“Yes,” I confirmed, somewhat distracted. Steve was unloading a large, red retractable tunnel from a trailer hitched to the back of his pickup. The truck bed was also filled with gear. He had a big job ahead of him, if he was working alone, as it appeared. “I should’ve known nobody else around here would have the equipment to create an AKC-standard course,” I noted absently. “It probably had to be Steve.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Moxie said. “Just tell me, are he and Piper back together or not?”
“No!” I said that firmly, then added, with less certainty, “At least, I don’t think so. . . .”
I changed my tune because as I watched, Piper—who’d silently slipped out of the house—walked across the lawn that separated the farmhouse from the barn and handed Steve a thermos.
Coffee? For that creep?
The moon had emerged from behind the clouds, and Steve’s white teeth gleamed as he smiled and accepted the drink.
Piper’s back was to me, so I couldn’t see her expression.
“What’s going on?” Moxie asked. “What’s happening?”
“Piper and Steve are talking,” I said quietly, although they were well out of earshot. “Steve was unloading stuff from his truck for the dog thing, and Piper brought him something to drink. Now they’re chatting away.”
“He’s so conceited and thoughtless,” Moxie said. Of course, thanks to me—and lots of other people in town—she knew all about the Steve and Piper breakup saga. It had been pretty big news in Sylvan Creek for a while. “I hope she’s not falling for him again.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, frowning. In less than a minute, Piper’s and Steve’s body language had changed. Steve’s hands were in his pockets, and he shrugged, then turned his face away, like he was dismissing my sister, while she crossed her arms defensively. They exchanged a few more words, then Piper tossed up her hands, turned on her heel, and stormed away.
“Nope,” I told Moxie, with relief. Downstairs, the door slammed, so I knew my sister was inside again. “I would say Piper looked closer to killing than kissing Steve.”
“I’m surprised somebody didn’t kill him a long time ago,” Moxie noted. “He has a way of rubbing people the wrong way.” There was a pause; then she added, “Yet he never lacks for girlfriends. Ever.”
I’d known Moxie since kindergarten, and I thought she sounded funny—like maybe she’d been involved with Steve at some point.
But I would’ve known about that, right?
“Anyway,” Moxie continued, sounding like her usual self again, “Piper’s cool, for somebody who wears matchy sweaters. She can do way better.”
“Yeah, she can,” I agreed, pulling a curtain across the window so I could focus on my conversation. I didn’t need to watch Steve finish his task.
“Um, what did you call about?” Moxie prompted.
“Jeez, I’ve kind of forgotten,” I admitted. In fact, it took me a second to remember why I was on the phone. Then I recalled how Dylan and I had parted—awkwardly—and said, “I wanted to know what you’re doing Monday night.”
“That depends on what you’re about to suggest,” Moxie said. “I may be busy . . . or I may not.”
I had a feeling she would opt for busy when I extended my invitation, but I tried, anyhow. “Dylan’s playing at the Lakeside,” I said. “Do you want to go?”
I could practically hear Moxie making a face. “You know I hate acoustic folk music! When’s he going to start riding the European avant-garde wave?”
“Um . . . given that he’s not European or very avant-garde, probably never,” I said. “And his music is good. You know it.”
Dylan really was a talented musician. If he had more ambition, he probably could make a decent living as a songwriter or a performer, even. He had charisma. I would’ve ended up kissing him that evening if a certain basset hound, now snoring but still managing to force Artie to sleep on a pair of soft flannel pajamas I’d left on the floor, hadn’t stuck his big muzzle in between us. . . .
I shook off the memory of Dylan’s lips nearly brushing mine.
“Are you coming or not?” I asked Moxie. Before she could say no, I added, “I’m buying the beers.”
That was all you could get at the Lakeside. American brewed beers, like Budweiser, or the house wine, which came out of big boxes that the owner, Harry Popple, didn’t even bother hiding behind the bar.
The deal was enough to tempt Moxie, though. “Okay,” she agreed, but with clear reluctance. “I’ll meet you there.” There was another brief silence. “Are you and Dylan . . . ?”
“Good night,” I said quickly, before I had to explain a relationship that I didn’t fully understand. “See you Monday. Around eight.”
I signed off without waiting for her to reply. Then, stepping over a small pile of snoring dogs, I found a clean pair of pajamas and got ready for bed. Soon I was on the floor, on an antique Persian rug, twisting myself into the lotus position for my evening meditation. But I couldn’t focus on my mantra and settle my brain.
Outside, I could hear Steve continuing to work. And other people were arriving, too. I heard more cars and the muffled sound of greetings and conversations.
Giving up on my pursuit of a Zen state, I untwisted myself and headed to the window again. Pushing aside the curtain, I saw that Giulia Alberti had arrived and was setting up her mobile coffee stand.
Christian Clarke’s distinctive red BMW was parked there, too, and I soon located Giulia’s handsome boyfriend standing in the shadows, looking decidedly unhelpful. He had his arms crossed over his chest, standing just like Piper had done not too long before. I couldn’t see Christian very well, but I was pretty sure he was staring in the direction of Steve Beamus’s truck.
Had Giulia and Steve ever really had a relationship?
Were they still together, secretly?
And where was Steve, who had a lot of work ahead of him? In spite of the noise I’d heard earlier, it didn’t look like he’d made a lot of progress unloading since Piper had left.
The sound of a loud, but mild curse ended my speculation, and I shifted to watch Tom and Tessie Flinchbaugh struggling to erect a white tent by moonlight. So far, they had only two poles laid out on the ground, and Tom was already injured. He was alternately sucking and shaking out his thumb while Tessie fussed over him.
It crossed my mind to go help them, but I was not exactly handy and would probably just make matters worse. I’d bought a chair from IKEA once and, after a fruitless two-hour struggle, ended up giving the pieces to a thrift store.
“Sorry, guys,” I mumbled.
Then I peered harder into the darkness. There was another car parked farther away, on the gravel road. Although a large oak tree cast the vehicle in shadows, I was pretty sure it was attorney Virginia Lockhart’s big Lincoln Navigator.
I often saw that SUV when I picked up Macduff, Hamlet, and Iago at Virginia’s huge house, in an exclusive development called Foxview Heights, just outside Sylvan Creek. The Navigator was also frequently at Winding Hill. At Piper’s invitation, Virginia sometimes brought the rottweilers to the farm to train them off leash on trails that ran through the wooded part of the property. It was a safe place to practice recall and teach them not to chase squirrels and rabbits. But surely Virginia wasn’t working with the dogs so late at night, right? And while she would attend the trial, that didn’t start for hours.
So why was she there?
Yawning, I checked my clock and realized just how late it was. Before I knew it, the sun would rise, and I would need to get up and find a way to promote my pet-sitting services, like I’d told Piper I planned to do.
Pulling the curtains shut again, I went over to Socrates’s bed, knelt down, and gave him a kiss good night. He would tolerate such displays of affection only when he was asleep, and even then, he grunted and wriggled his bulky body.
“Good night, Artie,” I added, stroking the Chihuahua, too. He’d edged closer to Socra
tes, and I had a feeling he’d make several more—probably unsuccessful—attempts to share the bed over the course of the night. At my touch, Artie snorted and snuffled, too, but happily, like he was enjoying a good doggy dream.
I hoped so.
After rising, I went to my bed, pulled down a colorful comforter I’d picked up in India—long story—and lay down. But my sleep, when it finally came, was fitful, interrupted by the sounds of voices and vehicles outside. I had a weird dream, too, about a dark-haired man in a rainstorm. A guy who might have literally been the man of my dreams—or my worst nightmare.
I woke up at 3:00 a.m., feeling unsettled. And that sensation worsened when I heard yet another car start up outside.
I tossed off my covers, which were way too hot, anyway, and went back to the window just in time to see a Jeep—the vintage, stripped-down army kind that young guys liked—driving off.
I’d expected to see Steve leaving, but his truck was still there.
What was he doing?
All at once, I had this terrible thought.
Was he in the house with Piper? Making up? Or, worse yet, making out?
Oh, yuck.
I hopped back into bed, almost wanting to pull the covers over my head. The night was getting warm and sticky, though, and I didn’t want to suffocate, so I took a few deep, calming breaths, reminded myself that Piper’s love life was none of my business, and let my thoughts drift away.
As I’d predicted, the sun came up way too soon.
And when I opened my eyes, someone was in my bed, staring at me, with his face right on my pillow.
Chapter 5
“Artie, how did you even get up here?” I asked the eight-inch-tall dog, who had somehow managed to get onto my bed, which had a very high antique pine frame topped with a thick, soft mattress. I had to climb to get into it. Lifting Artie off the pillow, I saw a puddle where his mouth had been, and I made a face. “Oh, and you drooled, too.”
Artie didn’t appear apologetic. In fact, his overbite made it look like he was smiling with self-satisfaction.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, then hopped down, with the little dog cradled in my arm like a football, and scolded him mildly as I set him on the floor. “Don’t do that again, Artie. Dogs have their own beds.”
Socrates, who was stretched out on his overstuffed purple-velvet pillow, opened one eye to give Artie an “I told you so,” disapproving look. Then he promptly went back to sleep, while I checked the clock and was surprised to realize it wasn’t even 6:00 a.m. Since I was already up, though, I decided to take advantage of the quiet, because surely vendors, dogs, and handlers would start arriving within the next hour. I was pretty sure the trial officially kicked off at eight.
After pulling on jeans and a T-shirt that advertised Lucky Paws—my promised, if unoriginal, promotional effort—I brushed my teeth and ran my fingers through my curls, then headed downstairs to make some tea and feed the dogs.
“Piper?” I asked softly, padding into the kitchen barefoot. Moments later, I heard the click of toenails on wide, gleaming pine planks as both Socrates and Artie joined me. But for once, Piper wasn’t up before me, making her daily bowl of steel-cut oatmeal with cranberries.
Putting the kettle on the stove, I next headed to the fridge and pulled out a glass container that held Bone Appetit Ham-and-Cheese Muffins, which I’d made for Socrates and Artie. Socrates waited patiently for his muffin, which he liked delivered on a china plate meant for humans, while Artie pawed impatiently at my knees, licking his protruding chops.
“Here you go,” I told him, setting his treat made of bacon, rolled oats, cheddar cheese, and honey—my own recipe—right on the floor. Knowing they would both need more for breakfast, I added some rice-and-turkey mixture to their waiting bowls, too.
While Socrates ate with decorum, and Artie snuffled away, I finished brewing my raspberry leaf tea and sat down in the sunny breakfast nook to relax and daydream for a few minutes, fully expecting Piper to show up at any second.
But she still hadn’t come downstairs by the time my tea and the dogs’ meals were gone. As I slipped on some flip-flops waiting by the back door, I hoped she wasn’t upset and brooding about the argument she’d had with Steve. That didn’t sound like typical Piper behavior, but even a strong woman might crumple a little when her heart was broken, right?
“Come on, boys,” I said, summoning the dogs, who followed me outside—where I stopped short, hoping even more fervently that Steve wasn’t the reason Piper was lingering in bed, for a different reason.
Because Steve Beamus’s truck was still parked by the barn.
Chapter 6
It turned out that Piper wasn’t sleeping late. As I should’ve expected, she was already up and busy, working in the barn with Winding Hill’s elderly caretaker, Mr. Peachy, who was always an early riser, too. When I stepped through the big sliding red door, which was open on its iron track, they were both inside, standing close together and puzzling over a piece of paper that Piper held. Her hair was uncharacteristically mussed, and she had bags under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept well.
“What’s up?” I asked them both. “What are you looking at?”
“It’s the plan for how obstacles should be laid out in the ring Steve didn’t finish setting up before he took off,” Piper said. She was clearly aggravated. “We’re trying to figure out where things go, since he’s not answering his cell phone, either.”
“That’s weird,” I said, wondering if Steve’s short spat with Piper had been bad enough to make him abandon the whole event. I didn’t want to mention the fight in front of Mr. Peachy, though, so I didn’t speculate out loud.
“It’s weird—and rude,” Piper said. “There’s only about an hour left before dogs and handlers start arriving, and all the obstacles for the jumping class are still in the trailer behind his truck.”
“Nothin’ to do but set up ourselves,” Mr. Peachy said, taking the paper from Piper’s fingers and squinting at it. He must’ve been seventy-five, with a permanently curved spine and bowed legs. But his appearance was deceptive. He was a wiry, leathery man who got up every morning at the crack of dawn, first tended to his small cottage—an outbuilding on the Winding Hill property—then walked a half mile through a small patch of woods to take care of whatever needed attention at the main farm. He was the reason every beam was straight, there wasn’t a hint of peeling paint anywhere, and the flower beds were always free of weeds. “No use worryin’ about Steve Beamus when there’s work to be done,” he added in his can-do way.
“You’re right,” Piper agreed. She leaned against Mr. Peachy’s old red truck, which he usually parked in the barn. He liked to keep the classic vehicle, which was so ancient that it had wooden slats around the cargo area, out of the weather. Plus, there were no roads to the cottage. Piper rubbed her eyes. “But this shouldn’t be your problem,” she reminded Mr. Peachy. “I invited the agility club here.”
Mr. Peachy smiled crookedly at both of us, and in spite of the fact that he was resigned to working, I thought he looked uncharacteristically tired, too. Or maybe age was finally catching up to him. “You girls are like family,” he said, bending to scratch behind Artie’s remaining ear. “I can start carrying the equipment to the second ring, if you like.”
Piper smiled, but weakly. “Thanks, Mr. Peachy.”
Although he was a grandfatherly presence at the farm, we always addressed him as Mr. Peachy. It was just habit at this point. I wasn’t even sure what his first name was.
“It’s no problem,” Mr. Peachy promised, tipping his worn baseball cap to us.
When he was out of earshot, I asked Piper, “Umm . . . not to pry, but did Steve take off because you fought?”
My sister’s cheeks flushed. “How do you know about that?”
“I saw you guys last night, out my window,” I admitted. Seeing that Piper was getting even redder with irritation, I added, “I wasn’t spying! I just wanted some fresh air, and I
couldn’t help seeing you offer Steve something to drink. Then you were obviously arguing.” I really hadn’t meant to spy, but I wasn’t above prying. “What was that all about?”
“Nothing,” Piper mumbled, avoiding my gaze.
I took a moment to study my sister. “What’s going on with you two? Are you getting back together?”
“Nothing’s going on!” she repeated.
“Well, I heard a car drive away from here pretty late. Maybe Steve got a ride with that person, and he’ll be back soon.”
“Probably,” Piper agreed. But she had a pained expression on her face, and I realized that she was likely imagining Steve driving off with some woman. A new conquest.
And she was probably right.
What did my smart, accomplished sister see in that guy?
What did so many women see?
I knew that asking those questions, again, would be futile, so I didn’t bother. Plus, I could hear vehicles starting to arrive for the trial. I assumed the early people were folks from the kennel club and vendors, but some handlers were probably starting to show up, too, to get their dogs settled into crates in prime shady spots.
“We’ll offer the barn for dogs that mind the heat,” Piper said, as if reading my mind about the rising temperature. “It’s pretty cool in here. And can I count on you to help me and Mr. Peachy set up the second course? The jumps aren’t really heavy. It will only take a few minutes if three of us do it.”
“Sure. I’ll be right there,” I promised. “Just let me get some extra water bowls ready for the agility dogs who come in here.”
I intended to help Piper and Mr. Peachy, but as it always seemed to happen, one simple task turned into many more, including setting up some fans to make the barn even cooler and taking a phone call from somebody who wanted me to watch two slightly neurotic greyhounds. The next thing I knew, I’d been busy for a half hour.
Death by Chocolate Lab Page 3
