“I think I agree with Lillian,” Piper said. “The posters look terrifying.”
All at once, I recalled the little sign in the window of Templeton Animal Hospital. “Speaking of posters, why are you looking for help at the hospital? Are you expanding? Or is somebody leaving?”
Piper gave me another quizzical look, then she averted her gaze, checking Artie’s pom-pom to make sure it was firmly attached. “It’s just time to add someone new,” she finally said. Then she gave prancing, inordinately proud Artie a shove in my direction and changed the subject. “He looks pretty good, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, he looks great. I knew we could make a clown costume!”
Piper was clearly incredulous. “Did you just say ‘we’?”
Twisting and leaning off the edge of the love seat, I reached down to pick up Sylvan Creek, which was still on the floor. The book had fallen open to Asa’s inscription, which read, Best wishes. Asa Whitaker.
Originality was not his thing.
As Artie trotted over to nudge Socrates out of his false slumber, in a doomed attempt to show the basset hound his costume, Piper stood up and gestured to the book. “You never said why you’re reading that.”
“Oh, yeah.” I held up the history for her inspection. “I think Asa Whitaker might’ve killed Miss Flynt—that is, if Tamara or Bea didn’t do it—and that there might be a clue inside these hundreds . . . and hundreds . . . and hundreds . . . of pages.”
Piper rolled her eyes. “Seriously, if you get threatened with a hammer again, do not come running to me.”
“I really don’t think that’s going to happen,” I informed her, tossing the book onto the steamer trunk coffee table, so I could use the narrative to put myself to sleep later that night. “And there’s no time for a lecture, right now. The parade starts in an hour.”
Piper bent to tidy up her sewing materials. “I’m not going this year, Daph.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. My sister would know every pet in the parade. “Why not?”
She shrugged, her shoulders drowning under a big sweatshirt. “I’m just not interested this year. I feel kind of tired.”
My sister was withdrawing in the wake of Steve Beamus’s death. I couldn’t let that happen. Piper Templeton had never given up on anything in her life. She couldn’t give up on life itself and become a sweatshirt-wearing recluse like Bea Baumgartner.
“Aw, come on, Piper,” I cajoled. “I need you to watch Socrates while Artie and I march in the parade.”
Piper glanced at the basset hound, who continued to keep his eyes tightly closed, while Artie danced around him on excited little feet. “Socrates isn’t walking with you? Not even just as a . . . dog?”
“Can you really imagine him in a parade full of costumed animals? It is so beneath him!” I shot Artie an apologetic look. “Sorry.”
Artie wasn’t insulted. His bulging eyes glowed, and he offered me a happy, “Yip!”
I turned back to Piper, clasping my hands. “Please? For me? And Socrates? Because I’d rather not leave him here with Tinkleston, who is still trying to scratch him, sometimes. And he’ll be scarred for life in a different way if he has to be a canine float in a parade.”
“Can’t Socrates just stay at the farmhouse with me?”
That was an option. I decided to be direct. “You need to get out more, Piper. Do you want to end up like Bea Baumgartner, living alone in the woods?”
Piper opened her mouth to object, then her shoulders slumped under her shapeless shirt. “Fine. Let’s go.”
I hesitated, then pressed my luck by asking, tentatively, “You are changing, right?”
Piper pulled at her sweatshirt, examining it like she was seeing it for the first time. “I wasn’t going to . . .”
“You know, I think Bea was wearing that same shirt when she showed me her barn full of cats,” I observed, waving to Artie, who hurried to the door. Socrates must’ve grasped that he wouldn’t have to march or wear any kind of costume, because he opened one eye, then fake yawned and stretched, rising to his feet. “Or, at the very least, Bea’s outfit was similar.”
“Okay, okay!” Piper raised her hands, a sign of surrender. “I’m changing!”
“Just make it snappy,” I urged. “Don’t forget, I still need to hunt for a creepy clown costume in an empty church.”
Piper looked concerned for me, and at first I didn’t understand why.
Then I mentally replayed the last thing I’d just said.
Why hadn’t that sounded like a scary prospect, until it came out of my mouth?
Chapter 30
Sylvan Creek’s main street was crowded with pets and people by the time Piper, Socrates, Artie, and I arrived for the parade, which was one of the community’s biggest annual events. All of the local benevolent societies, such as the Elks, the Moose, and the Masons, chipped in to decorate, so the many trees that lined the route were strung with tiny orange lights. The globes on Sylvan Creek’s iconic, three-armed lampposts were temporarily replaced with glowing orange jack-o’-lantern faces. Dangling, jangling skeletons and cackling witches riding brooms were suspended from storefront canopies, and real flickering jack-o’-lanterns sat on every stoop. Vendors representing local charities pushed carts selling warm cider, hot chocolate, spiced nuts, and cones of pumpkin-spice ice cream, for those who didn’t mind the chill in the air. Of course, there were pet treats, too. In fact, I had made a batch of Pumpkin-Peanut-Butter Ghosts for the volunteer fire company to sell, to raise some money for their retired dalmatian fund.
I would’ve also made something for Lighthouse Fellowship, but nobody had asked that year. Apparently, Pastor Pete had decided to let Tamara have her way entirely, and the church wouldn’t be selling any baked goods.
“I have to admit, I’m glad I got to see the town looking so festive,” Piper said, as we all backed up against the Philosopher’s Tome to make room on the sidewalk for Little Miss Muffet, who led an adorable miniature pony dressed like a spider, with googly eyes on his halter and eight legs dangling from a blanket. “You know, Lillian usually coordinated everything. I thought things might not run smoothly this year.”
I bent to pick up Artie so he wouldn’t get crushed under hoof, foot, or paw. “I wonder who’s in charge. Do you know?”
The question was barely out of my mouth when Tamara Fox interrupted our conversation, just like she’d done at Flynt Mansion. Apparently, she had to be involved in literally everything.
“I took over for Lillian this year,” she smugly informed me and Piper. She smiled at my sister. “I’m glad you like it.”
I turned to see that Tamara was dressed as Raggedy Ann, which was disconcerting, and not only because she was an adult in a flouncy dress, striped tights, and a red yarn wig. She also looked odd because she’d used makeup to create the illusion that her eyes were big, black buttons. Only the whites gave away her actual, naturally dark eyes.
In her arms, she carried her white Maltese, named Buttons, who wore a vest covered with . . . buttons. And a big button cap.
I was starting to see the theme.
At my feet, Socrates whined softly on Buttons’s behalf, although the Maltese looked as proud as Artie. The two smaller dogs were straining to see each other, their bodies wriggling and their tails wagging. I nearly dropped the Chihuahua.
“Watch for some minor changes this year,” Tamara added. “And more dramatic improvements next year. I really see the potential to make this event great.”
“It’s already great,” Piper said. “Perfect!”
I could tell she thought Tamara was disrespecting Miss Flynt’s memory, and I agreed. The poor woman wasn’t even buried yet. Plus, there was nothing wrong with the parade.
“Yeah, I don’t see the need for big changes,” I added. “What would you want to do?”
“There’s no need to go into all of your many, many plans, dear,” someone said, in a deep, weary-sounding voice. “This is neither the place nor the time.”
I saw a flash of irritation cross Tamara’s face, even as she politely said, “Piper, you remember my husband, Larry.”
I hadn’t even noticed Larry Fox, Esquire, although he stood out in his own way, by looking completely normal. He wore a gray suit, a dark tie, and still had a leftover summer tan that I guessed came from lots of time spent on golf courses. I had seen Larry around town, but I’d never met him. Up close, the age gap that separated him from Tamara seemed wide and deep. His face was lined, more than I’d expected, and his gray eyes looked tired. His hair, although thick, was snow white.
“Nice to see you, Larry,” Piper said, smiling and shaking his hand.
Although Tamara hadn’t even acknowledged me, I smiled, too, and stuck out the arm that wasn’t cradling Artie. “I’m Piper’s sister, Daphne,” I introduced myself. “Nice to meet you.”
Larry didn’t exactly greet me, either, although he did shake my hand. His grip was firm. “I understand you’re to be at the reading of Lillian’s will tomorrow,” he said. “Please be there—and be prompt.”
Apparently, my reputation for forgetting things and being late preceded me.
“I’ll do my best to be on time,” I promised.
Tamara tugged her husband’s sleeve, signaling that it was time for them to move on. “We’ll see you all later,” she said, waggling her fingers. Then she lost her fake smile and addressed her husband. “Come along, dear. The parade’s starting soon.”
“You know I don’t really like animals,” Larry said, frowning at Buttons. “I’m heading home.”
Tamara playfully smacked her husband’s chest, then told Piper and me, “He’s just kidding. He loves pets.”
No. He obviously didn’t.
“Come along now, Larry,” Tamara repeated more firmly. “Let’s get you a good spot along the route, so you won’t miss Buttons and me.”
Larry Fox was a high-powered attorney, but he caved and did as he was told. He shuffled along after Tamara in his Oxfords, not bothering to say good-bye.
I watched them walk away. “They’re great at parties, I bet.”
Piper frowned. “Larry’s usually a little more animated.”
“Really, because . . . ?” I was about to express my skepticism—and tell Piper that I still wondered if control-freak Tamara had killed Miss Flynt—when I heard a voice from on high.
“Hey, you guys!”
All of us, including the dogs, looked up to see Moxie waving at us from a small balcony that extended off her top-floor apartment’s living room, under one of the Victorian building’s peaked eaves. It was a prime spot from which to watch the parade.
“Hey, Moxie,” I called. Then I bent my head back farther, trying to see her better. “Who are you supposed to be now?”
I was surprised she’d dressed up, since she didn’t have any pets. And she once again denied that she was in costume.
“I just got out of the shower,” she said, pulling a fluffy bathrobe more tightly around herself. It looked like her hair was still blond, but it was hard to tell, since it was wet and plastered against her forehead. “I’m not dressed up.”
“Why are you holding a butcher knife, then?” Piper inquired, tilting her head way back, too.
“Oh, this?” Moxie looked at the large implement in her hand, like she’d forgotten she had it. “I decided to do some post-shower pumpkin carving.”
Moxie couldn’t keep from grinning when she said that. She knew she was dressed like Janet Leigh, in Psycho, and was just messing with us, at that point.
“You know the character of Marion Crane gets stabbed in the movie,” I reminded Moxie unnecessarily, because she knew way more about fifties and sixties films than me. “She doesn’t do the stabbing.”
“Well, without a prop, I just look like a person in a bathrobe,” she pointed out. “That’s not very interesting.”
Socrates whined, like he couldn’t understand why anyone who didn’t have to wear a costume would ever do it.
“Have fun watching the parade,” I said, because I needed to get going. I was also getting a crick in my neck, and some people were starting to glance nervously up at the woman holding a knife. “I’ve gotta go get dressed.”
“See you,” Moxie said. “You guys have a good time, too.”
She withdrew, so we couldn’t see her anymore, and I told Piper, “I really do have to get moving. Are you okay with the dogs for a minute? I’ll come back for Artie when I’m in costume.”
“Yes, we’re fine,” Piper promised, accepting Artie from me. “I’ll get them some of those treats you made for the fire company, to fuel Artie for the half-mile route.”
Artie’s remaining ear drooped, as if he’d suddenly realized he was going to have to walk a fair distance.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “I’ll carry you most of the way.”
His eyes lit up, and he barked approval.
“You’d better hurry,” my sister urged, checking her watch. “You’re going to miss the whole thing.”
That was not true. I had at least a half hour to find my costume and get dressed. But I started to thread my way through the crowd toward the Lighthouse Fellowship Church, which was located about two blocks away, down a side street.
All around me, people were making last minute adjustments to their pets’ costumes.
Bea Baumgartner, dressed even more raggedly than usual, wrestled with a whole wagon full of cats that wore what looked like shredded strips of fabric. At first, I thought they were supposed to be mummies, until I saw a hand-lettered poster, in Bea’s sloppy writing, attached to the back of the cart. The sign read, PLEASE ADOPT AN ‘ORPHAN’ FROM WHISKERED AWAY HOME CAT SHELTER. CALL FIRST!! SHELTER IS ON PRIVATE PROPERTY!!
Bea really needed a lesson in public relations.
I also saw Tom and Tessie Flinchbaugh—owners of the Philosopher’s Tome and Fetch!—double-checking the cherry on top of their ancient poodle Marzipan’s suitably sweet cupcake costume. Luckily for Marzipan, the Flinchbaughs planned to pull her in a cart, too.
Noticing me, Tom and Tessie, who looked interesting—to put it kindly—in their own sprinkle-covered cupcake outfits, complete with cherry hats, both waved.
Pastor Pete, struggling to affix angel wings and a halo to Blessing, was a few feet away from the Flinchbaughs, and he paused to greet me, too, with a wan smile. Although normally cheerful, he didn’t look like he was having fun. And Blessing’s silky ears were also pinned back. Maybe the poor retriever had been cast in that heavenly role one too many times. Pastor Pete, who hadn’t even bothered to add wings to a white robe that I was pretty sure had come from his church’s acolytes’ collection, definitely wasn’t thinking outside the box.
Raising a hand, I waved back to all of them. And because I wasn’t paying attention to where I was headed, I bumped right into none other than Martha and Asa Whitaker, who were accompanied by their bloodhound, Charlie, and the little orange kitten with the mouthful of a name, Himmelfarb.
“Daphne, please watch where you’re going,” Martha said, tugging lightly on Charlie’s leash, as if he might dart away. Which was unlikely. I walked Charlie—who was dressed as literary figure Sherlock Holmes, in a deerstalker hat—and it was a struggle to keep him awake.
I thought of Artie and Marzipan.
Weren’t there any pets in Sylvan Creek who could complete a half-mile walk without collapsing?
“Daphne,” Martha said, sounding more severe than usual. “Aren’t you going to apologize? You nearly ran down Charlie.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, not sure why she was so cranky on such a festive night. I looked her up and down. “Are you Watson?”
That was an honest question. I didn’t know what Watson looked like.
Martha acted insulted, though. “Of course! Who else would be paired with Holmes?”
I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s works in a long time.
Hoping to redeem myself, and change the subject, I smile
d at Asa. “I’m really enjoying your book. It’s got me on the edge of my seat.”
That second part was true. I’d recently tumbled off my love seat while reading Sylvan Creek: A History, because, as usual, I’d fallen asleep.
Asa watched me carefully. “You’re really enjoying it?”
“Sure.” One more well-intentioned fib to make him feel good about his book couldn’t hurt. Then I reached out to scratch Himmelfarb under the chin. The cat was adorable in a tiny top hat and cravat. She purred, and I smiled, asking, “And who are you supposed to be?”
Asa pulled the kitten back to his chest, protectively. “Himmelfarb is dressed as Elijah Cortland. And I am Jedediah Cortland.”
I hadn’t even realized Asa was in costume. He wore a suit jacket and an ascot, but I hadn’t found the outfit too out of the ordinary. At least, not for a historian.
Regardless, it must’ve been obvious that I didn’t recognize the names.
“You do know, from reading my book, that the Cortland brothers founded Sylvan Creek?” he asked, studying me closely and suspiciously again.
“Oh, yeah.” I felt my cheeks growing warm. “I guess I didn’t get to that part yet.”
“It’s all in Chapter One,” Asa said evenly.
Both he and Martha stared daggers at me, while I slowly backed away, telling them, “I love your costumes. All of them!”
When I couldn’t take their accusing gazes anymore, I spun around and resumed hurrying toward Lighthouse Fellowship, which occupied an imposing, spire-topped brownstone building on quiet, otherwise residential Acorn Street.
The brownstone—the tallest building in town, if its sky-stabbing spire was taken into account—had been constructed decades ago by Lutherans. But something had happened in the fifties to cause that congregation to break apart, and the abandoned church had undergone many incarnations over the years. When I’d been about seven years old, it had served as a dance studio. I’d taken three disastrous tap lessons there before realizing that a klutz like me shouldn’t make my shoes slippery on purpose.
As I made my way down Acorn Street, under a canopy of old oak trees, the noise of the parade faded away, replaced by near silence. Most people were on Market Street, and before long, I could hear my own breathing and the faint sound of leaves rustling overhead in the evening’s light breeze.
Dial Meow for Murder Page 13
