“Tom’s sister, Angie . . .” Tessie’s focus had shifted inward, but she met my eyes for a moment. “You remember her, right?”
I nodded. Angela Flinchbaugh had been a waitress at a diner called the Silver Moon, just outside town. My father used to take me and Piper there after he’d left Mom, but before he’d wandered out of our lives, too, and Angie used to give us all extra scoops of ice cream on our apple pie.
“She was driving home late one night, after work, and Steve was headed in the opposite direction, going too fast, when they both rounded a curve. . . .”
I cringed, because accidents like that weren’t uncommon around Sylvan Creek. The roads—like the one to Steve Beamus’s house—were twisting and narrow, lined with trees that were beautiful but unyielding if a driver missed a turn or had to steer to avoid an oncoming car. Say, one driven recklessly by a brash young man . . .
“You don’t have to finish the story,” I told Tessie, who was getting teary-eyed again. “I remember what happened.”
She nodded gratefully but added, “I try to forgive, because Steve was young and stupid . . . practically a kid. . . .”
I did the math to the best of my ability and wanted to disagree. Steve hadn’t exactly been a “kid.” But I didn’t contradict Tessie. She was being generous, trying to forgive an act many would find unforgivable, and I admired that.
As the Buddha said, “Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”
I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Had Tom Flinchbaugh consumed enough metaphorical “poison” to compel him to administer some literal toxins to the man who’d killed his sister? And then, when that hadn’t worked, crushed his skull?
Tessie seemed to think it was possible. “Tom can’t let go of his anger,” she said, wiping again at red-rimmed eyes. “He hated Steve.”
It was hard for me to imagine mild-mannered Tom Flinchbaugh despising anyone, but who could really know what sort of pain and anger simmered deep in people’s hearts?
Still, I said, “Tessie . . . I can’t really picture Tom hurting anyone.” I recalled a particular area at the Philosopher’s Tome. “He’s dedicated a whole bookcase to philosophies emphasizing nonviolence,” I reminded her. “The last time I visited the store, he was reading a collection of essays about Gandhi.”
“Yes, he’s always seeking answers in those books,” she said, digging into the pocket of her slacks for a tissue. It was crumpled and looked damp, like she’d been crying off and on for awhile. She swiped it under her nose. “But sometimes he gets very angry.”
I wanted my sister’s name to be cleared as soon as possible, but I hated watching Tessie suffer by thinking that her husband might have taken a life. I glanced at Socrates, who gave me an encouraging look, before I asked reluctantly, “Was he angry the night you and Tom were setting up the tent and Steve was there?”
Tessie nodded, her chin quivering. “He was frustrated with the tent—we’d never set one up before—and distracted by Steve’s presence, too. He kept looking over at Steve and grumbling about how he should be in jail or ... or someplace worse.”
I was pretty sure she was talking about a grave.
Or someplace beyond a grave—like Hades.
“But you were with him the whole time at Winding Hill,” I noted, grasping for anything that might reassure her. “Right?”
“Not the whole time,” she said quietly. She buried her face in her hands, so her voice was muffled. “And after we went home, late, Tom didn’t go straight to bed. . . .”
Oh, gosh. I did not want to believe that the gentle man who let me borrow books I should’ve paid for could be a killer, but Tessie was raising a lot of questions in my mind. And the fact that she—his wife—feared he could commit murder wasn’t helping to quell my own growing doubts.
I rested my hand on her shoulder again, compelling her to look at me. “Just don’t panic yet,” I urged. “Please. Sometimes things aren’t what they seem. You’re probably worrying for no reason. Tom is a good man.”
I believed everything I’d just said, including the part about Tom being a decent person. If he had killed Steve, he’d been pushed to an emotional brink over the course of more than a decade. It must’ve been hard watching Steve walk around town, not only still alive after the accident he’d caused, but also with his chest puffed out and his arrogant attitude, acting like he’d never done anything wrong in his entire life.
I felt myself getting agitated, and I took a deep breath, then told Tessie, “I’m kind of investigating the murder. Let me see what more I can learn before you get too upset, okay?”
Tessie gave me a funny look. “You’re investigating?”
“Unofficially,” I said. Recalling Jonathan’s snarky comments, I added sarcastically, “It’s not like I’ve been to the police academy, but I’m looking into the crime.”
Tessie didn’t seem to mind my lack of credentials or badge. “Thank you,” she said, clasping both of my hands in hers. I kind of wished she’d put away the damp tissue first. “Thank you, Daphne. I feel better having talked to you.”
I’d pretty much forgotten the dogs while I’d been talking with Tessie, and I looked across the store to see that Charlie and Artie were lying side by side, gnawing on the stuffed elephant. Or, more accurately, Artie was stabbing at the poor thing with his protruding front teeth, while Charlie’s head was bobbing as he began to doze off.
Awww, cute.
Awww, crud!
I really do have to buy that thing!
I dug into a pocket of my jeans, while Socrates, still seated at my feet—the better to hear the human conversation—sighed at the folly of his fellow canines.
“We’ll take the elephant,” I said, unfolding a few wadded-up dollar bills.
Tessie pushed my hands back toward my pockets. “No, no, I couldn’t take your money. You’re being very kind.”
I would’ve protested, but I had only three dollars, just barely enough to buy a handful of treats that would lure Charlie through the rest of the walk, so I gratefully accepted. “Thanks, Tessie.”
She smiled, if weakly, and went over to retrieve the toy from the dogs. Artie bounced around on happy feet, like he knew it was going home with us, while Charlie’s head thumped to the floor.
As Tessie placed the soggy object in a bag, I got a closer look at it. “That’s really different,” I said, noting the heavy canvas fabric. “It looks sturdier than most plush toys for dogs.”
“Yes, that’s the idea,” Tessie agreed. She gestured to the bin Charlie and Artie had raided, and I saw that it was filled with stylized versions of other African creatures, like lions and zebras. “A seamstress from Milroy, a few miles down the road, makes them. It’s a very small operation—a hobby, really—and they’re sold exclusively at Fetch!”
I’d been headed toward a wall of bulk-purchase treats to get three dollars’ worth of Salmon Snackers, but I stopped in my tracks, struck by a memory. An image of a giraffe, which I’d seen under Steve Beamus’s couch when I was crouched by the end table, failing to hide from Jonathan.
But surely even insensitive Steve wouldn’t have been so thoughtless as to darken the doorstep at Fetch!
Surely, he would’ve left the Flinchbaughs alone.
Plus, I couldn’t imagine him spending money on expensive, whimsical toys. Rubber balls and rope pulls maybe, but a giraffe?
“Take as many treats as you want,” Tessie urged, snapping me out of my reverie. “Please, fill up a bag.”
“Okay. Thanks,” I said, accepting that offer, too, and dumping a decent-sized scoop of Salmon Snackers into a plastic sack. “I appreciate that.”
A few moments later, the dogs and I were at the door, ready to complete our walk. As I reached to grab the knob, Tessie stopped me, though.
“Daphne?”
I turned back to see that she looked very worried again.
“Yes?”
“Everything I
said... You’ll keep it a secret, right? As you promised?”
“I am a professional pet sitter,” I reminded her, trying to smile. “Please, don’t worry.”
She forced a smile, too, and the dogs and I stepped awkwardly through the door, tripping over each other. A light drizzle continued to fall, and my mood was suddenly as dreary as the weather.
I hadn’t expected to learn so much when I’d urged Tessie to confide in me, and as Socrates, Artie, Charlie, and I made our way through town, I kept wondering if I’d done the right thing by pledging secrecy.
What if my silence allowed Tom Flinchbaugh to get away with murder—and sent Piper to jail?
Could I really not tell Jonathan what I’d learned?
As I was pondering those moral and ethical questions, my phone, which had been dead all morning, suddenly became reanimated, and, after juggling Charlie’s leash and the bag of treats, I managed to pull it out of my back pocket.
“Hello?” I said, shaking it three times as I put it to my ear. “Hello?”
Like sometimes happened, the display screen was dark, so I couldn’t see who was calling, but I definitely recognized the male voice that greeted me.
“Hey, Daphne,” the caller said. “Can we meet? Tonight in the park?”
Chapter 30
“What do you call this again?” Dylan asked, digging his hand into the tin of popcorn I’d brought to Pettigrew Park, an oasis of green grass and flowers in the heart of Sylvan Creek. We were sitting on a plaid blanket under the stars, waiting for the evening’s free outdoor movie to start. “It’s really good,” Dylan added, talking with his mouth full. “Are you sure it’s vegan?”
“Moxie and I call it Tuxedo Popcorn,” I told him. “And believe me, I had to spend extra to get vegan chocolate, so you are safe to eat it.”
Dylan grinned and nudged me with a shoulder that was strong from toting surfboards and hauling the occasional mastiff onto a table at Piper’s practice. “Thanks, Daph. You’re the best.”
“Yeah, so you said in your song.”
I hadn’t meant to bring that up—had planned to studiously avoid the subject—yet suddenly, thanks to me, the topic was out there.
Why did I always blurt things?
Dylan had been resting back on his hands, his elbows braced, but he shifted, the better to talk face-to-face. He was frowning, which rarely happened. “I’m glad you mentioned that.”
“I’m not,” I said. “So could we just—”
Dylan placed a hand on my wrist, shutting me up. The evening was getting cool, but his skin was warm, like he’d soaked up enough sun during his surfer days to last him a lifetime. “Daph,” he said, “that’s why I wanted to meet you here tonight.” Releasing me, he glanced at the makeshift screen, which was a heavy sheet of white fabric strung between two trees. “Well, I really wanted to see Casablanca again, too. It’s pretty amazing.” He returned his attention to me. “But mainly, I wanted to talk to you. You’ve been weird ever since I sang to you. What’s wrong?”
I shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. “You just said a lot of nice things about me.”
Dylan grinned again. “And that’s bad?” He seemed to understand what I was thinking, and said, “I didn’t get down on bended knee and ask you to marry me. I said you had a good heart and a nice laugh and . . .” He twisted one of my curls around his finger, teasing me. “Really, really great hair.”
I still felt strange about the serenade, and I picked at a loose thread on the blanket. “It was just very . . . public.”
“Hey.” Dylan leaned even closer and rested his index finger under my chin, so I had to look at him. He searched my eyes, making me squirm even more. “Tell me the truth, Daphne. Did you care what most people there thought, or were you just worried about the detective you were with? What he might think?”
I pulled back, my eyes widening. “No! I didn’t care what he thought!”
I spoke too loudly, and even though the movie hadn’t started yet, a few other couples on blankets around us gave me “shushing” looks.
“Moxie invited him to sit there,” I told Dylan in a softer voice. “And I was asking him about Steve’s murder—in hopes of helping Piper. It wasn’t a date.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
No, he hadn’t.
My cheeks got warm, and I turned my face away and searched the crowd. The weekly movies in the park were a popular summer activity, and it didn’t take me long to locate lots of familiar faces—including everyone who’d been at Winding Hill right before Steve’s death.
Giulia and Christian were snuggling on a blanket not far from Dylan and me. Giulia wore a white sundress that showed off her tan, and Christian’s thick, movie-star blond hair shined in the moonlight. They had brought along a bottle of wine and a wooden platter filled with bread, grapes, and some cheeses, which I wouldn’t have minded sampling, if offered the chance.
The perfect couple.
As I watched them, Christian reached past Giulia and got himself some grapes. He popped them in his mouth without offering her any.
Or were they perfect?
Tom and Tessie Flinchbaugh were there, too, seated stiffly in the kind of folding nylon chairs parents took to their kids’ soccer games. The movie screen was blank, but they both stared at it. Tom’s bandaged hand rested in his lap.
Twisting, I craned my neck to see Virginia and Senator Mitch. They were also on lawn chairs but were part of a large group, and everyone was laughing, including Virginia. Right before I turned away, Mitch finished a joke or anecdote and placed his hand over Virginia’s, squeezing her fingers.
She never stopped laughing, but she pulled back from his touch.
If I hadn’t been watching them closely and felt the chill between them a few days before, I wouldn’t have even noticed the gesture.
Turning to face Dylan again, I asked quietly, “Not to keep bringing up murder, but who do you think killed Steve? Do you have any guesses?”
I had recently glimpsed a new side of Dylan—a jealous side—and I was relieved to see his shoulders relax as he settled back again, pondering my question while digging into the popcorn.
“I think karma killed Steve,” he finally said. “The individual—the murderer—was just the instrument, and karma will get that person, too. I got along with Steve well enough, but he crashed through most people like a human Banzai Pipeline and left them shredded on a reef.”
I wasn’t a surfer, but I knew Dylan was referring to the legendarily dangerous waves that broke on Oahu.
I also understood what he was saying about karma—and I believed in it. Karma had just “got” me in the woods near Steve Beamus’s. Still, I noted, “I’m not sure we should just wait around for the universe to mete out justice.”
Dylan gave me a curious look. “Who better?”
It was a good question. One I didn’t have to answer, because without further ado, the movie started. The antique reeled projector clacked to life behind us, and the familiar story began to play out in fuzzy black and white on the sometimes fluttering screen. The old technology didn’t diminish the story at all. Somehow, the tale seemed more powerful and poignant.
Yet I found my mind wandering now and then to that question Dylan had just asked.
Who better than the universe to mete out justice?
Perhaps someone who’d come to the movie late and who was watching the film alone on a wooden bench at the far end of the park, with his arms and legs stretched out in the territory-claiming way I was coming to associate with him?
Was the answer, perhaps, Jonathan Black?
He must’ve sensed me studying him, because he raised one hand, offering me the smallest wave.
I started to return his greeting, but my hand stopped short as a vehicle drove down the street at the edge of the park, passing right behind Jonathan.
It was a Jeep, moving slowly, as if the driver was trying to catch a few scenes of the movie.
I checked the screen and saw that
Bogie was just about to say good-bye to Ingrid Bergman forever, and although I wanted to see that iconic farewell, I tapped Dylan’s shoulder and whispered, “Sorry! I’ve gotta run!”
Chapter 31
I wasn’t sure if I really expected to catch up with a Jeep, even a slow-moving one, on foot. Especially since I was wearing ill-fitting cowgirl boots I’d bought at a flea market in Tulsa and a flowing skirt that kept twisting between my legs as I flailed my way through the park, dodging lawn chairs and blankets.
“Hey!” a couple jointly complained when I stumbled through their picnic. “Watch out!”
“Sorry,” I called over my shoulder. “I didn’t see you!”
It was true. My eyes were trained on the Jeep, which had reached the end of the block.
What did I hope to gain by following it?
Did I plan to take down the license number—or maybe leap onto the hood, like Tom Cruise in a Mission: Impossible movie, to see who was driving?
As usual, I had no real plan, which didn’t stop me from rushing headlong toward the street, getting free of the sea of people right as Rick told Ilsa that their problems didn’t “amount to a hill of beans.” I loved that part of the movie, and I couldn’t help turning to glance at the screen just for a split second.
That was all it took for me to lose my footing, lose one of my boots, and lose my dignity, all in one fell swoop. The next thing I knew, I was facedown in the grass.
I lay there for a second, catching my breath and trying to decide if anything was broken.
When I finally raised my head, the Jeep was gone, but someone was standing in front of me, one hand extended to help me get up and the other holding a battered cowgirl boot.
“Are you all right?” Jonathan asked, bending down so I could reach his hand.
He was trying to show concern, but he was on the brink of laughter. I saw the corners of his mouth twitching.
“I’m fine,” I grumbled, sitting up, brushing some grass clippings off my stained white blouse, and accepting his offered hand. “Embarrassed, but fine.”
Jonathan clasped his fingers around mine. His hand was cool to the touch, and his grip was strong. He pulled me to my feet in one smooth motion, then quickly released me.
Death by Chocolate Lab (Lucky Paws Petsitting Mystery) Page 11
