“Don’t start believing in tall tales,” Piper urged, wrapping a scarf around her neck. “I’m sure the Saint Bernard was someone’s pet, probably there the whole time in the crowd, and then we just lost track of it in all the craziness.”
“Craziness” was an understatement. Once the already excited crowd had realized there was a body in the water, the scene at Lake Wallapawakee had erupted into anarchy. Even the poor guy who’d been assigned as Safety Crew had run around like a chicken with his head cut off.
On the off chance that Lauren Savidge’s death hadn’t been accidental, Jonathan Black would have his work cut out for him. Every plunger on the roster was probably a potential suspect, and the sand had been churned up by hundreds of feet.
“Talk about a messy crime scene,” I muttered to myself.
“Daphne . . .” There was warning in Piper’s voice. “We’ve been over this. In water that cold, a slip like the one you suffered could be fatal in seconds. What happened tonight was most likely an accident.”
That was probably true, but I couldn’t help thinking about all the people who hated Lauren, and I ventured, one more time, “Don’t you think there’s a chance that Lauren was murdered?”
My sister swung open the door, like she wasn’t about to entertain that question again. Then she drew back, clearly startled. She stood that way for a long moment, the door wide open and snow blowing into the cottage.
“I have no idea if Lauren was murdered, Daphne,” she finally told me. “But I think you’re about to get a definitive answer to that question.”
Chapter 7
“Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat or drink?” I asked Jonathan Black, who stood in my living room, wearing a dry pair of jeans and a gray sweater that gave his dark blue eyes a stormy cast.
My cottage never felt too small to me, until Jonathan visited, which didn’t happen often. But when he did cross my threshold, Plum Cottage immediately felt like a dollhouse. Jonathan was over six feet tall, and although he maintained his lean, military physique, he had a way of claiming space. I couldn’t quite put my finger on how he did that.
And, of course, my home also felt smaller because he’d brought along Axis, the big chocolate Lab, and my favorite one-eared Chihuahua, Artie, who was currently applying his severe overbite to Socrates’s long, droopy ear, in an attempt to cajole the gloomier-than-usual basset hound into a better mood.
I could’ve told Artie that his strategy wouldn’t work. And yet, Socrates was enduring the attentions of the exuberant, mischievous little dog. Talk about opposites who’d somehow attracted, as friends, during the time Artie had lived with us. Then I turned back to someone who was my complete opposite—and who might or might not be my friend. “Please, let me get you some coffee. And I made this amazing chocolate-chip bread pudding with a cinnamon rum sauce.” My cheeks got warm as I recalled how Jonathan had carried me out of the lake, slogging through the water with me quaking like a human jackhammer in his arms. “It’s the least I can do, after how you pretty much saved me tonight.” Gesturing for him to follow me, I padded toward the kitchen in my big, fluffy slippers, wishing I was dressed in real clothes, like Jonathan. I also hoped that Tinkleston, who’d once attempted to maul Jonathan, would stay in his favorite hiding spot amid some herbs I grew on my kitchen windowsill. I could see Tinks’s unusual orange eyes blinking at me from behind the basil. “Did I thank you for wading in to get me?”
Jonathan had seemed pretty grim since coming in from the storm, but when I looked over my shoulder, I noticed a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, and the corners of his mouth twitched with a suppressed smile. “I don’t know, Daphne,” he mused, following me to the kitchen. The antique icebox and vintage gas oven seemed to shrink in his presence. “Did you ever thank me? Or compensate me for the time you spilled iced tea all over my truck, so I had to have it professionally cleaned? Or pay me back for the restaurant checks you’ve walked out on, when sudden ‘emergencies’ arose just before the bills arrived?”
I might’ve stuck Jonathan with the tab at a few eating establishments in the past. Always for legitimate reasons. But I knew that he was teasing me. I’d been trying to repay my debts lately, albeit slowly.
“Have you ever thanked me for convincing you to adopt two of the best friends you’ll ever have?” I countered, joking with him, too. I poured dark roast, ground Kona beans into a small silver coffeemaker I’d brought back from Italy a few years ago. I knew Jonathan was a fan of strong black coffee, and the little pot would deliver. Then I set three pup-friendly Chicken and Rice Snowballs, formed from poached chicken, rice, and a bit of chicken broth, onto small plates and delivered those to the dogs, who were all communing near the hearth. Returning to the kitchen, I slipped Tinks a little tuna to reward him for not attacking. “I saw you with Artie tucked in your jacket,” I added. “So I’m assuming you two are buddies now.”
As soon as I said all that, I regretted mentioning the part about “best friends” and “buddies.” Jonathan had lost his canine SEAL partner, a Belgian Malinois named Herod, during a battle in Afghanistan. I was pretty sure that wrenching loss had made him reluctant to adopt new pets. But for once he didn’t completely shut himself off when talking about dogs. He leaned against what little countertop I had and crossed his arms over his chest, still clearly amused, but pretending to be irritated.
“Artie spent the whole evening shivering worse than you, when I pulled you from the lake,” he said, nodding at the Chihuahua, who was helping himself to Socrates’s snack. Apparently, Socrates’s self-recrimination was affecting his appetite. Axis, who’d already eaten his Snowball, was nodding off by the crackling fire. “I honestly had trouble choosing between continuing to keep that quivering, hyper, pain-in-the-neck warm, and setting him down so I could rescue you.”
“Oh, gosh!” I snapped my fingers, suddenly remembering something I’d forgotten during the night’s excitement. I hurried over to my jacket, which was hanging by the door, and reached into one of the deep pockets. Locating a bag, I pulled out the contents, concealed my hands behind my back, and returned to the kitchen. “I bought something for Artie to keep him warm. And because it’s so cute.”
“Cute” was probably not a selling point for Jonathan, whatever the product was. “Thanks?” he said uncertainly. Then he frowned when I handed him a little yellow cardigan with green piping. He held it up for inspection. “Oh, no. You don’t really expect me to . . .”
“Yes, I do expect you to put this on Artie,” I said, snatching the sweater away from him. I didn’t even have to summon the lively Chihuahua, who loved to dress up. He was already prancing toward me, like he knew the cardigan was his. Kneeling down, I draped the soft, yak-hair garment over his shaky little frame, and he was so excited that he could hardly hold still while I slipped his front legs through the appropriate holes. “There you go,” I told him, when he was all buttoned up. Smiling, I scratched the spot behind his missing ear. “You look adorable! Like a tiny canine accountant!”
With a quick, grateful yip, Artie pranced off to show his new attire to Socrates, who groaned softly and fell over sideways. He and Artie would never agree on clothes.
Jonathan obviously concurred with Socrates. He was rubbing his forehead, like his head ached, and he sighed, deeply. “That is the most ridiculous—”
“Maybe he can wear the sweater at the Cardboard Iditarod,” I said, interrupting again. I doubted that Jonathan had plans to enter Axis or Artie in the sled parade, but I acted like Artie’s participation, at least, was a given. Artie loved to be the center of attention, and I couldn’t bear to think of him missing one of the year’s most fun events. Pretending that I didn’t see how skeptical Jonathan was, I smiled up at him. “Won’t Artie look cute, riding on a sled in that outfit?”
Jonathan’s eyebrows shot up. “Riding? What do you mean ‘riding’? Dogs pull sleds.” He glanced at Artie, who was rearing up on his hind legs in front of Socrates, desperate to get the bigger dog’s
approval of his finery. Socrates, meanwhile, was pretending to sleep. Then Jonathan looked at me again. “There is no way I’m going to—”
“Oh, fine, I’ll take Artie,” I said, waving off Jonathan’s objections. In truth, I wanted to take part, and Socrates would never join me. Rising from the kitchen floor, I shoved Jonathan aside so I could reach behind him and get the pan of bread pudding, which was cooling on a rack. The brioche I’d used had soaked all day in a mixture of locally produced eggs, rich half-and-half, and fragrant vanilla, and when I’d returned from Winterfest, I’d popped the waiting dessert into the oven before even changing out of my wet clothes. It was almost like I’d known I would get trampled in a half-frozen lake and need a warm treat at the end of the day. “Moxie and I will make the sled,” I added. “It’ll take my mind off everything that happened tonight.”
Jonathan didn’t reply, and I looked over to see that he’d grown serious. On the few occasions we’d stood very close, like we were doing then, I always noted a small scar that ran along his jaw and wondered how he’d gotten it. I was sure there was a story there. But Jonathan didn’t like to tell tales about his past. I still couldn’t believe I’d gotten him to admit that he’d been forced to leave his career as a SEAL when he’d become gravely ill with a form of cancer he’d never named. But he’d hinted that the disease might come back someday. I didn’t know Jonathan that well, but I never thought about him without saying a little prayer to the universe, to spare him that fate. And when my gaze shifted from that mark on his jaw to meet his eyes, I was surprised to see that he was genuinely concerned for me, too.
“Are you okay, Daphne?” he asked quietly. “I know you’re—oddly—no stranger to finding bodies, but you went through a real ordeal tonight. Are you all right?”
I tucked some of my curls behind my ear, feeling strangely uncomfortable. “Yes, I’m okay.” Breaking our gaze, I reached for the coffeepot and poured some of the aromatic brew into a mug that matched mine. I handed the coffee to Jonathan, who accepted it wordlessly; then I retrieved two similarly glazed, rustic plates and served up the bread pudding. But before I poured the sweet, dark rum sauce over Jonathan’s share, he rested one hand on my arm, stopping me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, looking up at him again.
“That looks great.” He withdrew his hand. “But I think I’ll skip the rum sauce, which smells like it’s about eighty proof.”
“You’re probably right,” I agreed, sniffing the pitcher that held the thick, buttery sauce. “I got the rum in Jamaica, from a guy in an alley, who swore it was as good as Appleton’s Exclusive . . .” I started to tell Jonathan a quick story about how I’d tried to save money by buying rum really duty free, then thought the better of sharing my tale. He was already giving me a skeptical look. Plus, I didn’t need him hauling me and my bottle to a customs agent somewhere. “Anyhow,” I said. “It’s actually okay in small doses. Are you sure I can’t give you a splash?”
“No, thanks.” He couldn’t quite fight back a grin. “My job would be a lot harder if your moonshine blinded me.” Then he grew more serious. “And I’m technically on duty and shouldn’t be drinking anything stronger than your coffee. Which is also pretty strong.”
“What?” I’d been dousing my pudding with the sauce, but when he said that, my hand jerked, and an extra glug splashed onto my plate. “Why are you on duty?”
“I’m waiting for a call from Vonda Shakes,” he said, referencing the county coroner. “I’m not sure Lauren Savidge’s death was an accident.”
My stomach twisted to think that I might’ve been on the scene of a murder, but I had to admit that part of me was intrigued by the possibility that my hunch was right. Setting down the pitcher, I handed Jonathan his plate, piled high with warm, sweet bread and melted chocolate chips. “Why do you think Lauren might’ve been murdered?”
Jonathan must’ve been hungry, because he dug into the bread pudding before answering me. In truth, I didn’t really expect him to tell me anything. He didn’t like me meddling in his cases. And when he’d finished a big bite, he raised a cautionary hand. “I’m not sure this is a homicide yet, so, please, don’t start playing detective.”
Ignoring that suggestion, I took my plate and refilled mug of tea over to the kitchen table, where I sank down onto one of the two chairs. I didn’t bother urging Jonathan to sit, too. He looked very comfortable standing. “Can you at least tell me why you’re thinking homicide? Because I was just talking about that possibility with Piper.”
Jonathan hesitated, clearly reluctant to confide in me.
“You might as well spill,” I said, through a mouthful of dessert. “I think history proves that I’ll get the information somehow.”
He sipped his coffee, no doubt recalling my past investigative efforts. Then he must’ve concluded that I was correct about my snooping abilities.
“When I tried to resuscitate Lauren, I got blood on my hand,” he told me. “From cradling the back of her head, as I turned her over. The dog that pulled her from the water left her on her side.”
I hadn’t seen any blood, although I’d stood where Jonathan had set me down, close to the body. But the beach had been dark, clouds obscuring the moon, and I’d alternated between watching Jonathan kneel on the sand, attempting CPR on Lauren, and glancing around at the crowd of confused, excited people who’d also gathered, forming a circle. I’d noted that some morbid folks continued to snap pictures. The night had been punctuated by flashes, although most had been generated by Gabriel Graham, who must’ve stepped into the water at some point. His pants were wet up to the knees. And the Stylish Life cameraman had kept his camera on his shoulder and his eye to the lens, too, as if he’d been filming—until Elyse Hunter-Black had approached him and tapped his shoulder, shaking her head and forcing him to stop. Then Elyse had turned to watch Jonathan, although I thought her gaze had flicked, now and then, to me.
Or maybe she’d been checking on Lauren’s assistant, Joy, who’d stood right next to me, dripping, shuddering, and muttering softly into her trembling hands.
Only the safety crew guy and holistic pet healer Arlo Finch had run forward to help. Arlo must’ve been freezing, because he’d still been wearing his wet T-shirt. I recalled seeing that strange tattoo on his wrist as he’d attempted compressions on Lauren’s chest, even after Jonathan had urged him to give up.
Victor Breard had finally shoved through the crowd, too, dropping to his knees at Jonathan’s side. It had occurred to me that a man who worked with dangerous big cats on a regular basis would probably be better in that stressful situation than a pet therapist, however well intentioned.
A few moments later, Piper had hurried over to me, covering me with a blanket and leading me away.
As I stood in my warm kitchen, picturing Jonathan attempting to restart Lauren’s heart, I realized that his evening had been as traumatic as mine, if not worse. I considered asking him if he was okay, then thought the better of it. I knew he’d insist that he was fine. He would always insist that he was fine.
I also wanted to know if Jonathan had seen the Saint Bernard run off, but I assumed he’d been solely focused on trying to save Lauren after setting me down on the lakeshore. And I had bigger questions to ask, right then, about Lauren’s death.
“So,” I ventured, “do you think someone might’ve hit her on the head? Because of the blood?”
He sipped his coffee and didn’t even flinch, although the brew had to be bitter. Then he set down the mug. “Yes, that’s what I suspect.” He peered more closely at me. “You fell in the water. It would’ve been difficult to hit your head, right? Hard enough to make it bleed?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “There were some small rocks near the shore. But most of the lake bed was soft. Especially where I found Lauren. And although the water was only a few feet deep, it kind of buoyed me up when I stumbled. I really don’t know how your head would hit bottom hard enough to make you bleed.”
We both grew
silent for a minute, while I tried to figure out exactly how one might get a head wound in the middle of a lake. The only sound in the cottage was the snuffling of the dogs, the crackling of the fire, and the roar of the wind outside.
Then Jonathan broke the silence, setting his empty plate on the counter and noting, “Lauren Savidge had a lot of enemies, didn’t she?”
I took a second to study him. “This isn’t just a social call, is it?” I finally asked. “You aren’t just checking on my well-being, are you?”
“I’m doing that,” Jonathan said. “But I’d also like to know what you saw tonight. And I’d appreciate any information you have about Lauren.”
He was basically asking for my help with a potential investigation. I wouldn’t gloat, though, for fear of chasing him off. And I had plenty to tell him. But before I answered his questions, I had one for him, although I asked it reluctantly.
“Um . . . did you happen to see Elyse tonight? Right before the plunge?”
He cocked his head, like he wasn’t sure what I was getting at. “Yes, I saw her,” he said. “But only for a minute, when she stopped to say hello. Then she disappeared into the crowd.”
I hadn’t expected that response. I’d assumed he’d attended the plunge with Elyse.
“Why were you even there?” I asked, forgetting, for a moment, that we were discussing a potential murder. I pushed aside my empty plate. “I never expected to see you at something so . . . frivolous.”
Jonathan normally didn’t explain his motives for doing anything, and he surprised me again by answering. “I heard the event wasn’t well organized, and I thought my prior training with cold water rescues might come in handy. I felt a responsibility to go.” Of course, he quickly downplayed his history. “But that’s not important. I’d rather talk about what you observed, right before you found the body.” A shadow of concern crossed his face. “You were saying something about Elyse?”
Pawprints & Predicaments Page 4
