Death by Chocolate Lab

by Bethany Blake

  “There it is!” I cried, locating the small wooden cross I’d seen while driving. It was set back a few feet from the road, under some trees, and I probably wouldn’t have even noticed it if it weren’t so vividly white.

  “I’m not going into the woods,” Moxie said. “These shoes are vintage Roger Vivier. I had to do at least twenty Brazilian blowouts just to pay for them!”

  It took me a second to realize she was talking about an expensive process to straighten hair.

  “Just stay there,” I told her, trudging up a small rise toward the cross. “I’ll be right back.”

  After taking a few more steps, I bent down to read the neatly painted inscription:

  ANGELA FLINCHBAUGH

  D. AUG. 10, 2007

  ~ NEVER FORGOTTEN ~

  I was struck first by the date. As Tessie had mentioned, Steve Beamus had been killed very close to the anniversary of Angela’s death, a time when Tom’s grief and anger probably spiked.

  And the cross looked brand new, like it had just been installed. The plastic flowers that were wired to the wood were bright and clean, too.

  I was fairly sure there had been a roadside memorial at that spot for years, but it had been shabby and worn. I’d never really paid much attention to it until that night, when the fresh white paint caught my eye.

  Had someone updated the marker to commemorate the anniversary of Angela’s accident?

  Or to get closure symbolically after avenging her death?

  I could see how restoring the small personal monument might provide an individual with a sense of resolution....

  “Are we done here?” Moxie asked, interrupting my thoughts. “You have some ‘appointment’ to keep, right?” She slapped at her ankle. “And I am getting eaten alive by mosquitoes.”

  “I’m coming,” I promised, heading for the road. “Have you ever considered wearing boots instead of heels—”

  I was starting to lecture Moxie on the advantages of practical footwear when I suddenly sounded—and looked—foolish, because I stumbled. Catching myself, I looked down and saw that I’d tripped on something that was half hidden under the many years’ worth of dead leaves that blanketed the ground. Bending, I picked up the object.

  “What is that?” Moxie asked. “What did you find?”

  “A hammer,” I said, peering at it more closely and frowning. “One stamped with the initials WHF.”

  Moxie had no idea why that was significant, and I was a little confused, too.

  Why in the world was a tool bearing the Winding Hill Farm imprint—which my prudent sister placed on every object that might be loaned or “accidentally” removed from the farm—at a memorial for Angela Flinchbaugh?

  Chapter 51

  “The big question is, ‘Do I tell Jonathan?’” I mused aloud to Moxie, who was riding in the passenger seat, scratching all her bug bites. “Does he need to know about the hammer?”

  “While I would gladly share secrets with Detective Black—”

  “Yes, I know,” I interrupted. “You almost shared mine.”

  “I said I was sorry,” Moxie reminded me. “There’s just something about him that makes me want to talk. And talk. And stare into his eyes. And talk some more. And then . . .”

  “Moxie!” I spoke sharply before she could get carried away.

  “Anyhow,” she continued, getting hold of herself, “I really don’t think the hammer is important. I’d just put it back in the barn, or wherever you keep hammers at Winding Hill, and go on with my life.”

  I wasn’t sure I agreed with that advice.

  Tom Flinchbaugh had been setting up a tent at the farm the night of the murder. He might’ve borrowed the hammer to help with that task. Then he could’ve intentionally or, more likely, accidentally kept it and used it to repair the wooden cross.

  But why abandon a tool in the woods, under the leaves?

  I’d set the hammer between Moxie and me—the VW had its original bench seats—and I gave the tool a wary glance, then reached over and nudged my best friend’s shoulder.

  “Umm, Moxie?”

  She’d been preoccupied with scratching her ankles, but she looked over at me. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “What if I just found the murder weapon?”

  Chapter 52

  “Promise me you won’t do anything hasty,” Moxie urged. “Just hold on to the hammer for now, okay?”

  We were standing outside the Philosopher’s Tome, where I’d parked so she could go upstairs to her apartment, while I would have to walk only a block to the park to meet Giulia.

  The bookstore was dark, but Tom had forgotten to change the OPEN sign to CLOSED. Not that customers would be breaking down the doors at dawn to get their hands on a 1930 first-edition copy of Bertrand Russell’s The Conquest of Happiness—which Tom was kindly allowing me to read for free.

  I got a little sick to my stomach.

  Tom was my friend, and a good person, but I was starting to think Tessie was right to be worried about him.

  “What if it’s really the murder weapon?” I asked. “Don’t I have to turn it over to Jonathan?”

  “Daphne, it’s Piper’s hammer,” Moxie reminded me. “What if her prints are on it?”

  Piper was a practical, can-do kind of woman. I had no doubt that she’d used a hammer many times. That could be problematic.

  I suddenly realized that my prints were all over the handle, too. That was also bad.

  “Besides,” Moxie added, “not to be gross, but there’s no blood on it, right? You really have no reason to believe it’s the murder weapon. So why make such a big deal out of it?”

  “There’s no blood that we can see,” I said. “But someone could’ve wiped it clean. Plus, don’t you think it’s kind of strange to find an object that could deliver blunt force trauma—and that was at Winding Hill at some point—half hidden in the woods near a memorial to a woman killed by Steve Beamus?”

  The wind blew, and the Philosopher’s Tome’s wooden sign, which hung from an iron bracket near the door, creaked. It was a reproachful sound, and I felt like the whole store was accusing me of betraying Tom. I’d been picturing him cleaning off the hammer and concealing it after restoring a cross for the sister he’d avenged.

  “What would your philosophers do?” Moxie asked. “Don’t they offer you any answers?”

  “I think I need to figure this out on my own,” I said glumly. “I think this moral dilemma is uniquely mine.”

  Moxie planted her hands on her hips. “Do you want a hairstylist’s advice? And a lot of people do. Probably more people than consult Plato these days.”

  I’d once paid forty-three dollars for one of those Brazilian blowouts that supported Moxie’s shoe habit, and the process—which she’d sworn would give me straight, sleek hair—had resulted in me looking like Andy Warhol. Otherwise, she seldom steered me wrong.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “I’m listening.”

  “I think you should sleep on it,” Moxie suggested. “Not the hammer, literally. Don’t put that under your pillow or anything, just in case you’re right about where it’s been. But sleep on the idea of telling Jonathan about it. Tomorrow morning you might not think it’s so important.”

  I hadn’t expected Moxie to quote Confucius, but I’d hoped for something a little more profound.

  “That’s it?” I asked. “Sleep on it?”

  “Yeah. Pretty good, huh?”

  Moxie was so proud of herself that I didn’t contradict her. “I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what I decide,” I promised. “And thanks for going with me to the diner.”

  “My pleasure.” Moxie was opening a small door on the side of the old Victorian building. A staircase inside would give her access to her upstairs apartment, but she paused on the sidewalk. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you to this ‘meeting’? And why won’t you tell me who you’re going to meet?”

  I smiled. “Good night, Moxie.”

  She grinned
at me. “Say hi to Dylan for me. You are meeting Dylan, right?”

  If I didn’t answer, I didn’t have to lie, so I let her believe what she wanted to believe. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

  As I headed down the street, she called after me, “I want details about your date, too!”

  Then I heard her door close, leaving me alone in the dark, sleepy town. The night was growing cool and breezy, and the leaves on the trees that lined Market Street were rustling overhead. The sound was eerie, and I picked up my pace, my boots clicking on the pavement.

  I really wished I’d brought Socrates and Artie, but there was no time to go back to Winding Hill for them. I was already late for my meeting with Giulia.

  Maybe too late, because the bench where she was supposed to be waiting, on the bank of the creek that gave the town its name, was empty.

  Then I saw that someone was sitting in the gazebo at the edge of the park, in a grove of trees. I could see the person only in silhouette, but I could tell that her back was to me, and I assumed Giulia had forgotten where, exactly, we were supposed to meet.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I said as I approached the gazebo. “I was eating these potato chips, and then I had to stop along a road, and I lost track of time. . . .”

  Giulia didn’t turn to greet me, and I reached out to tap her shoulder.

  “Giulia?”

  She still didn’t turn around, so, assuming that she was taking a nap, I shook her—only to realize that the person I was trying to rouse wasn’t Giulia.

  And something was terribly wrong.

  As I watched in horror, Virginia Lockhart tumbled stiffly off the bench and hit the floor of the gazebo with a lifeless thud.

  I stood there in shock, unable to move, until I heard deep, low growls, right behind me.

  Turning slowly, I discovered that I’d been joined by three rottweilers, whose leads were dangling from their collars.

  And the normally sweet dogs did not look happy.

  Chapter 53

  I stood a few yards away from the gazebo, alternately wrapping my arms around myself and petting Macduff, Iago, and Hamlet to comfort them.

  The dogs seemed very sorry for growling at me, and they were spooked by the flashing red lights and the activity, too. The park was swarming with EMS workers and police officers, including Detective Doebler. Coroner Vonda Shakes was also there. It was like the scene at Winding Hill all over again, only in the dark.

  “It’s okay, guys,” I promised the rottweilers in a soothing voice. Holding their leads in one hand, I used the other to stroke their broad heads and scratch behind their ears. “I know when you growled at me, you were scared and were trying to protect Virginia. And I’ll take you home soon.”

  Someone had other plans for me, though. A person who had been conspicuously missing from the scene but who had arrived at some point and was approaching me with a purposeful stride and a frown on his face.

  Detective Jonathan Black, who informed me, in a no-nonsense tone that told me he had adopted his official persona, “You’re not going anywhere until we talk about why your ‘meetings’ inevitably involve me—and we discuss your curious propensity for discovering victims of homicide.”

  Chapter 54

  It was nearly 2:00 a.m. when Virginia’s body was finally taken away and Jonathan could walk me and the rottweilers to my van. By that time, he was apparently so tired that he couldn’t entirely maintain that wall he liked to keep up between his personal and professional lives.

  “Honestly, Daphne,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I don’t really consider you a suspect. Who would be stupid enough to report two murders she committed?”

  I hoped he wouldn’t answer that, and I shuddered, too, to recall how I’d had to dig for Virginia’s cell phone in the pocket of her Windbreaker to call 911. I really needed a new phone.

  “But you have to admit,” Jonathan continued, “stumbling across two bodies is rather strange.”

  “Nobody thinks it’s stranger than I do,” I agreed, stumbling again when Iago pulled on his lead. All three rotties were still out of sorts, and my boots were too big for dog walking.

  Jonathan reached over and wordlessly took Iago’s lead from my hand. The dog fell in step next to him, like they’d been partners for years. I wasn’t surprised.

  “What were you doing in the park?” he asked. “And don’t give me some vague answer about a ‘meeting.’”

  I had planned to do exactly that. Then I realized that while Giulia had asked me to come to the park alone, she’d never told me to keep our appointment a secret. Plus, she’d stood me up.

  “I was supposed to meet Giulia Alberti,” I said. “She asked me to be at the park at midnight tonight. But she didn’t show up.”

  Jonathan bent slightly to study my face. “Why meet her so late, in a park?”

  “I have no idea,” I said, with a shrug. We’d reached the van and stopped walking. The dogs should’ve sat down, but they remained restless. “I told you, she didn’t show up.”

  “You must’ve known why she wanted to talk.” Jonathan sounded exasperated. I was having that effect on people lately.

  “No, I didn’t know,” I said, handing him the two leads I had and digging into my back pocket. I was wearing the same jeans I’d worn the day Giulia’d handed me the note, and sure enough, I found the paper with the recipe for cornetti and the mysterious request. It had gone through the wash and was worse for wear, but the ink was still legible. Taking back two of the leads, I handed Jonathan the message. “Here. Read.”

  With a single gesture, he placed Iago in a sit and dropped the lead, clearly confident the dog would obey him. Then he carefully unfolded the fragile, damaged paper and read aloud. “Two cups flour . . .” He looked up at me, eyebrows arched. “What is this?”

  “The other side!” I said, grabbing his hand and turning it. “Read the other side!”

  Jonathan shook free of me and flipped over the paper. He read silently, then looked at me again, frowning. “And you have no idea why she wanted this private conference?”

  I shrugged. “None.”

  Jonathan bent to pick up the lead; then he released Iago from his sit and absently stroked the dog’s head. “What are you going to do with the dogs?” he asked.

  “I’m taking them to Virginia’s house.”

  “I don’t think anyone will be there. No one’s been able to reach Mitch Lockhart. According to the assistant who staffs his district office, he’s at the state capital for a few days, working there. She also claims he normally turns off his cell phone at night.”

  I could tell Jonathan wasn’t sure about any of that. Or, at the very least, he wasn’t convinced that Senator Mitch hadn’t made the two-hour trip from Harrisburg to Sylvan Creek, killed his wife, then taken off again.

  “I guess I’ll just keep the rotties until I hear from him,” I said. “Unless you’d like one or two?”

  “No, thanks,” Jonathan said. He removed his hand from Iago’s head, and I wished I hadn’t pushed him to take the dog, even temporarily. “But if you recall anything more that you noticed this evening, please call me first, before you do anything else on your own.”

  “I do have something to tell you,” I said. “About Virginia.”

  I saw a flicker of interest in Jonathan’s eyes. “What about her?”

  “I talked with her this evening at Winding Hill. She was walking the dogs, and I followed her down the path to ask her about the night Steve got killed.”

  Jonathan tilted his head back and sighed deeply. It was kind of a groan, too. I thought he was going to interrupt me for one of his public-service-announcement lectures about the dangers of meddling in murder, but he didn’t, so I kept talking.

  “She was in a really bad mood and wouldn’t tell me anything,” I said. “Until I asked her why she’d named her dogs after characters from Shakespeare’s plays.”

  “You were trying to learn more about the inscription.”

  J
onathan didn’t sound pleased about that or impressed by my subtle attempt to broach a sensitive topic.

  “Yes, that’s what I was doing,” I told him.

  “And what did you learn?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Except that the plays helped her get through a difficult time in her life. That’s what she said. But I guess we sort of knew that already.”

  “Yes, that seems apparent from the inscription.” Jonathan moved past me to open the rear door of my van. With a click of his tongue, he sent Iago into the VW. “Please don’t follow any more people into the woods, all right?”

  “Okay,” I agreed as Macduff and Hamlet leaped to join their brother. “It was eerie.”

  Jonathan leaned in to pet the dogs one last time; then he pulled back and closed the door, slamming it firmly. When he turned to me, he looked grim. “You know, I’ll have to talk to Piper again. I shouldn’t tell you that, but I imagine you’ve already assumed that she’ll be questioned, since Virginia was on her property right before her death.”

  I had not assumed that. “But . . . but . . . I found Virginia in the gazebo. . . .”

  Jonathan crossed his arms over his chest.

  When had he changed into a suit? Because he’d been wearing jeans and a light blue Henley at the diner. The color had gone well with his dark blue eyes.

  “We don’t know that Virginia was killed in the park,” he said. “In fact, that seems unlikely.”

  I took a moment to digest what he was saying—which was that Piper’s situation might’ve just gotten worse, thanks to me telling Jonathan about Virginia’s visit to Winding Hill.

  I knew, though, that he would’ve traced Virginia’s movements that day on his own, and that hiding information probably wouldn’t really help things in the end.

  Which was why I ignored Moxie’s sage advice and abruptly made a decision about the hammer.

  Opening the front door of my van, I said, “Before you go . . . I should probably also tell you that I think I might’ve found the weapon used in the first murder.”