Dial Meow for Murder

by Bethany Blake

  “Thanks.” Piper smoothed her hair, which was secured in a ponytail by an elastic band. Not exactly a glamorous look. She stepped into the hallway and started to walk toward the stairs. I barely heard her muffled promise, “I’ll consider the offer.”

  No, she wouldn’t. I knew her better than to believe that.

  But as I hurried to my van and drove to Sylvan Creek’s most romantic restaurant, I started to wonder just how well I knew Dylan.

  Chapter 21

  The Wolf Hollow Mill, which dated back to the Revolutionary War, sat just outside town on a bend in Sylvan Creek. As I stepped out of my van and approached the restaurant, I could hear water rushing over a large wooden wheel that still turned on the side of the stone building. The mill’s original eight-paned windows glowed with muted, flickering light, and the small porch was framed by cornstalks and pumpkins. The cool night air smelled of sage, thyme, burning firewood, and the earthy scent of the surrounding forest.

  Taking a deep breath, I smiled and went inside to wait for Dylan, whom I expected to be late.

  But, for the first time I could remember, my date was already there, waiting for me on a seat at the bar.

  And he wore a suit.

  “You look great,” I said, slipping up onto the tall, wooden chair next to his. He really had cleaned up nicely. I assumed that he’d borrowed the jacket and pants, but they fit him well, and his white shirt—probably also a loaner—was crisply ironed. I noted that he kept tugging at his tie, like it was a noose around his neck, but overall, he carried off his new look. Still, as we read the menu and placed our orders for drinks and food, I couldn’t stop blurting things like, “I’m really shocked!”

  Dylan merely grinned at my repeated exclamations of surprise. “You look gorgeous, Daph,” he said, leaning back so the bartender could set two mugs of warm, mulled cider before us on the gleaming, reclaimed-pine plank bar. “And I’m not surprised, because you’re always beautiful.”

  Dylan didn’t normally say things like that, and I couldn’t help blushing.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking a sip of the sweet, tart drink. Immediately, warmth spread right down to my toes, which were pinched into Moxie’s shoes and had suffered during their ride in my poorly heated van.

  Dylan took a moment to try the cider, too, and we both grew quiet until our appetizers were delivered a few minutes later. Warm goat cheese, drizzled with honey and served with toasted baguette slices for me, and butternut squash dip for Dylan.

  The vegan selections at Wolf Hollow Mill were definitely a step above the Lakeside’s burger garnishes.

  When the bartender walked away again, I realized that I wasn’t sure how to restart the conversation with Dylan, although I’d known him for over a year. It was like we’d changed clothes, and the clothes had changed us. Feeling awkward, I looked around the pub, which was a candlelit nook off the restaurant’s main dining room. The small space was enclosed by thick stone walls, one of which featured a crackling wood fireplace. The oak mantel was decorated for the season with gourds, pumpkins, and branches of bittersweet.

  Through a doorway surrounded by a wide, wooden frame painted a deep colonial red, I could see the formal dining room, where a much larger fire roared in a bigger fireplace.

  And seated right in front of that, at a table for two, was Tamara Fox—and a “date” who wasn’t her husband.

  I forgot all about the strange vibe between me and Dylan, and I grabbed his arm, so he dropped a piece of crisp pita into his dip. “What is Tamara doing here with Pastor Pete ?” I whispered, watching as she tossed her long, dark hair over her shoulder. The many rings she always wore glittered. Meanwhile, for once, Pastor Pete wasn’t sporting his clerical garb. Like Dylan, he wore a jacket and tie. Pete and Tamara were deep in conversation, both of them leaning on the table, not even touching their food. I returned my attention to Dylan. “What is that all about?”

  Dylan didn’t seem as shocked as I was. He shrugged and fished the triangle of bread out of the creamy, bubbling blend of squash, sage and maple syrup. “They’re probably planning their haunted hayride.”

  “How do you know about that?” I asked, because Dylan wasn’t usually up on community events.

  “Pastor Pete brought Blessing in for a worming this morning,” he said. “He asked if I’d like to play a chainsaw killer. For charity.”

  So much about what Dylan had just said was wrong, including his mention of an unpleasant veterinary procedure while I spread velvety goat cheese, drizzled with sweet honey, onto fluffy bread with a perfectly crusty exterior. Talk about ruining a great cheese moment.

  “Don’t you think a haunted hayride, involving chainsaw murderers—”

  “And killer clowns,” Dylan interrupted. At some point, he’d loosened his tie. I had a feeling the next time I looked away, it would disappear. “That was the other character I could’ve been.”

  I wasn’t sure that was important, and I continued with my original thought. “Don’t you think terrifying children with gory sights is a strange way to raise money for a church?”

  “I think a lot of things about organized religion are strange,” Dylan noted, wiping his fingers on a cloth napkin. At the Lakeside, we were lucky to get a roll of paper towels. Yet I liked that place, too. “That’s why I connect with a higher power on the waves, or by making music,” Dylan added. “But I’m pretty sure Pastor Pete agrees with you about the hayride being weird.”

  I was about to take a bite of baguette, but I stopped with my hand in midair. “What do you mean?”

  “I could tell he thought Tamara steamrolled the whole project the moment Lillian was dead,” Dylan informed me. “He kept asking me if I thought they should’ve stuck with a bake sale at the Howl-o-Ween Parade to raise money for the church.”

  “What else did he say?”

  Dylan shrugged again. “Something about Lighthouse Fellowship already having bad PR, but being broke, too.” He shook his head and grinned. “I told him, ‘Dude, I have no idea what you’re even talking about. I’m just trying to worm the dog.’”

  “Interesting. And please stop using the word worm, okay?”

  Dylan laughed. “Sure, Daph. No problem.”

  “So, are you going to help out at the hayride?”

  “No way.”

  The blunt, definitive response surprised me. Dylan was one of the kindest, most generous people I knew. He once literally gave a stranger the shirt off his back, when the other guy spilled coffee all over himself at the now defunct Espresso Pronto. We’d been forced to leave, then. No shirt, no shoes, no service.

  “Why not play a clown for one night?” I asked.

  “I’m all about giving back to my fellow man, nature, and the universe,” Dylan assured me. “But organized charities can be vicious. I’d rather clip a rabid Great Dane’s toenails than ‘volunteer.’”

  I worked with several great charities. But I had to admit that Dylan might have a point, since someone had murdered Sylvan Creek’s most active volunteer.

  Popping the warm bread with the cheese and honey into my mouth, I resumed watching Tamara and Pastor Kishbaugh. Their conversation seemed more intense at that point. The minister’s bald forehead nearly bumped against the former cheerleader’s bangs, and he repeatedly tapped the table with his index finger as he spoke.

  Were they discussing where to rent deranged-clown costumes?

  Or talking about funds that might be missing from church accounts? Because Tamara had likely jumped right in to take over Lillian’s old bookkeeping job. If anything really was awry, as the rumors claimed, Tamara might’ve noticed and called for a meeting.

  In the main dining room, Tamara finally sat back, removed her napkin from her lap, and shook out the crumbs, like she was done eating. And talking. There was something final about the way she crossed her arms over her chest.

  I didn’t think it was likely, but was there a small chance that pretty Tamara and the charismatic clergyman were involved in a romantic quarre
l?

  Wolf Hollow Mill was a very public place to have an affair.

  Then again, there was that theory about hiding things in plain sight....

  “Daphne?”

  The sound of Dylan’s voice shook me out of my reverie, and I shifted on my chair to see that he looked almost somber, maybe for the first time since I’d met him. He hadn’t removed his tie, like I’d expected, but his light blue eyes had clouded over while I’d been facing away.

  He almost seemed worried.

  Or nervous.

  “You’re not expecting anything tonight, are you?”

  Piper’s question replayed in my mind, and I got anxious, too. The last thing I wanted was for Dylan’s and my relationship to change.

  “Daph,” Dylan said quietly. “There’s something I need to tell you. And ask you.”

  He sounded so serious that all at once, my mouth got dry, and my heart started to race.

  I knew I was being irrational. Dylan Taggart would never propose to me.

  But he had grown more possessive lately. Especially around Jonathan Black.

  What if he wanted, at the very least, a commitment ?

  Taking a shaky sip of my cider, I glanced at the main dining room, only to see that Pastor Pete and Tamara Fox were rising to leave.

  I had no plan, yet I found myself standing up, too, and asking Dylan, “Would you excuse me, please? I really need to talk to Tamara Fox and Pastor Kishbaugh.”

  “But, Daph . . .”

  Dylan started to protest, but I promised, “I’ll be right back.”

  Then I hurried out of the pub and into the night, wobbling on Moxie’s heels.

  Only later did I realize that I could’ve just stood on the porch for a moment, gathering my thoughts in the bracing air before returning inside, instead of calling, “Pastor Pete! Tamara! Wait!”

  Chapter 22

  “Daphne? What are you doing here?” Tamara demanded, raising her chin in a snooty way and drawing a black shawl more tightly around herself. The wrap was like a higher quality version of my costume cape, and Tamara’s comment was pretty witchy, too. She wasn’t asking why I was stalking her in a parking lot. She was surprised that I was at an expensive restaurant at all. I could tell by the way she kept looking me up and down. “What do you want?”

  I had no idea what I wanted, and thankfully, Pastor Pete was much kinder. He smiled at me. “How nice to see you, Daphne! Are you just arriving?”

  “No, I was inside.” I pointed to the mill, as if they wouldn’t know what I’d meant by “inside.” Smooth, Daph! I also realized I’d left my outerwear—a silk jacket I’d bartered for in Beijing—in the bar, and I wrapped my bare arms around myself. “I saw you both and wanted to ask you. . . .”

  “What, Daphne?” Tamara prompted impatiently. “It’s cold out here.”

  Tamara Fox wasn’t normally a very nice person, but I sensed that I was also bearing some of the brunt of her anger at Pastor Pete. The tension between them was palpable, although Pastor Kishbaugh, at least, was trying to act like nothing was wrong.

  “Well?” Tamara said, making a rolling motion with her hand.

  I still had no idea what to say, so I went with the first thing that popped into my head. “I wanted to ask how Blessing’s been, since the worming.” Along with being unpleasant—really, another reference to parasites?—my comment was incredibly stupid, which only compelled me to explain further, “Piper was wondering how he’s doing, and I’ll see her later, if there’s anything you can tell me. . . .”

  Pastor Pete appeared confused, but he continued to be polite. “Blessing is just fine, Daphne. Thank you for asking.”

  “Really?” Tamara was justifiably incredulous. “That’s what you wanted to ask?”

  As Tamara had observed, the evening was chilly, but I started to get sweaty under her critical gaze, and I felt like I had to come up with something better than an inquiry about a dog’s minor medical procedure.

  Which is why I surprised everyone—including myself—by blurting out, “I also heard you need a clown for the hayride. I really want to volunteer!”

  Chapter 23

  “I can’t believe I’m going to spend a whole night standing in an orchard, dressed like a homicidal clown,” I grumbled, although there was no one to hear my complaint. I was driving home alone, after Dylan ended our evening early. He’d been aggravated with me, for the first time I could remember. It took a lot to get under Dylan Taggart’s skin. I rubbed my cheek, where he’d planted a chilly good-bye kiss before climbing into his battered Subaru. “I really botched everything tonight.”

  Or had I?

  Because my awkward conversation with Tamara and Pastor Pete had ultimately proven pretty interesting.

  For one thing, I’d landed a pet-sitting job, watching Blessing while Pastor Kishbaugh went on yet another missionary trip, scheduled for close to Thanksgiving.

  And Dylan had been right about Pastor Pete’s reluctance to host a church-sponsored fright fest.

  “While it’s nice of you to volunteer, I’m not certain we’ll be going through with the hayride,” he’d informed me. Then he’d addressed Tamara. “We could just hold the bake sale. Honor Lillian’s memory by doing things her way, one more time.”

  I’d been relieved, until Tamara had objected, firmly. “No. Lillian Flynt and I fought over this issue for years. Do you know how much money the hayride will bring in, compared to the sale of a few cupcakes? We will do this my way this year. The wagon is already rented.”

  Now my wagon was hitched to the hayride, too.

  As I drove up Winding Hill, periodically patting the VW’s dashboard to urge the old van along, I wondered just how often—and heatedly—Sylvan Creek’s two “professional volunteers” had clashed. Because, at one point, Tamara had all but admitted that she was glad Lillian and her “antiquated ideas” were out of the way, so Tamara could move forward with her “progressive” plans for nearly every charity in town.

  I thought back to the night of Lillian’s murder, when Tamara had accidentally let Tinkleston escape. That meant Tamara had definitely been inside the house at one point. And she’d mentioned how Tinks had followed her around.

  Had she, perhaps, ventured upstairs . . . ?

  I was pondering all that when my headlights illuminated Piper’s farmhouse and a vehicle that was parked near the barn.

  Parking my van, too, I hopped out to greet the person who waited there, leaning against a shiny, black truck.

  But before I could ask Jonathan Black what in the world he was doing at Winding Hill so late at night, a gleeful Chihuahua darted out of the darkness and launched himself at me. Artie was followed by Axis, who ran up and wriggled against my knees. Only one member of the welcoming committee didn’t seem happy to see me: Jonathan, who greeted me with a dark look and a question I should’ve been prepared to answer.

  “Did you take something from Flynt Mansion, Daphne?”

  Chapter 24

  “I have the note and the can of cat food,” I assured Jonathan again. “I can show both things to you.” I’d picked up Socrates from Piper’s house, and the dogs, Jonathan and I were walking down one of the paths to my cottage. Although the night had grown colder, my cheeks felt warm. “And there’s a list of supplements that Tinks is supposed to take, too.”

  “You took three things from a crime scene?” I couldn’t really read Jonathan’s expression in the darkness, but he sounded exasperated. “Between you, Elyse, and your mother, I think this might be the most disturbed scene I’ve ever dealt with.”

  “The scene’s not as ‘disturbed’ as the clown I’m going to play,” I muttered under my breath.

  I’d thought my comment would be drowned out. Axis, Artie, and Socrates were romping noisily in the crunchy, fallen leaves that blanketed the woods beside the path. But Jonathan bent to give me a quizzical look. “What did you just say? About clowns?”

  “Nothing,” I said, trying to locate Socrates in the forest. I had a feel
ing he was cutting loose more than usual on the assumption that I couldn’t see him very well.

  Actually, I couldn’t see anything very well, and Moxie’s heels made navigating the uneven trail even more challenging than usual.

  “Ouch!” I complained, stumbling on a rock, twisting my ankle and nearly dropping the tin of leftover Boo-Berry Biscuits I had tucked under my arm.

  Jonathan lightly grabbed my elbow until I could right myself again. Releasing me, he pointed at my feet. “Why are you wearing heels? In the woods?”

  “They’re Moxie’s,” I explained. “I was at Wolf Hollow Mill with Dylan.”

  “Oh.” Jonathan took a moment to appraise me, to the degree that was possible under the canopy of trees. Then he offered me an actual compliment. “You look very nice with your hair up. And the jacket is unusual.”

  “Thanks.” I peered up at him, trying to determine if he was making fun of my coat. But I didn’t think that was the case. “I’m sorry again about taking so much stuff from the mansion,” I added. “I didn’t mean any harm, and I was going to turn everything over to you.”

  He didn’t respond, probably because I’d already apologized several times, so we walked in silence for a few minutes, just listening to the breeze rattle the last of the leaves overhead and the dogs running around in the darkness.

  “Do you always have to walk here alone at night?” Jonathan finally asked. He sounded concerned. “Isn’t there an alternative?”

  “Piper’s going to run an access road from the farmhouse,” I told him. “But for now, yes. This is how I get to the cottage. It’s pretty safe.”

  Jonathan opened his mouth, like he was about to remind me that Winding Hill had been the site of a homicide. But before he could mention that, I stumbled again. “Careful, there, Daphne,” he said, catching me a second time.

  “I’m fine,” I promised, pulling away from him. “It’s just these stupid heels.”

  We’d reached the cottage, and I bent down to take off the shoes. The ground was cold, but it felt good under my feet. As I stepped onto the porch, the dogs caught up to us and bounded up the steps, too, followed by Jonathan.