little dresses—a white silk confection with lots of tulle—and she was inspecting the stitching closely, but her head jerked when I said that. Her eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
“You’ve heard of it . . . them?”
She nodded. “When I attended F.I.T.—the Fashion Institute of Technology . . .” It must’ve been obvious that I’d forgotten her alma mater and didn’t recognize the acronym. “. . . I walked past their storefront all the time. I used to think it was crazy that people would pay hundreds of dollars for dog clothes. But the quality and style always amazed me.”
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