I, meanwhile, was getting nervous. Norm was agitated, and while he’d apologized for trying to intimidate me the other day, I knew that he could be threatening when backed into a corner. I stood up, getting ready to go, even as I tried to get more information. “Why do you still have all the food?” I asked. “Why not get rid of it?”
“There’s so much.” Norm rose, too, carefully stepping around Dunston, who continued to sleep. “And I don’t know how toxic it is. I have no idea how to safely dispose of it, without the whole world knowing that I bought it. So, for now, I’ve hidden it away.” He stepped closer to me. “At least, it was hidden, until you found it.”
Norm Alcorn’s kitchen was sunny and warm—Mom often mentioned the development’s reliable heat pumps as selling points for those who “appreciate maintenance-free living”—but in an instant, it felt like the temperature dropped ten degrees. I could only attribute the cold snap to the icy, warning stare Norm was suddenly giving me.
“I won’t tell a soul about the food,” I assured him, taking a step backward and reaching blindly for my coat, which was still draped over the chair at the island. “It’s really nobody’s business.”
“No, it’s really not. And I certainly don’t need word leaking out to your friend at the Gazette.”
Norm was making me uneasy again. Yet, part of me felt sorry for him. In a way, he was the most connected man in town. But he lived alone in a huge house, and his position with the chamber seemed to mean so much to him that he was—in my opinion—getting a little paranoid.
“I promise, I won’t tell Gabriel about the kibble,” I said. “To be honest, I really don’t think he’d consider it news worth sharing in the paper.”
As I said that, I suddenly wondered why CeeCee hadn’t made good on her threat to mention Norm’s purchase when she’d commandeered the Bijoux’s lobby.
Had she simply changed her mind about publicizing Norm’s “endorsement” of her shoddy product? Or had something—or someone—else compelled her to keep that mean-spirited tidbit to herself?
Unfortunately, I didn’t feel like I could ask Norm what had happened, and I turned the conversation back to CeeCee’s plans for Sylvan Creek as I moved toward the foyer.
“So, what do you think will happen now, with the store?” I ventured, sort of sidestepping, so I could keep Norm in view. “I saw you at Bark the Halls, talking to Jeff. Is the franchise still in the works?”
I’d asked that question in hopes of shifting Norm’s focus away from me, but my query had quite the opposite effect. Norm, who was close on my heels, abruptly stopped, the better to study me with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “What do you think you observed at the dance, Daphne?” he asked, his voice soft, yet very serious. “Because I’m not sure you saw things correctly.”
I met his gaze for a long moment, trying to decide if he was close to threatening me again. Then, although I was sure we both knew that I had seen him talking to Jeff before they’d disappeared together, I said, “Maybe you’re right. It was a chaotic night.”
“Yes,” Norm agreed, as I took the last few steps to the front door. “A very unfortunate and chaotic night. One never expects to be so close to a horrific crime. But these things do happen—to people who bring trouble upon themselves, in my opinion.”
I didn’t think CeeCee and Jeff should be blamed for their own deaths, so I didn’t reply. Something about that comment also struck me as ominous, and, thinking it was high time for me to leave, I reached for the doorknob—only to have Norm reach past me, blocking the door with his arm and trapping me inside.
Chapter 46
“Thank goodness Norm just wanted to pay me,” I told Socrates and Snowdrop, who were hiking with me down the short, tree-lined lane that connected Piper’s farmhouse to my cottage. I’d parked the truck in the barn and picked up the dogs, who trotted along side by side, Snowdrop’s red-and-green sweater a bright spot against the snow. I thought Socrates had a restrained spring to his step, while Snowdrop fairly pranced. Piper had also informed me that the duo had been inseparable all day. Knowing that Socrates, at least, wouldn’t want me to make a big deal out of the budding romance, I continued telling them about my adventure at the Rolling Green development. “I thought Norm was going to kill me when he blocked the door. But he really just needed to write a check.”
Socrates raised his muzzle to look up at me, and I saw relief mingled with censure in his brown eyes. I probably shouldn’t have confided that some of my questions had provoked Dunston’s person.
Snowdrop, meanwhile, beamed at Socrates, as if she approved of his disapproval.
“Don’t forget that I took a class in Krav Maga,” I reminded Socrates. “I was fully ready to break out some of my old moves.”
Socrates rolled his eyes, the same way Jonathan had done when I’d told him about my weekend course at an Israeli senior center, while I stepped sideways to avoid a deep tire track that ran through the snow.
All at once, I realized that the tracks, which I’d been sidestepping the whole way from the farmhouse, shouldn’t have been there. My van was still snowbound, although I suspected that the day’s sunshine had probably made the lane passable even for an old VW with bald tires. Yet I hadn’t attempted to drive the road yet.
“Who do you think is visiting?” I asked the dogs, just as we rounded a final bend in the road, and the question became moot.
I immediately recognized the shiny, black truck that was parked next to my van.
And, of course, I knew the tall, handsome detective who’d cleared the snow off my VW, and who was leaning against his pickup, his arms crossed over his chest.
Last, but not least, the dogs and I were quite familiar with the chocolate Lab who was loping to greet us, and the one-eared, drooling Chihuahua who was racing excited circles in the snow—and who wore the tiny, free-range-yak-hair sweater I’d purchased for him the previous winter.
I broke into a grin and was about to tease Jonathan for finally giving in and dressing up Artie.
Then I saw the expression on his face, and I thought the better of joking when he said, “Let’s see that yearbook, Daphne.”
* * *
“I must be missing something, too, or lack context to draw conclusions,” Jonathan said, shutting Jeff Updegrove’s yearbook and handing it to me. We sat side by side on my front steps, enjoying the sunshine, and I placed the annual on my lap, while Jonathan shifted to look at me. “I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary—aside from a kid in a rabid-looking squirrel costume, who appears on quite a few pages.”
I couldn’t believe he was overlooking my leg warmers, and I didn’t intend to point that out. In fact, I moved the yearbook to my side, out of his reach, while the dogs ran by the cottage, playing in the snow.
Glancing behind myself, I saw Tinks sitting near the window, glaring at Jonathan, who’d bested him once in a brief tussle.
“Why do you think Updegrove gave you the book?” Jonathan inquired, drawing my attention back to our conversation. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “Was it just to remind you about the promise you made, in your inscription?”
“I suppose there’s nothing embarrassing in your old yearbooks,” I said, leaning forward, the better to catch the sunlight and see his face. I doubted that Jonathan had ever made fashion mistakes, and he’d probably been a star athlete and prom king, too, but I added, “I guess you never had an awkward phase.”
His eyes glimmered with amusement, and I knew he was picturing me falling down a hill at Lake Wallapawakee, tumbling into the creek at Pettigrew Park, and thudding down a staircase at Flynt Mansion. I spoke first, before he had a chance. “Do not ask when mine is going to end!”
Jonathan grinned. “I was debating whether to make that joke.”
“You could’ve gone for it,” I told him, with a glance at the yearbook full of incriminating pictures. “I don’t usually have trouble laughing at myself.”
“Yes, I know,” Jonathan said, still smiling. “I
t’s one of the things I like about you.”
My cheeks got warm. We hadn’t discussed our moment at Bark the Halls, and I wasn’t sure if we would or should. Reaching out, I tapped the yearbook, focusing us on the murder investigation again. “To answer your question about why Jeff might’ve left me the annual, I did see some interesting photos, but nothing that I would call clues.”
Jonathan rested back on his hands. “Tell me about the ‘interesting’ shots, please. It can’t hurt.”
I hesitated. “First, about the letter opener . . .” Jonathan didn’t speak for a moment, and I thought he wasn’t going to share anything. Then he said, “I can’t tell you much, aside from the fact that it’s almost certainly the murder weapon—which is public knowledge.” He paused as the dogs darted past, with Snowdrop in the lead, before adding, “Beyond that, the handle was wiped clean. No prints at all.”
“Why just wipe the handle?” I asked, thinking that seemed strange. “Why not wipe the blood off, too?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself,” Jonathan noted. “And I keep coming back to the possibility that the blood was meant to be a dramatic touch. Because the whole placement of the letter opener, just visible in the snow near Cavanaugh’s house, seems a little too staged.”
“You mean, you think the weapon might’ve been planted near Mike’s apartment?” I started to get excited on Mike’s behalf. “That someone might’ve been trying to frame him?”
Jonathan’s expression tamped down my optimism. “Daphne, the two recent murders are almost certainly related,” he reminded me. “And Moxie’s scissors are still considered the most likely weapon in French’s homicide. Meanwhile, Mike and Moxie had left the dance shortly before Updegrove’s death.”
My heart sank. “The placement of the letter opener doesn’t help Moxie at all, does it?”
There was genuine regret in Jonathan’s blue eyes. “Sorry, but no. And my theory about the scene being staged is just that. A theory.”
“It doesn’t help that Mike and Moxie don’t have strong alibis, either, does it?”
Jonathan spoke softly. “No. It doesn’t.”
I took a moment to think, my brain circling back to Jonathan’s use of the words “dramatic” and “staged.”
“Jonathan?” I ventured uncertainly. “I don’t want to get anyone else in trouble. . . .”
“But you know something.”
I hesitated, then nodded. “It’s about Bitsy Bickelheim. Who loves drama—and creates stage sets.”
Jonathan leaned forward again, resting his arms on his knees and watching my eyes. “I’m listening.”
Reluctantly picking up the yearbook, I located the pages with the cheerleaders and the most prominent sports. Holding the annual closer to Jonathan, I pointed to the picture of the human pyramid, with Bitsy Bickelheim in the background.
“Ms. Bickelheim was the adviser to the cheerleading squad, back when CeeCee was the student in charge.” I paused, then asked, “Do you know about Ms. Bickelheim’s past with CeeCee? The enmity between them?”
“No, I don’t,” Jonathan admitted. “I think this is one of those times that your status as a lifelong resident of Sylvan Creek trumps my police academy training.”
“Yes, I think so,” I agreed, shivering a little when the sun ducked behind a cloud. “Because something strange happened, senior year. An incident that there’s no way you could know about.”
Jonathan frowned. “Something beyond the holiday dance, where Mike Cavanaugh ran off with French and broke Moxie Bloom’s heart?”
Closing the yearbook, I set it aside again. “Yes. Something even bigger than that.”
“Go on.”
I tucked some curls behind my ear, suddenly getting cold feet—figuratively and literally. “I don’t know if I should share the whole story.”
“Daphne, your best friend is still my prime suspect,” Jonathan reminded me. “I suggest that you fill me in, so I can decide whether I need to contact Ms. Bickelheim myself.”
I nodded again. “Okay. And I didn’t promise not to say anything, so I suppose it’s all right to tell you that Ms. Bickelheim left Sylvan Creek High midway through my senior year. I’d always assumed that she quit, but it turns out she was forced out.”
Jonathan arched an eyebrow. “Because . . . ?” “CeeCee French accused Ms. Bickelheim of having an affair with a student. Ms. Bickelheim says CeeCee was motivated by anger, because the two clashed over issues related to cheerleading. But I honestly don’t know.”
Jonathan continued to watch me closely. “You think there might be a grain of truth to the accusation?”
“I have no idea.” I glanced at the dogs, who were rolling around in the snow. Even Socrates was on his back, his big paws flapping in the air. Then I returned my attention to Jonathan. “All I know is, Bitsy Bickelheim hated CeeCee French. Enough that she can’t even stand to be in Snowdrop’s presence.”
At the sound of her name, Snowdrop, who had been wriggling around, too, rolled swiftly to her feet and barked sharply. It almost seemed like she’d understood the comment.
Jonathan glanced at the indignant poodle, then addressed me again. “How do you know that?”
“Ms. Bickelheim had a very strong reaction to Snowdrop during a private dress rehearsal for my role as the Ghost of Christmas Future—”
“I’m looking forward to that production,” Jonathan interrupted, fighting back a grin. “I’ve preordered a front-row seat.”
I hoped he was joking about attending the play and overlooked the comment. “Ms. Bickelheim took one look at Snowdrop and spilled her whole story.”
Jonathan must’ve seen me starting to shiver, because he stood up and extended his hand to me. “So, who was the student in question?”
“I have no idea,” I admitted, accepting his offer of help. My legs were stiff, and when he released my chilly hands, I used them to dust off my butt. “Ms. Bickelheim didn’t volunteer the student’s name,” I added. “And I don’t know if it’s important.”
“Perhaps not,” Jonathan conceded, bending to pick up the yearbook. “At the very least, I’ll talk to Bitsy Bickelheim.” He handed the book to me. “Anything else?”
“Just the fact that Brett Pinkney is missing from the spring sports.”
“Yes, Pinkney.” I could tell from the tone of his voice that Jonathan knew more about Brett’s relationship with CeeCee than he had about Ms. Bickelheim’s past with the victim. “French’s high school boyfriend—before the incident with Mike Cavanaugh.”
“I recall them being on again, off again,” I said, as the dogs trotted over to join us. They all seemed tired, but happy, and I suffered a twinge of concern, to think that the poodle would likely be leaving us soon.
Or what would happen to Snowdrop, now that Jeff was gone, too . . . ?
“Daphne?” Jonathan’s voice brought me back to reality. “Who was more invested in the relationship? Pinkney? Or French? Because, if two people keep getting back together, one of them is probably desperate to be with the other.”
That was an interesting observation, and I suspected that he was correct. “If I had to guess, I’d say Brett was more smitten with CeeCee,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself and pressing the yearbook to my chest. “Everybody assumed Brett would take over his family’s tree farm, while CeeCee always made it clear that she was destined for bigger and better things.”
“Yet, we don’t always fall for people who fit easily into our lives,” Jonathan noted.
That was true of humans—and, it seemed, dogs. The basset hound and the poodle who were nudging each other with their muzzles were definitely a strange pair. Still, I told Jonathan, “I don’t know. It’s hard for me to imagine CeeCee French being desperate for anyone’s affection. Plus, she ran off with Mike at the dance.”
Jonathan looked to the west, where the sun was setting, painting the sky a beautiful shade of orange. “Maybe French wanted to make Pinkney jealous?” he suggested, slipping his hands int
o the pockets of his black down jacket. “Or maybe we don’t know the real story about what happened the night of the formal.”
The comment surprised me. “Did Mike tell you anything, that day he confided in you about guilt that he carried?” I asked. “Because he said something to me that indicated the rumors about the formal weren’t true. And that something even worse than a fling between two teenagers happened that night.”
Jonathan shook his head. “Sorry, Daphne. Anything Cavanaugh said to me was shared with a promise of complete confidence. I can’t tell you more.”
“But—”
Pulling his hands from his pockets, he raised one, cutting me off. “Remember how you once told me ‘girl code’ trumps legal code?”
Regrettably, I had said that, during a previous investigation.
“Well, I have to maintain honor among soldiers,” Jonathan continued, without waiting for me to respond. “I made a promise, related to some of the personal things Mike told me.”
I continued searching Jonathan’s eyes, which were already softening up. “Just tell me if it’s okay for Moxie to see him again,” I said. “Do you think she’d be safe? Or is Mike Cavanaugh a killer with a secret, dark past?”
Jonathan winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t make that call right now, Daphne. I just can’t. Not in the middle of an investigation, when Cavanaugh is a legitimate suspect.”
“But your gut feeling, as a person, not a detective—”
“Sorry, Daphne,” he repeated. “I’d rather not say more.”
“I understand,” I said, but with clear disappointment. Then I led the way to Jonathan’s truck, because I thought he was getting ready to leave.
However, before I’d taken two steps, he grabbed my arm. “Daphne. Wait.” I turned back, and he released me. “I put a dog in a sweater, because he shakes so much in the cold, and dressed him up in a paisley vest and bow tie, for no other reason than to indulge his fashion whims. I never thought I’d cater to a Chihuahua like that. Living here, and being around you, is changing me. But I’m not great at sharing information. At least, not yet.”
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