Death by Chocolate Lab

by Bethany Blake

  “Daphne?”

  I realized I’d been daydreaming, and I turned to find Jonathan watching me. His eyes looked almost black, and he seemed serious again.

  “Yes? What?” I asked a little nervously.

  “Lean closer.”

  My stomach flipped in a funny way. “What?”

  “Lean closer,” he repeated, with a half smile. “Just do it.”

  I had no idea what was happening, but I did as he asked and leaned across the table, being careful not to burn my hair with the candle. I got so close to him that I could smell his cologne again and see the small scar that ran along his jaw.

  What are we doing?

  I wasn’t sure if I said that out loud. And I didn’t understand why Jonathan was reaching for my hair, too. He took some into his hands, held it for a moment, then tugged gently.

  “Ouch!” I cried, sitting back. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected would happen right then, but I hadn’t anticipated getting my hair pulled.

  What was he? A middle-school boy?

  I rubbed my head, although it didn’t exactly hurt. “Why did you do that?”

  “Sorry,” he said, grinning at me. He extended his hand across the table, then opened it to reveal a fairly big chunk of cheese that he’d removed from my curls. Apparently, he’d been serious when he’d commented on that earlier. “Much as you seem to like cheese, I didn’t think you’d want to wear it all night.”

  Okay, that was strangely deflating and somewhat embarrassing. But a moment later, we both started laughing pretty hard.

  And when we stopped, I felt traitorous for the second time that evening.

  Should I be eating—and cracking up—with a man who might put my sister in jail?

  Jonathan seemed to sense the mood change, too. The laughter in his eyes flickered out.

  “Can you at least tell me how much trouble Piper is in?” I asked softly. “Give me a hint?”

  He didn’t answer directly, but he said enough. “She was smart to get a lawyer.”

  I took a moment to let that sink in. Then, although I knew I risked messing up a pretty nice evening, I said, “I know you can’t tell me much about the investigation.. . .” He immediately put up his guard—it was like two gates closed behind his eyes—but I forged ahead. “But could I at least ask three questions?”

  He was clearly reluctant, but he nodded. “If you understand that I will answer them only if the information is already public knowledge. Things I’m telling local reporters.”

  That wasn’t a great deal—not even as good as an exchange of fries for cheese sticks—but I took it. “Fine. First question. Did you ever find out who’s been staying at Steve Beamus’s house?”

  He shook his head. His nearly black hair gleamed by the candlelight. “No. I returned once, but there was no one there, and I can’t stake out the place. There’s not enough of a compelling reason to do it.”

  I had a feeling that his failure to dig deeper into that mystery indicated just how convinced he was of Piper’s guilt, and I resolved to solve the puzzle myself, even if I had to break into . . . er, use a key to enter the house again.

  “Question two,” I said. “Has Axis been located?”

  “No. But again, I’m not a dogcatcher.”

  Perhaps not. But I was pretty sure that he cared about dogs. A lot.

  It wasn’t the right time to bring up his past, though. I needed to focus on my sister’s future. I moved to question three.

  “Did you find the murder weapon?”

  Jonathan took a sip of beer, but he didn’t say a word. He could really do a poker face well. “Pass,” he finally said in an even tone. “And that concludes this game. . . .”

  “No!” I objected. “I get three questions that you actually answer!”

  He hesitated, then sighed with resignation. “Fine. You get one more. But this is it.”

  “What was in the thermos? What kind of poison?”

  I could tell he didn’t want to answer, and at first I thought he was putting up that professional wall again. But when he did respond, I realized he’d been reluctant to upset me, although at first he seemed to be speaking gibberish.

  “The thermos contained dimethyl ammonium chloride mixed with some other ingredients.”

  My brow furrowed. “I don’t know what that means. . . .”

  “It’s a commercial-grade sanitizer,” he clarified softly. “Sold under the brand name Clean Kennel.”

  My heart was already sinking, but I asked, “And this is used by?”

  “Kennel owners,” he said. “And veterinarians.”

  My heart hit rock bottom, and I didn’t even know what to say. Jonathan seemed unsure, too. We got very quiet, but this time the silence was less comfortable.

  After a minute, Jonathan looked past me, as if something over my shoulder had caught his attention. “I think your boyfriend is about to play,” he said. “He’s arrived, and he’s got his guitar.”

  I’d almost forgotten that I’d initially gone to the Lakeside to support Dylan, and I turned around to see him making his way through the tables toward what served as a stage at the end of the pier. He had his guitar slung over his broad shoulder, and he was smiling in his easy, infectious way.

  “We really don’t use labels like ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend, ’” I muttered, continuing to watch Dylan, who pulled the microphone closer to himself. “The terms wouldn’t be accurate, anyhow. . . .”

  I turned back to Jonathan, who had raised a skeptical eyebrow, like he didn’t quite believe me.

  However, before I could explain Dylan’s and my thoughts on the perils of commitment, Dylan began his set without so much as an introduction—heck, everybody knew him—by announcing, “I’m going to play a song I just wrote today about someone who’s here tonight and who means a lot to me. I call it ‘Daphne.’”

  Chapter 27

  “I can’t believe Dylan wrote a song about you!” Moxie said as we both walked down Sylvan Creek’s main street the morning after my serenade. We were accompanied on that warm, humid day by Socrates and a floppy, lazy bloodhound named Charlie, whom I was watching for the next few days. Artie was with us, too, riding in Moxie’s arms. He’d pooped out after we’d gone about a block. At least, he’d acted tired, lying down on the sidewalk with his tongue hanging out even farther than usual. Moxie waggled Artie’s paws, as if they were both excited. “That must’ve been so romantic!”

  “Actually, it was awkward,” I said, popping a treat into Charlie’s waiting, open mouth. Martha Whitaker, town librarian and Charlie’s person, had advised me that he would lie down, too, if not occasionally provided with an incentive. Then I cringed, recalling how I’d sat stiffly as Dylan had sung my praises, and added, “More than awkward, really.”

  Socrates, who hadn’t even been there, snuffled, like he found the whole scenario funny. I glanced down to see him trying not to wag his tail, which moved only on the rare occasions when something amused him.

  “Not funny, Socrates,” I complained. I tugged lightly on Charlie’s leash, and although he was one of the most charmingly baleful dogs I’d ever had the pleasure of meeting, I also warned him, “Don’t you get any ideas about laughing, either.”

  “What was so terrible?” Moxie asked. A light went on in her eyes, as if she had an idea. “Was it bad because nothing rhymes with ‘Daphne’? Was the song awful?”

  “Not awful,” I said. “Although there were some unfortunate lyrics, including a not very successful attempt to rhyme ‘Daphne’ with ‘decaffeiny-ated’—”

  Moxie drew back, her brow furrowed. “Why ‘decaffeinated’?”

  “I don’t know.” I waved off the question. “It had something to do with the herbal tea I drink. It’s not really the point.”

  Moxie shifted Artie to her other arm. “So . . . what was the point? If the song wasn’t really bad, by folk standards, why didn’t you like it?”

  The funny thing was, I couldn’t explain exactly why I wasn’t h
appy with Dylan’s decision to pay tribute to me in song. In a way, the gesture had been sweet, if too public for my taste.

  And it wasn’t like Jonathan and I had been on a date. . . .

  As if reading my mind—which I sometimes swore she could do—Moxie turned to me, her eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction. “You didn’t like Dylan acting like he’s your boyfriend while you were having dinner with Detective Black, did you? He was still there, wasn’t he?”

  I felt my cheeks redden. “Yes, but . . .”

  “You really do like him, don’t you?” Moxie asked. “You didn’t want to seem tied down—”

  “I’m not tied down!” I interrupted her, growing defensive. “I’m not sure how I feel about either of them, and I don’t want a commitment with anyone. Not with Dylan—and certainly not with Jonathan, whom I barely know.”

  Just to hear myself even mention the words “commitment” and “Jonathan” in the same breath suddenly made the beyond remote possibility seem especially laughable. He spent most of his time mocking me; he had been part of an organization that stood for everything I stood against; there was that gorgeous blonde from his past; and, last but not least, he was trying to pin a murder on my sister.

  Dylan, meanwhile, was a perfect match for me. We didn’t stress over professional achievement, to say the least. We both liked to wander. And we believed in all the same things. Peace. Harmony. The right of every human and animal to follow his or her bliss. Yet I couldn’t imagine being bound to Dylan, either. There was no way we’d both thrive in some sort of formalized, let alone legalized, arrangement.

  Was it odd that one of the things that brought us together was knowing we could be apart?

  I was pondering that conundrum when a warm, damp nose nudged my hand, and I realized I hadn’t offered Charlie a treat in quite some time. I reached into my pocket and came up empty.

  Glancing across the street, I saw that the red-and-white sign in the window of Fetch! was turned to CLOSED. I knew, h owever, that Tessie was often in the shop during off hours and was happy to open up if someone knocked.

  “I’m out of treats for Charlie,” I told Moxie. “Let’s run over and see if Tessie’s in Fetch!”

  “Sorry,” Moxie said, shifting Artie again so she could check her vintage Mickey Mouse watch, which went very well with her Lucille Ball–style polka-dot, flared summer dress. She held out her arms, offering me Artie. “I’ve gotta go open the salon. I’ve got two early appointments.”

  “Why don’t you keep Artie?” I suggested, stepping back. “You two could have a slumber party tonight. Watch old movies and eat snacks. I made Sweet Potato Puppy Crunchers last night, and I could drop some off. He loves them. They’re made with yummy sweet potatoes, cornmeal, and cranberries.” She didn’t seem convinced, so I added, “I could make that special popcorn you like, too. The one with the toasted pecans and drizzles of dark and white chocolate.”

  Moxie bit her lip, indicating that she was tempted. “You know I love your Tuxedo Popcorn.” We’d named it that because it was about as fancy as popcorn could get, and had the mix of dark and light chocolate. “But I also know what you’re doing, and I cannot have a pet.”

  Of course, Moxie knew that I was hoping she’d get attached to Artie and keep him. She held out the dog again, so his tongue and his paws dangled in the air.

  “As much as a movie night with Artie sounds fun—and the Puppy Crunch sounds delish, from a dog standpoint,” she continued, “for the millionth time, the Flinchbaughs won’t let me have a dog in the apartment.”

  I accepted Artie, but I told Moxie, “I don’t believe that. They own a pet store!”

  “Daphne!” Moxie said loudly, like she needed to get my attention. “I work crazy hours—and I live on the third floor, without a yard. It wouldn’t be fair, even for a small dog like Artie, to try to cram him into my life or my house.”

  She was right. Of course, she was right.

  “I know,” I agreed glumly, nuzzling the Chihuahua under my chin. “I just want him to get a good home, with a good person.”

  Perhaps a tiny part of me also wanted Artie to remain in my life even after he’d been adopted.

  Moxie smiled like she knew something I didn’t. “He’s going to find the right home, Daph. I promise. And he won’t go far. You’ll see him around.”

  Along with being a sometime mind reader, Moxie had a strong psychic sense.

  “You really feel that?” I asked.

  She grinned more broadly. “Yeah, I do.”

  The rain that the clouds and breeze had portended the night before finally began to fall, if only in the form of a light drizzle, and Moxie—no doubt wanting to keep her circle skirt stiffly starched—hurried off with a wave.

  I waved back, then crossed the street with Socrates, Artie, and Charlie. Fetch! looked dark inside, but I set down Artie, bent close to the glass door, cupped my hands around my eyes, and peered inside.

  At first, I couldn’t see anything.

  Then, as my eyes adjusted to the dim store interior, I saw Tessie crying.

  Chapter 28

  “Tessie?” I rapped on the glass, then cupped my hands around my eyes again, being careful not to tug Charlie’s leash, because the lazy bloodhound had flopped down and stretched out on the sidewalk, leaving little slack. Socrates sat patiently at my feet, while Artie scratched wildly against the door, as if he also wanted to comfort Tessie. She was leaning against her sales counter, her face buried in her hands and her shoulders shaking. I could hear her sobs.

  “Tessie?” I called again. “Please . . . let me in!”

  She finally lowered her hands and raised her face. “Daphne?” she asked, peering through teary eyes. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Are you okay? Please, unlock the door.”

  “It’s already open,” Tessie said, sniffling. “Just come in.”

  Socrates sneezed. It sounded a lot like a barely stifled chuckle.

  “Seriously,” I grumbled at him. “Please stop laughing at me today!”

  Socrates lifted his noble head, clearly offended by the idea that he’d find anything amusing, but I knew he’d found my failure to try the door funny.

  I looked between him and Artie, who considered the whole world entertaining.

  Was Artie’s exuberance rubbing off on Socrates?

  “Come on, guys,” I said, bending to rouse Charlie, who was snoring. He would open only one eye, until I noted, “There are treats inside.”

  That got him on his feet, and the four of us entered Fetch, our arrival announced by a strap of sleigh bells hanging on the doorknob. The cheerful sound was at odds with Tessie’s tearstained face and red-rimmed eyes. After unhooking Charlie’s leash, I took the liberty of turning on some lights, and I saw that Tessie’s normally neat, conservatively styled graying hair was unkempt. Her seasonally themed shirt of the day, which featured a cute kitten sniffing a summer daisy, was rumpled, too.

  “What’s wrong, Tessie?” I asked, keeping a watchful eye on Charlie, who was sniffing around a basket of complimentary jerky treats on the counter. Fortunately, Artie barked, alerting the bloodhound to a bin of toys. A moment later, the two dogs were tugging on a stuffed elephant I’d have to buy, Artie putting up a valiant fight, although he was outweighed by about sixty pounds. Socrates watched their play with disapproval. Satisfied that they were all occupied, I returned my attention to Tessie. “What happened? Why are you crying?”

  “I can’t tell you,” she said, wiping her arm across her eyes. She was drying her face—and hiding it. “I can’t. . . .”

  I drew closer to her and tentatively reached out, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Sure you can. I want to help.”

  Tessie lowered her arm. Her face was puffy, and the lines around her eyes seemed deeper than usual. She shook her head and spoke softly, her lower lip still trembling. “No, Daphne . . . I can’t tell you. And no one can help. . . .”

  I didn’t know Tessie that well, but she was o
bviously carrying some sort of secret burden. One that was crushing her. “It’s okay,” I said quietly. “I am a professional pet sitter. I know how to keep secrets, if you have one you need to get off your chest. I promise, whatever you say won’t go beyond these walls.”

  Even I wasn’t sure what pet sitting had to do with keeping secrets—although I had seen some pretty weird stuff in people’s houses during overnight stays, and I’d never said a word. Regardless, something about my promise to be discreet or my soothing tone must’ve struck a chord with Tessie.

  Either that, or she just really needed to unburden herself, because all at once she blurted, her voice thick with misery, “You can’t tell anyone, but I think Tom might’ve killed Steve Beamus!”

  Chapter 29

  The whole store went silent when Tessie came close to accusing her husband of murder. I sucked in a sharp breath and held it, while Artie and Charlie abruptly stopped tugging on the elephant, which dropped to the floor.

  Plop.

  Socrates, of course, hadn’t been making any noise. His rolling eyes indicated that he found the drama a little over the top.

  I, however, couldn’t help getting sucked in, although I tried to remain cool and composed. “Why in the world would you think that, Tessie?”

  The store was brightly lit, but I suddenly felt like we were all gathered around a campfire on a gloomy night, about to hear a ghost story. Tessie leaned toward me and confided softly, “Twelve years ago, almost to the date of Steve’s death, there was a car crash. . . .”

  All at once, before she even said more, I knew the rest of the story. I’d been away at college, but my mother had mentioned the accident during one of her frequent phone calls to remind me that I was wasting her money by studying philosophy. I let Tessie continue, though.

  “Tom’s sister, Angie . . .” Tessie’s focus had shifted inward, but she met my eyes for a moment. “You remember her, right?”