“So Lillian Flynt and Larry Fox really were in love, huh?” Moxie shook her head. “Who knew?”
“Not me,” Piper said grimly. “I’m shocked that it was a crime of passion.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “The whole time I was trying to solve the murder, I thought the motive would be money, given that Miss Flynt had a fortune. But it was about a rekindled teenage romance.”
Moxie rested one hand on her chest, tilted her head, and pouted. “Aw, that’s sweet.”
Piper shot her a weird look. “No. It’s really not.”
“Speaking of the Flynt estate, where’s Mom?” I asked my sister. “Is she still sulking about losing the sale of the mansion?”
Piper knitted her brows. “Didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“When Larry Fox admitted that he’d changed the will, Elyse Hunter-Black swooped in with a team of lawyers and successfully argued that the previous version should stand. Mom’s with her now, closing on the property.”
“Oh.” Why hadn’t I expected that? Larry had said, point blank, that he’d changed that crucial provision. I thought about Asa Whitaker, who probably couldn’t afford to hire his own squad of high-priced attorneys. “Poor Asa must be depressed.”
“According to Mom, he didn’t even try to put up a fight,” Piper said. “Apparently, once he realized that his dream of a museum was about to become an overwhelming reality—and almost certainly a flop—he got cold feet. He’s supposedly happy to stay hidden away in his old bank.”
“Hey, whatever happened to your inheritance?” Moxie asked me. “What are you doing with the painting?”
“You should either sell it or find somewhere safe to keep it,” Piper added. “If you’re right about its value, it shouldn’t sit around in an unlocked cottage.”
She sounded like Jonathan, who hadn’t shown up at my party yet, although I’d invited him. At least I knew why my two other missing guests—Mom and Elyse—were running late.
“Daph?” Piper prompted, when I didn’t respond right away. “The painting?”
“Oh, yeah.” I snapped back to reality. “I sold the Tuttweiler, in a bidding war. Apparently, a lot of people like impasto.”
Moxie beamed. “Congrats!”
Piper, of course, was interested in the bottom line. “How much did you get for it?”
I shrugged, like the sum was no big deal, then told them, “About two hundred thousand dollars.”
Moxie was adjusting a wide-brimmed hat, and she nearly knocked it into the fire, which would’ve been a blessing in disguise. Between the hat and the poncho, she looked a little bit like Clint Eastwood in one of his old westerns.
“Daph, you’re rich!” she cried.
I shook my head. “No, I’m not. Most of the money is going to charity.” I waved to Bea Baumgartner, who was loading a plate with cake and bending poor Roger’s ear. She smiled and waved back. Returning my attention to Piper and Moxie, I told them, “I put a lot of the money into a trust for Whiskered Away Home, which will now be an official, licensed charity, run by a board of directors. I also set aside money to renovate the barn, and cats will actually be adopted once everything’s in place. No more hoarding.”
Piper nearly reeled headlong into the fire pit. I reached out a hand to steady her.
“You set that up?” she asked incredulously. “You?”
“With the help of a lawyer—and Mom, who, I have to admit, has a mind for that sort of thing.”
Moxie continued to struggle with her hat. “How’d you get Bea to agree to all that?”
“She really does love cats,” I reminded them. “And she was desperate for funding. She didn’t have much choice.”
Piper still seemed shocked, but she managed to ask, “What’s happening with the rest of the money?”
“I gave some to Fur-ever Friends, because I’m pretty sure that was Lillian’s favorite charity. They won’t have to worry about fund-raising for a long, long time. A lot of dogs will be rescued.”
Moxie frowned. “Is that it? Did you really give it all away?” She seemed to realize that didn’t sound very charitable. “Not that I think supporting good causes is a bad thing!”
I smiled. “Actually, I did keep a tiny bit for myself, some of which I’ll use to pay Fidelia Tuttweiler to keep my books and do the accounting for Whiskered Away Home, too, if she proves competent.” We all looked over at Fidelia, who was feeding Socrates a Honey, I’m Home treat. She wasn’t bad with animals, and I was starting to believe that she’d be a decent accountant, too. She certainly loved her chosen profession and had agreed to take some classes at an actual business school. “I think Lillian would approve of me helping a lost soul like Fidelia get established in a career,” I said. “Miss Flynt believed in the value of hard work.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” Moxie agreed.
“Is that it?” Piper asked, with a glance at the cottage. “You have no intention of finally paying all the rent you owe me for this place and the time you spent in my farmhouse?”
I grinned more broadly. “As a matter of fact, I did set aside some money for rent. . . .”
I was just about to reveal my master plan for the small sum I’d put aside for myself when someone lightly touched my elbow. Yet another latecomer to the party who didn’t even greet any of us.
“Daph,” Dylan said seriously. Almost sadly. “We have to talk. Now.”
“Why?” I asked, my heart sinking, as Moxie and Piper politely excused themselves. “Why right now?”
I supposed I already knew what he was going to say and had avoided the discussion because I didn’t want to hear the truth, which nevertheless caught up to me.
“Because,” he said, “I’m leaving Sylvan Creek.”
Chapter 66
The evening was getting cold but, as always, Dylan was dressed for the beach in shorts, a sweatshirt, and flip-flops. And it wasn’t just his clothes that reminded me of sand and surf. It was . . . Dylan, from his blond, sun-streaked hair to his ocean-blue eyes, to the mellow way he rolled through life, just waiting to catch the next wave—which was carrying him out of Sylvan Creek.
We’d retreated to the tiny, screened porch off the cottage’s kitchen to get some privacy, but as we stood looking out over the party outside, it seemed as if there was nothing to say. Or maybe way too much.
“I hate good-byes,” I finally said. “I guess that’s why I kept avoiding talking to you. I knew, when I saw the help wanted sign in Piper’s practice, that you were leaving, but I wouldn’t let myself believe it.”
Dylan smiled. “That’s not like you, Daph. You’re good with change.”
“Maybe not so much lately,” I admitted. “I kind of like things just the way they are right now.”
Dylan’s smile faded away. “I guess that means you won’t come with me?”
I reared back, not sure I’d heard him right. “What?”
“You could come along,” he suggested. “Not that I know exactly where I’m going. Aside from somewhere near the ocean.”
There was a time when I would’ve jumped at the chance to simply wander without any clear destination, and I took a moment to consider Dylan’s offer, my attention torn between the choice I needed to make and the party I needed to rejoin soon.
Outside, my sister was laughing with Roger Berendt, and my best friend had somehow gotten tangled in her poncho. She kept twisting around, trying to find her way out.
Jonathan Black had arrived at some point, too. He was deep in conversation with Gabriel Graham. As I watched, Jonathan pointed toward the cottage, then made a spiraling motion with one finger, near his head, which could’ve been a reference to my curls—or an indication that he thought I was crazy.
Looking past the two men, I saw Artie and Axis running circles with Socrates, who wasn’t even trying to feign indifference.
Could I really uproot him now that he had friends?
Then I felt something rub against my ankle, and I glanced d
own to discover that Tinkleston was winding around my legs.
He’d just found a real home, after losing his person....
“What do you think, Daphne?” Dylan asked, nudging me out of my reverie. His eyes gleamed, like he’d already started on his adventure. “Don’t you want to see the wide world again? We could end up in Tahiti. Or Argentina. Who knows?”
That was tempting. I’d never been to either of those places. There would be new people to meet, and new things to see.
My mouth kept opening and closing as I tried to find an answer for Dylan. I knew that once he was gone, the offer to join him wouldn’t come again. He was a now or never, leap of faith kind of guy, and he’d drift out of my life, trusting that the universe would bring us together again someday. But he’d never actively try to make that happen.
“Well, Daph?” he asked again.
I was just about to make my decision when I heard the click of high heels on my wooden kitchen floor, and my mother burst onto the screened porch, fanning herself with papers and saying, “I’m sorry I’m so late, Daphne. I just closed on Flynt Mansion, and I’m running behind schedule. But I’ve brought the lease for the Espresso Pronto property, so you can sign tonight.”
I hesitated one more second, looking between Dylan, who represented the freedom I’d always prized, and the papers in my mother’s hands, which—if I signed them—would commit me to opening a bakery for pets and tie me to Sylvan Creek for at least three years.
I could feel my feet getting figuratively—and literally—cold. Then I looked outside one more time at the people and pets I cared about, and down at the cat with the terrible name, who was starting to seem happy in his new place.
Lillian had trusted me to give Tinks a home, and I’d accepted that responsibility.
“I’m really sorry,” I told Dylan, who probably wasn’t exactly sure what was going on. I’d never told him, or anyone but my mother, about the bakery plan yet. “Part of me would love to travel the world with you, but I just can’t leave Sylvan Creek right now.”
Then, before I could back out, I accepted the documents from Realtor Maeve Templeton, went inside my snug little cottage, and signed my name to the lease agreement, with a very serious, but approving, black Persian cat as a witness.
Recipes
Liverin’ It Up Treats
I would never tell Socrates, but the secret to his very favorite snack is . . . baby food! He would be so appalled. I actually hide the jar when I make these little crackers. I also can’t believe anyone would feed a baby pureed liver—and I don’t just say that as a vegetarian. It just smells bad, to a human nose!
¾ cup wheat germ
¾ cup nonfat dry milk powder
1 egg
1 tbs. brewer’s yeast
1 (3.5 oz.) jar pureed liver baby food
¼ cup water, or more if needed
Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. (You may need to guesstimate if your oven is from the mid-twentieth century, like mine.)
Mix all the ingredients together in a bowl. Add a little more water if the dough isn’t coming together.
Drop the dough by teaspoonfuls onto a greased cookie sheet—or, better yet, use parchment paper. Less mess, less chance of things sticking.
Bake the snacks for about 20 minutes, then remove them from the oven and cool them before Socrates . . . er, your dog . . . gets hold of them!
Store leftovers—there won’t be any—in the fridge.
Pumpkin-Peanut-Butter Ghosts
Nothing says Halloween quite like pumpkins and ghosts. This recipe combines the two—plus lip-smacking peanut butter—for a pup-friendly snack that’s always a big hit. Your four-legged friends will be haunting you until you make them again!
2½ cups whole wheat flour
2 eggs
½ cup canned pumpkin puree
2 tbs. peanut butter
½ tsp. salt
½ tsp. ground cinnamon (It’s a pet friendly
spice, but I don’t overuse it.)
Preheat your oven to 350 degrees, or thereabouts.
Whisk all of the ingredients in a bowl, going light on the water at first. Add water gradually to make a workable dough. You want the dough to be stiff enough to cut into shapes.
Roll out dough and use a cookie cutter to create ghosts. Or create them with a knife. They don’t have to be perfect!
Bake 40 minutes, cool and serve.
Batty-for-Turkey Treats
Cats are notoriously finicky, so it’s easy to forget that they might enjoy a nice homemade treat, too. And I promise you that even the pickiest feline eater will come running for these snacks, which also happen to be healthy. I love to see the look on Tinkleston’s face when he eats these. He is at least 50 percent less dour than usual.
½ pound ground turkey
1 egg
½ cup grated carrots
¼ cup Parmesan cheese—or more!
½ cup crackers, finely crushed
Pinch of salt
You guessed it . . . Preheat your oven to about 350 degrees.
Mix all the ingredients by hand. The texture should remind you of a meat loaf. If things are too soggy, add more cheese and crackers.
Smoosh the mixture onto a baking tray, until it’s about a half-inch thick.
Using a cookie cutter, create bat shapes.
Bake for about twenty minutes, let them cool—and watch them fly away, as your cat chows down!
(These may look only remotely like bats, once cooked, but sometimes they turn out great!)
Honey, I’m Home Cookies
These cookies are sure to appeal to your favorite dog’s sweet tooth. You can make them into any shape you like, but I love the idea of little dog houses. I like to wrap them up in cute containers and send them along with my fosters when they get their “fur-ever” families. I think it’s a nice way to wish them happiness in their new homes, and thank their adopters, too!
½ cup peanut butter, creamy or crunchy
¼ cup honey
1 tbs. olive oil
1 cup chicken broth
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup rolled oats
Get that oven going at 350!
Mix together the peanut butter, oil, honey, and broth.
Use a separate bowl to whisk together the two flours and the oatmeal.
Add your dry ingredients to your wet ones.
Roll out your dough on a floured surface and use your preferred cookie cutter. Reroll any scraps to make as many cookies as possible.
Bake on a greased or parchment-lined baking sheet for about 15 minutes.
Cool and share your sweet treats!
Read on for a preview of the next Lucky Paws
Petsitting Mystery,
starring Daphne Templeton, Ph.D.,
and Socrates, her long-suffering basset hound . . .
PAWPRINTS & PREDICAMENTS
By Bethany Blake
Available in spring 2018!
“A doggone charming read from start to finish!”
—Cleo Coyle, New York Times bestselling author, on Death by Chocolate Lab
For more information about Pawprints & Predicaments by Bethany Blake, go to www.kensingtonbooks.com
Chapter 1
The thirtieth annual Sylvan Creek Tail Waggin’ Winterfest promised to be even bigger and better than the festivals of years past, which was saying something, because the pet-friendly, week-long event had long been the highlight of January for many folks in the Pocono Mountains.
And this year, the little village of temporary huts that was always erected at wooded Bear Tooth State Park, on the shore of Lake Wallapawakee, had been completely refurbished, each tiny, heated shack painted a pretty, but wintry, shade of robin’s egg blue. There were more vendors, too, selling things like gourmet hot chocolate, s’mores and cold-weather gear for dogs and cats. For the first time ever, a polar bear plunge would kick off the festivities later that evening, and th
e bonfire that burned at the center of the ephemeral town crackled in a bigger ring of stones, while the paths through the festival were lit by new glass lanterns. There were even moonlit walks through the woods, led by old Max Pottinger, who told the tale of a legendary spectral St. Bernard that supposedly patrolled the vast network of cross-country ski trails, guiding those who lost their way.
Strolling through the heart of the festival on a night that threatened snow, I couldn’t help thinking the scene was picture perfect. And yet, something didn’t seem quite right.
“It’s almost too nice, this year,” I complained to my sister, Piper, and my best friend, Moxie Bloom. Slipping on some ice in my favorite flea-market cowboy boots, I nearly dropped my third s’more. Then I righted myself and added, “Don’t you think it’s kind of odd?”
“The festival’s definitely different,” Piper agreed, kicking through the snow in her sensible, waterproof boots, which matched her rated-for-the-Arctic down parka. My sister was a veterinarian who often saw patients literally in the field, and she was always suitably dressed for the weather. And, as someone who’d restored an 1800s farm, called Winding Hill, Piper wasn’t necessarily opposed to updating shabby structures. “I like the fresh paint,” she noted, with a glance at a booth selling hand-knit sweaters for dogs. “And the vendors are better this year. I think it’s nice to have more than just the VFW selling hot dogs.” She frowned, still staring at the hut, which was strung with clotheslines that sagged under the weight of small cardigans and pullovers. “Although, while I’m a fan of Arlo Finch’s crafts, I’m not too fond of his practice.”
Dial Meow for Murder Page 25
