“Yes, well CeeCee French didn’t lack for money,” I said, as Ivy set down the dress and stood up.
She suddenly looked wary. “These were purchased by Celeste French?” Ivy took a step backward, toward the door. “The woman who was just murdered . . . ?”
All at once, I understood why she was edgy. She was alone in an apartment, above a closed bookstore, with a person who had a murder victim’s expensive canine wardrobe in her possession. And she’d probably read that Moxie was a suspect.
“It’s okay,” I reassured her, as she continued to move toward the door. “I’m allowed to have the outfits, for CeeCee’s dog. The detective in charge of the case knows I stopped by her room.”
“Of course, he does,” Ivy agreed, in a voice that said she wasn’t sure she believed me. She’d reached the door and grasped the knob. “I really do have to get going now. Work, you know?”
With that, she slipped out into the stairwell. I heard her big, fleece-lined boots clomp down the steps, then the door at the bottom opening and closing.
Only then did I realize that I’d never paid her for my gown, and I ran to the French doors, throwing them open and hurrying onto the balcony, thinking I would call to her. But when I looked down, she was already across the street, heading toward her shop and out of earshot.
I watched until Ivy disappeared, my brain struggling again, because I had this feeling that at least one of the Iowa seamstress’s inadvertent comments was key to solving a murder in my own hometown.
Soon, however, I started to shiver, and I turned to go back inside. But before I crossed the threshold, I heard a faint, distinctive sound, which made me forget homicide investigations, and the fact that I needed to stop by Ivy’s shop as soon as possible, with a check in hand.
I was all alone, with the exception of Sebastian, who remained hidden, but I couldn’t help noting with delight, “Sleigh bells!”
Chapter 38
By the time I’d slipped into my gown and some shoes I’d borrowed from Moxie, and found a wrap in her closet to drape around my shoulders, I was eager to get to the dance. However, before I headed to the ballroom, I wanted to return Snowdrop’s unworn dresses to CeeCee’s room.
Heading upstairs, I discovered that the inn’s upper stories were already deserted. Apparently, both locals and visitors were at Bark the Halls, dancing or enjoying rides in the sleigh I’d first seen at Jonathan’s barn. I, myself, hoped to get a turn in the sleek, glossy vehicle, which was driven by a man in a livery and pulled by the gorgeous, high-stepping black Friesian horse on a route that ran down snowy Linden Lane and across fields that lay at the edge of Sylvan Creek.
But first, I needed to divest myself of some very expensive canine garb, and I made my way down an eerily dim corridor, the thick carpeting muffling my footsteps. Locating room 37, I inserted the key into the lock, turned the knob, and stepped inside, where I felt blindly along a wall until I located a switch. Flipping that, I blinked as the chamber was bathed in soft light from two old-fashioned-looking lamps on the dual nightstands.
The room was becoming somewhat familiar to me, and I took a moment to look around at CeeCee’s possessions. A pair of sunglasses and some spare change remained on a dresser, near a television remote, and some human clothes were draped on an upholstered chair near the window. The closet, half open, was filled with CeeCee’s clothes, and Snowdrop’s apparel was arranged neatly in the dog’s own large, open suitcase, which sat on top of a folding rack.
“Snowdrop came to Sylvan Creek with more clothes than I took for two months in India,” I muttered, carefully arranging the fancy dog gowns on top of sweaters and jackets that looked more like “casual wear,” but which still appeared pricey.
That task completed, I straightened, noting that CeeCee’s temporary workstation, on a small desk, also seemed frozen in time. Her laptop was open, and some pens were scattered about the intriguing binders, including the one labeled Product Designs—Toys, Apparel, Accessories.
Moving closer, I saw that the binder appeared to be quite polished, as if the new items were close to being rolled out, as opposed to in the early stages of development. The cover featured color photographs and reminded me more of a catalog than a sketchbook.
As I scanned the collage of feathered cat toys, novelty dog bowls, and brightly colored collars, I couldn’t help thinking that the designs didn’t look very innovative.
And then something completely unoriginal caught my eye, and I sucked in a sharp breath. Forgetting that I didn’t intend to touch anything but the dog clothes, I snatched up the binder and began paging through.
However, just as I found the correct section, someone stepped through the door, which I’d left open.
I dropped the binder, feeling guilty. But the person who’d joined me didn’t seem to notice I’d been snooping. He grinned at me with appreciation and said, “Daphne Templeton, you clean up quite nicely!”
* * *
“I forgot I was dressed up,” I told Gabriel, who was moving around CeeCee’s room, checking out her personal belongings with unabashed curiosity. As he tapped a few keys on her laptop, with no result, I returned his compliment. “You look pretty nice yourself!”
That was true. Gabriel had ditched his usual jeans and down vest in favor of a dark tuxedo with a burgundy bow tie. The suit fit him well, and he’d gotten a haircut, too. The sharp lines of his goatee suggested that Moxie had also given him a professional shave, although she hadn’t mentioned that he’d stopped by.
“Thanks, Daphne,” he said, pausing his perusal of the room to smile at me again. “So, given that you are all dressed up, why are you investigating a murder, instead of attending the big bash downstairs?”
Warmth spread from my cheeks to my ears. “I didn’t come here to investigate. I was returning some of Snowdrop’s clothes—”
Gabriel leaned forward and bent his ear with one hand. “Returning whose what?”
“I’m watching CeeCee French’s poodle, Snowdrop, and I was told that I could borrow some outfits from her extensive wardrobe,” I explained. “I was bringing some of the dresses back, because they are supposedly very expensive.” I glanced at the binder, which had just made me doubt that statement. “At least, I believe that’s the case. And I didn’t want to be responsible for too many of her gowns, in case something happened, and one got ruined.”
Gabriel laughed. “The dog has gowns?”
“Yes, and Ivy Dunleavy—the seamstress who made my dress—confirmed that they are quite pricey—if the labels are to be trusted.”
My date peered closely—suspiciously—at me. “You’re linking these crazy dog clothes to the murder, aren’t you?”
“I . . . I’m not sure,” I admitted, crossing my bare arms over my chest. I suddenly felt vulnerable, because he was scrutinizing me as a journalist, and I wasn’t ready to confide the vague hunches that were swirling around in my head. As had happened in the past when I’d solved homicides, it was taking me a while to make connections between things I noticed and the person who’d committed the crime.
Moments captured—and omitted—in yearbooks.
Old tales with unexpected endings.
Teachers—and students—who disappear.
And people who come home to what’s familiar . . .
“What are you thinking, Daphne?” Gabriel asked, his eyes narrowed. “What’s going on in that formidable brain of yours?”
“Nothing worth mentioning yet,” I told him. “Although, thanks for the compliment.” Then I moved away from the desk, toward the door, and suggested, “We should get out of here. We’re missing a party downstairs, and I don’t think Jonathan would like us snooping around.”
Gabriel, who’d followed me, halted and rubbed his goatee. “Ah, yes. Jonathan.”
I’d been about to take Gabriel’s arm, but I drew back slightly. “What does that mean?”
He grinned again. “I don’t think we ever have a conversation in which you don’t mention Detective Blac
k.”
“Well, we usually do discuss murder,” I pointed out. “And that is his stock-in-trade.”
“Yes,” Gabriel agreed. “And, as you mentioned, I also enjoy solving the occasional homicide with you.” He stepped closer to me. “But, while I’m honestly not looking for a commitment, I think, if the right person came along, you’re at a point where you might like that.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but he held up a hand, asking for permission to continue.
I nodded, and he said, “You’re putting down roots, and I’m not sure that’s the case with me. Sometimes—and this is probably apparent—I find myself missing my days as a hard-nosed city reporter.” He smiled again. “Plus, Black keeps watching for you to join the party.”
I licked my lips nervously, no doubt messing up Moxie’s lipstick application. “You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” Gabriel insisted. “He plays things close to the vest, but he’s keeping an eye on the door, even though all the usual suspects—including his ex, Elyse; Moxie Bloom; Piper and her boyfriend; too many dogs to count; and your terrifying mother—”
“You think she’s scary, too?”
Gabriel ignored the question. “The whole town is assembled. Including murder suspect Jeff Updegrove. Yet, Black’s got one eye on the door.”
“I think that’s just how SEALs act,” I pointed out. “He’s probably conditioned to be alert in a crowd.” I noted that Gabriel hadn’t mentioned Mike Cavanaugh. “Or there’s a suspect who hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Maybe,” Gabriel conceded. “But I’m pretty sure Black’s not sniffing out killers tonight. I’m almost certain he’s a guy waiting for a girl.” I started to stammer more objections, but Gabriel winked and nudged me with his elbow. “Go on, Daphne. Have a nice evening with the date you should’ve been here with, all along.”
I felt terrible and wanted to honor my promise to him, and I tried to protest again. “But . . .”
“Honestly, Daph, I’ll be fine,” he assured me, his eyes twinkling. “I’m lining up a few dances with Ms. Hunter-Black. I hear she’s currently unattached.”
I still wasn’t convinced we should cancel our plans, but I said, “Don’t forget Fidelia Tutweiler. She’s here, too.”
Gabriel furrowed his brow. “Okay . . . I will consider Fidelia as a potential partner.”
I lowered my eyes. “I still feel strangely about this.” Then I met his gaze again. “I agreed—happily—to go with you, and we would have fun.”
“I won’t take yes for an answer this time,” he teased, nodding toward the door. “Now, go on.”
I hesitated. “You aren’t coming?”
Gabriel Graham flashed me his most devilish grin ever, and I knew that he really was fine with ending this particular date before it began.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he told me, “until I figure out what you saw in this room that put that strange I’m close to solving a murder look in your eyes.” He raised both hands. “However, I will promise not to take anything, and to leave everything just as I found it, in a room that isn’t a crime scene.”
In spite of those reassurances, I didn’t want to leave him alone in CeeCee’s room. However, I knew the look of determination in his eyes, and I reluctantly moved toward the door.
“Daphne?”
I turned to see that Gabriel hadn’t resumed his search for a clue that I wasn’t even sure existed. I honestly didn’t know if what I’d spied had any relevance to the crime. In fact, I doubted that was the case. Regardless, Gabriel was watching me with a funny look on his face, and I ventured, “Yes?”
“I strongly suspect that somebody at this dance has blood on his or her hands,” he said cryptically. I also wasn’t sure if he meant CeeCee’s killer was in attendance, or if he was referring to someone else. And, although I knew that I’d be safe in a ballroom full of friends and neighbors, I felt a shiver run down my spine when he urged, “Be careful, okay?”
Chapter 39
The Sylvan Creek Hotel dated back to the Civil War, and over the years it had become a charming architectural anomaly, with quirky staircases and corridors that led to seemingly random rooms. Because I knew the building pretty well, I was able to follow the third floor hallway to a pair of French doors that opened onto a balcony overlooking the ballroom.
And when I stepped onto that overlook, I understood why Elyse Hunter-Black had wanted to keep her masterpiece under wraps.
“Oh, wow,” I said, resting one hand against my chest.
“That is just . . . wow.”
The expansive room below had been transformed into a dark and snowy forest, complete with at least fifteen evergreens and one gnarled, pure white oak tree, which stood in the center of the floor, its branches hung with white lanterns, each holding a flickering candle. More candles glowed in dozens of frosted-glass globes, which appeared to be suspended in midair above the dancers. And gorgeous banks of white poinsettias ringed the walls, making it seem as if the room were surrounded by deep snow. In one corner, a string quartet played softly, filling the air with delicate, haunting music.
I took a moment to enjoy the scene, which was sparkling, yet warm with firelight and the comforting scents of vanilla and sugar, and quickly spotted lots of people and pets I knew—including a “couple” who made me break into a big grin.
“Thank you, Jonathan,” I said softly, watching him dance with Fidelia Tutweiler, who wore a very unusual and conservative brown dress, as well as a dreamy smile that stretched from ear to ear. I’d never seen her look so happy, and I was glad that I’d texted Jonathan, asking him to dance with her if she appeared lost in the crowd. He likely would’ve done that anyway, without my prompting. Jonathan—whose suit was obscured by Fidelia, who clung to him, as if for dear life—had a tough, reserved exterior, but he had a soft spot, too, for wallflowers, misfits, and those who felt abandoned. I doubted he would’ve let a woebegone accountant linger alone by the sumptuous buffet tables.
Still smiling, I next located Piper and Roger, who were with a group of friends, chatting. My sister looked lovely in an understated black dress, while Roger wore a classic tux.
Of course, my mother was there, the bodice of her white gown covered by an icy cascade of gems that matched the décor. I imagined she’d harangued Elyse Hunter-Black, with whom she was speaking, into revealing the ball’s color scheme, if not the actual design.
Elyse also wore white, but her dress was simple and form-fitting, clinging to every delicate, perfect curve. She didn’t seem to wear any jewelry, but her two greyhounds, Paris and Milan, sported glittering, three-inch-wide collars studded with crystals, reminiscent of Snowdrop’s diamond collar.
As I watched, Gabriel, who had apparently given up searching for clues and taken the traditional route to the ballroom, approached the two women. A moment later, grinning his most appealing grin, he extended his hand. Elyse smiled, bowed her head slightly, and accepted the offer to dance.
“They would actually make a decent couple,” I whispered to myself, surprised by the revelation. I should’ve realized, months ago, that they were each accomplished, intelligent, and driven, and had one foot in city life. Plus, Gabriel’s dark good looks were the perfect counterpoint to Elyse’s fair beauty. As my former date took Jonathan’s ex into his arms, I nodded. “Not a bad pair!”
Then, while Gabriel and Elyse began to turn slow circles, I scanned the room again, locating Socrates and Snowdrop, who were definitely canoodling. The two dogs stood near the oak tree, bumping noses and exchanging sniffs, their romance thwarted somewhat by Artie, who, as promised, wore a dashing aquamarine paisley bow tie and cummerbund. The hyperactive Chihuahua was spinning circles fueled by holiday excitement, while his lab “big brother,” Axis, in a more subdued black tie, flattened his ears, as if he disapproved of his canine sibling’s lack of decorum.
I found Artie’s behavior quite acceptable. It was a party. And I wanted to be happy for Socrates, who wasn’t ignoring h
is best buddy, but who was clearly focused on his “date.” However, I couldn’t help worrying that he was being set up for disappointment, since Snowdrop was likely destined to leave Sylvan Creek soon.
In fact, at that very moment, Jeff Updegrove—whose tux didn’t fit as well as one might expect for a high-ranking executive—was eyeing the poodle with a strange, unpleasant look on his face. Then Jeff’s scowl deepened when Norm Alcorn approached him, lightly tapping his arm. Jeff didn’t seem pleased to be bothered, and, in spite of the fact that his hotel was hosting what seemed to be an incredibly successful event, Norm was clearly agitated, too. As I observed, he grabbed Jeff’s wrist, the same, impulsive way he’d recently snared mine. A sharp look from Jeff caused Norm to pull back, but didn’t end the conversation. The two men resumed conferring, then—perhaps realizing the ballroom wasn’t the proper spot for a serious discussion—they walked off together and disappeared through the double doors that led to the lobby.
“I don’t trust Jeff,” I muttered, my fingers tightening around a wooden railing that separated me from a bad fall. “And I’m not so sure about Norm right now, either.”
All at once, I recalled Gabriel’s warning about someone at Bark the Halls who likely had blood on his or her hands.
I doubted that Norm was guilty of more than trying to bully me, and he wouldn’t be on Gabriel’s radar. But did Gabriel believe Jeff might be guilty of CeeCee’s murder? Because my former classmate was definitely a suspect, in my opinion. Along with obviously resenting—maybe despising—his former employer, Jeff had been in possession of CeeCee’s room key after her death, a circumstance that continued to strike me as strange.
I was still pondering that when, seemingly out of nowhere, a tiny pug, wearing one of his many red “bah, hum-pug” sweaters, dashed across the dance floor, weaving himself in and out of legs and generally tripping up everyone in his path.
A Midwinter's Tail Page 20
