Dial Meow for Murder

by Bethany Blake

  “Yes, I’ve seen them.”

  “Even though October’s not over yet, that page was already gone. Completely missing!”

  “Maybe he spilled coffee on it,” Jonathan guessed, refusing to get swept up in my excitement, which was increasing again. “Or his lunch. There’s a good chance he just made a mess and cleaned it up by getting rid of a calendar page that’s almost outdated, anyhow.”

  “Oh, I think Pastor Pete might’ve made a big mess, but not with his lunch,” I said. “Because when I dug through the recycling bins behind the church, I found the missing page.”

  Jonathan rubbed his temples. “While I banish the image of you crawling into a trash bin in a clown suit, please tell me that you didn’t take anything.”

  I was so proud of myself that I nearly burst my oversized buttons. “No, this time I left everything just like I found it.”

  “Not exactly like you found it,” he reminded me. “Or how it would’ve been, if you’d left things alone.”

  “And yet, I think you might be interested to know what I learned.” He didn’t respond, so I told him, with a hint of triumph in my voice, “On the date of Lillian’s murder, he’d written, Meet LF—house—5 o’clock.”

  Jonathan did a good job of hiding his thoughts, but he drew back slightly, and I knew that meeting must’ve been set for close to the time of Miss Flynt’s death, as established by coroner Vonda Shakes. But he would never share that with me, so I forged ahead, adding, “Lillian was treasurer of Lighthouse Fellowship. What if she’d figured out the same things I did, about Pastor Pete’s travels? Or maybe knew worse things? Like the fact that he’s probably been cooking the books, too, if Moxie’s gossip mill is right. As it usually is.”

  Jonathan still didn’t say anything. He sat back, taking a moment to reflect on everything I’d just told him.

  “Well, you have given me a lot to consider,” he finally admitted. Handing me what was left of the nuts, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and tapped the screen. “I’ll need to get Doebler over to the church before the recycling’s taken away. Luckily, there’s no need to get a warrant to search outdoor garbage bins.”

  I was not surprised that Jonathan was assigning his older, but subordinate, partner to dig through the trash.

  “What about Pastor Pete’s passport?” I asked.

  “I need to think about that,” Jonathan said, still tapping the screen. “You shouldn’t have touched it, and I’m not sure, at this point, how to explain that I need a warrant to search his office.” He looked up at me again. “I’ll think of something, though.” Hesitating, he stared hard into my eyes. “If you’re sure about those dates.”

  “I’m positive,” I promised him.

  Jonathan put away his phone and grew even more serious. He didn’t say anything for a long minute, and I thought I was in for my usual lecture about interfering in his investigations. Then he said, more quietly, “I can’t condone your amateur detecting, and I do worry that your curiosity is strong enough to be dangerous, but I have to admit that you have some good instincts.”

  I was so surprised that for once I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even thank him for the compliment, for fear of prompting him to offer some sarcastic, distancing remark. Instead, we sat quietly again for a long time, the dogs still watching the creek, and Jonathan and I studying each other. I got the sense that we were trying to figure out a relationship—or lack of a relationship—that sometimes confused me, and probably him, too.

  Then I finally broke the silence by asking some questions that had been on my mind since I’d first met him. “What brought you here, Jonathan?” I inquired softly. “How does a Navy SEAL end up in Sylvan Creek, Pennsylvania?”

  I expected his eyes to close off, like they usually did when I asked him anything personal, but that didn’t happen.

  “As you guessed, I have my own share of long stories, and to trace my route here would take hours,” he said. Then he smiled, but faintly. “I think what you’re really asking is, why did I leave the military?”

  I would’ve liked to hear the entire tale of his adult life, including the stories about his time in Afghanistan with his canine partner, Herod. But he was right about my biggest question. Because, although my peacenik self didn’t know much about the Navy, I’d always thought that SEALs were SEALs for life.

  “Without going into too much detail,” he continued, “I had to leave when I couldn’t meet the physical demands of the job. When it just wasn’t realistic anymore.”

  I didn’t understand what he was saying. I’d never seen anyone in such peak physical condition.

  My confusion must’ve been obvious, because he added, more directly, “I got very sick, Daphne. Was sidelined for months while I underwent chemotherapy. And, while I’m healthy now, there’s no guarantee that I’ll stay in remission. It wouldn’t be fair to my team to ask them to wait while I went through treatment again. Mine wasn’t a job you can drop in and out of. So I—reluctantly—dropped out.”

  “Wow.” I sucked in a deep breath, and my stomach twisted on Jonathan’s behalf. Then I glanced at Socrates, who had turned to face us, appearing stunned for the first time I could ever recall. I was shocked, too, by Jonathan’s confession. The news itself, and the fact that he’d told me something so personal. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks, Daphne, but I’m honestly fine.” He smiled again, more genuinely. “You were right when you said, months ago, that you have a gift for making people confide in you.” Then he also looked at the dogs before turning back to me. “Not to mention a way with animals. I wouldn’t be surprised if you even get the cat to come around, at some point.”

  I didn’t want to talk about Tinkleston. I had a million more questions about Jonathan. But before I could even open my mouth, I heard the grass rustling behind us, and a moment later, someone rested two hands on the back of the bench and greeted us in a singsong voice that tried to sound chipper, but somehow fell short.

  “Well, well, well . . . Don’t you all look cozy!”

  Chapter 34

  Jonathan and I had moved close to each other while he’d confided in me, and on instinct, we both pulled away quickly when Elyse Hunter-Black and her ghostly greyhounds joined us in the park.

  “Elyse . . . ?” Like me, Jonathan seemed caught off guard. But only for a moment. Then he regained his composure and stood up, while Artie and Axis bounded over to sniff Paris and Milan, a ritual that Socrates decided to forgo. In fact, he turned his head away and resumed studying the creek.

  “How’d you like the parade?” I asked Elyse, rising, too, and smoothing my crumpled nylon outfit, which I’d nearly forgotten I was wearing. However, as I stood across from a beautiful woman in a silver gown, I started to feel somewhat self-conscious. Still, I smiled and said, “You look really nice, by the way.”

  “Thank you.” Elyse looked me up and down, and I thought she was trying to find something kind to say about my outfit. Then she gave up, smiled at me and Jonathan, and came around to our side of the bench. Paris and Milan, who’d endured the sniffing ritual with about as much enthusiasm as Socrates, followed on her heels, trying unsuccessfully to distance themselves from Artie. “As for the parade,” Elyse added, “it’s just the type of thing viewers will love. I’m sorry I couldn’t have a crew in place here in time to get footage for America’s Most Pet Friendly Towns.”

  “So you’re really going to feature Sylvan Creek on the show?” I asked, still not sure how I felt about that prospect. I kind of agreed with Moxie that the town didn’t necessarily need national exposure.

  But apparently we were getting that, whether we wanted it or not.

  “Yes,” Elyse said. Her gown shimmered in the moonlight. “I imagine we’ll have cameras here before Christmas. There will be holiday events, right?”

  I suspected that a successful TV producer would’ve already researched Sylvan Creek’s annual Run, Rudolph, Run, a fun, dog-friendly 5K, in which both people and pets wore antlers and
glowing red noses. She probably also knew about the Bark the Halls Holiday Ball, which was a fancy dance attended by humans and canines, who all donned their finest attire. So all I said was, “Oh, yeah. We do a few things differently from most other towns, I guess.”

  “I can hardly wait.” Elyse continued smiling, mainly at Jonathan. “I hope to have most of the renovations to Flynt Mansion completed by then, so I can throw my own holiday open house and get to know some of my new neighbors.”

  “Are you sure the sale will be able to go through?” Jonathan asked. I got the sense that he was both curious about whether Elyse would really buy the mansion, and wondering if there was some news about Miss Flynt’s estate that might be pertinent to his murder investigation. “Have you heard something?”

  All at once, I nearly panicked. “I didn’t miss the reading of the will, did I?”

  “No, that’s tomorrow,” Elyse reassured me, just as I recalled that Larry Fox had already told me that, earlier that night. She absently stroked one of the greyhound’s heads, while Artie continued to dance around the dogs’ feet in a desperate attempt to regain their attention. “But I feel confident that things will work out.”

  “I guess you’ll know soon,” Jonathan noted, with a glance at his wristwatch. “And, speaking of time, I need to get going.” He was all business again. “I’m meeting Detective Doebler over at Lighthouse Fellowship in fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh, really?” Elyse sounded disappointed. “You’re working tonight?”

  “Yes, I have some information I need to follow up on,” he said, looking at me. His expression was neutral, and I wasn’t sure if I’d messed up his evening or made his day by potentially helping him solve a murder. He addressed Elyse again. “But I’ll walk you and Daphne to your cars.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I’ve got to stick around for a few minutes.”

  “Why?” Jonathan sounded concerned, like he feared I might do more investigating.

  “Somewhere between the hot chocolate cart and the bench, I lost my mask,” I told him, patting myself down, as if I might somehow be harboring a big, rubber clown face. “And if I don’t find it, I’m pretty sure Tamara Fox will make me reimburse the church. I am not eager to give them more money right now.”

  Jonathan looked around the park, and I noticed that most people had left by then. “Are you sure you don’t want to come back in the morning? There’s a killer out there somewhere.”

  Elyse rested one hand on Jonathan’s arm, a gesture that would’ve made Moxie’s eyes light up with interest. To be honest, I stared, too, for a second.

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine, Jon,” Elyse said. “She has a dog with her.”

  “And I can take care of myself,” I added.

  Jonathan still hesitated, as if he wasn’t convinced that Socrates offered much protection. He was probably also thinking about my propensity for getting into trouble.

  “Honestly,” I said, shooing him and Elyse away. “I’ll be okay.”

  Jonathan gave me one more uncertain look, then he agreed, “All right. But be careful.”

  A few moments later, he and Elyse were walking across the park, trailed by four dogs. Artie looked back once to yip a farewell to Socrates, who’d come to my side.

  “Well,” I sighed, looking down at him. “I guess we better start looking around.”

  I’d promised Jonathan that I would be okay, but as I searched everywhere for the mask, and the park emptied out completely, I did start to get a little edgy.

  Still, before I resigned myself to the fact that I’d have to pay for the missing part of the costume, I made one last trip back to the bench near the creek, just to make sure the rubber face hadn’t fallen through the wooden slats.

  Bending down, I felt around under the seat, only to hear a noise, close by.

  I froze in place, then whispered, “Who’s there?”

  Nobody answered. But Socrates, at my side, growled.

  That almost never happened.

  Rising slowly, the back of my neck prickling and my blood running cold, I ventured again, “Who’s there?”

  The words were barely out of my mouth when I caught a glimpse of white, moving behind a tree near the creek, and although I should’ve run away, I called, “Stop! Why are you spying on me?”

  Then, as the person who’d observed me once before in that same park ran off into the night, I lurched forward in my big shoes—only to tumble headlong toward the water.

  Chapter 35

  “Are you okay?” Dylan asked. At least, I was pretty sure I’d heard him right. I was using Mr. Peachy’s old landline phone, located in the bedroom loft, and Dylan’s cell was a cheap, prepay thing from a discount store. “You could’ve drowned, Daph. Those shoes could’ve dragged you down. Sylvan Creek looks lazy, but it has some deep spots.”

  “I’m fine,” I promised him, snuggling under my down comforter as the wind whistled around Plum Cottage’s windows, rattling the panes right over my head. The temperature outside was dropping, but thanks to extra blankets and a roaring fire downstairs, I was finally starting to get warm after tumbling into the creek, hauling myself out, trudging shivering and bedraggled back to my van, and driving home without benefit of a heater. I really needed to get that fixed. “I probably have near hypothermia, but I’m alive.”

  Alive and humiliated. Not that anyone but the mysterious person in white had seen my accident. Thankfully, Jonathan, who had a way of witnessing all of my shoe-related mishaps, had already left for Lighthouse Fellowship when I’d tried to chase after the young woman who seemed to be stalking me.

  Who was she?

  And what did she want with me . . . ?

  “Daph? Are you there?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, shaking my phone, although I was pretty sure that was fine. The wires in my head had momentarily disconnected. I sat up just enough to reach for my mug of steaming hot, soothing chamomile tea with honey and lemon. Taking a quick sip, I snuggled back under the blankets, starting to feel the warmth reach my toes, which were tucked inside heavy, soft socks. “What were you saying?”

  “We really need to talk.”

  I’d been getting sleepy, but my eyes flew wide open, and I glanced down at Socrates, who lay on the floor on his purple, velvet bed.

  He lifted his head, just slightly, and shook it.

  I took that to mean he agreed that midnight on an already disastrous night was a bad time to undertake a discussion that started with that ominous sentence.

  Although those words were often prelude to a breakup, I didn’t think Dylan was going to say that he didn’t want to see me anymore.

  I was starting to fear quite the opposite.

  “Umm . . . I think our connection is getting worse,” I told him, shaking the phone again. I wasn’t being entirely untruthful. When the wind blew, the old lines that ran from the cottage to who knew where sometimes shorted out. “Can we do this some other time?”

  There was a long silence, during which I thought one or both of our phones really had died, completely. Then Dylan agreed. “Sure. How about Casita Burrito? Thursday?”

  “Okay,” I said, but reluctantly.

  Dylan and I had decided early on that we didn’t want to have a relationship that required a lot of heavy, ponderous conversations about us.

  Ideas, yes. We could dig into those for hours.

  But us . . . ? No.

  “I’ll see you at the restaurant,” I added, right before we both hung up.

  A few minutes earlier, I’d been close to dozing off, like lucky Socrates, who was already snoring. But Dylan’s request had disturbed that peace.

  Sighing, I pulled myself upright and reached to my nightstand again, this time for the world’s most effective sleep aid: Sylvan Creek: A History. If Asa Whitaker ever decided to market the book as a nonnarcotic, certainly nonaddictive, alternative to sleeping pills, he’d make enough money to buy Flynt Mansion outright for his historical society and support his dream museum for year
s to come.

  “Let’s see,” I muttered, trying to find the last passage I’d read. I never stayed awake long enough to slip a bookmark between the pages. “Old barn burns down . . . volunteer fire company formed . . . men leave for World War Two . . .” At least I was getting somewhere. I hadn’t read about the railroad in ages. I flipped one more page—and found myself plunked right down in 1963, as Sylvan Creek residents grappled with the Kennedy assassination.

  “What the heck?” I scooched myself up straighter, wriggling against four down pillows to get comfortable. “Where’s Moxie’s favorite era?”

  Thumbing back and forth through the book, I tried to figure out if I’d somehow missed the fifties. I couldn’t imagine that Asa, who’d spent nearly twenty pages on the less-than-riveting year of 1905, alone, would skip an entire decade. Surely, something—a tornado, a department store opening, a minor car crash—had occurred sometime in those ten years.

  But I couldn’t find one reference to poodle skirts, the Cold War or Elvis Presley, as they’d impacted Sylvan Creek.

  “That’s really odd,” I mused aloud.

  I thought I was talking to myself, until I looked down at the foot of my bed, where a dark little ball of fur lay curled on the comforter.

  At some point, Tinkleston had arrived, in his ninja way.

  Not wanting to disturb him, I quietly replaced the book on my nightstand, crawled deeper into the nest of blankets again, and turned out the light.

  In the darkness, I could hear the wind whipping around the cottage, Socrates’s gentle snoring, and the crackling fire downstairs. Gradually, my mind began to settle again, and to wander, first to another fireplace, where I’d seen a charred manuscript, a page of which had included the cryptic words and numbers, Benedict Flyn . . . 195 . . . congregation . . . scandalo . . .

  Was that the start of a date?

  A year in the 1950s, when something “scandalous” had happened, involving a congregation and someone named Flynt?

  Curling into a ball, like Tinks, I drew my blankets closer to my chin, thinking about Lighthouse Fellowship, too. And the Lutheran congregation that used to call the building home . . . until the 1950s.