“I don’t blame you for being cheerful,” I told him, with a sigh. I steered the van onto the short lane that led to Jonathan’s A-frame house, which was tucked into the woods. Spying dim lights in the windows, my stomach twisted with concern about our looming conversation.
Socrates finally seemed to catch my tense mood. He stopped snuffling as I parked behind Jonathan’s truck, and we were quiet while we hurried through the rain, which was falling harder, to the front door, where I raised my hand to knock.
Needless to say, Axis and Artie had heard us approaching and must’ve alerted Jonathan, because he opened the door before I could even rap.
Like always happened when I saw him, butterflies started wheeling around in my stomach—then I looked past Jonathan into his house, and my breath caught, so it took me a moment to form the question, “What have you done here?”
* * *
“I wanted to start a fire and have a picnic outside, but the weather ruined that plan,” Jonathan explained, setting a tray with a bottle of wine and two tumblers onto the floor in front of me. The dogs had been sent off to play, to give us some privacy, and I was sitting on the antique Turkish rug that anchored his living room. Jonathan joined me, resting back against one of two leather sofas that defined the otherwise open space, which was a snug refuge from the wet night.
A fire burned in the huge stone fireplace, the sound of the crackling logs mingling with the soft patter of rain against a wall of windows that overlooked the paddock and barn he’d built for his two horses. The only other light came from dozens of candles that were tucked among Jonathan’s many books, shelved on floor-to-ceiling bookcases that rose up around us—a sight that had caused me to gasp with surprise when he’d opened the door.
“I thought I’d try to give you fire and something like a starry sky indoors,” he added, reaching to pour the wine and handing me a glass of deep red merlot. A wooden cutting board with a selection of crackers, cheeses and some cherries that were as dark as the wine waited by the tray, if I ever found my appetite. Jonathan rested back again. “It’s a poor approximation, but I did my best.”
“It’s perfect,” I assured him, even as a part of me wished it wasn’t. Not that I wanted Jonathan to be a jerk, but I was trying to guard my heart, and the romantic gesture had pretty much ruined that effort, as surely as the rain had changed his plans. Taking a sip of the merlot, I set my tumbler on a coffee table he’d pushed off to the side—only to bump into a stack of papers.
Leaning over, I spied a grainy picture of people milling around a lake and jolted. “I’ve seen those before.” I turned to Jonathan. “Where did you get those clippings?”
“They were on Abigail Sinclair’s desk. Doebler initially confiscated them, then decided they weren’t related to her murder.”
“But you’re not so sure.”
“No, I’m not. So I asked if I could borrow them, just to read through.” He tilted his head. “How did you see them?”
“I stopped in Abigail’s office when I was looking for her. Right before I found her body. I noticed the pile because it wasn’t neat.” I glanced at the papers again. “What if you find something interesting in there?”
“If that happened, I’d turn everything over to Doebler.”
We both realized that we’d quickly segued into the discussion I’d been worried about all day. It was probably my imagination, or the fire dying down, but the room seemed to grow darker.
“Daphne . . .” Jonathan’s voice was low and grave, and I suddenly couldn’t take the suspense anymore. I shifted on the floor, facing him more directly and blurting, “You’re taking the job, aren’t you? Which is why I couldn’t kiss you the other day. And why I shouldn’t be sitting here in a pretend starry meadow, because you’re about to break my heart, and all this”—I gestured around the room—“is only making it harder to let you go.”
“Daphne, calm down,” Jonathan urged, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself. I’m not going to drop some kind of bombshell on you.”
That was a partial relief. I took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’ve just been very worried, the last few days, about you—and Snowdrop, on Socrates’ behalf.”
Jonathan, who had brought the poodle back to Sylvan Creek when she’d been taken away by lawyers, frowned. “What’s wrong with Snowdrop?”
Forgetting my nervous stomach, I dipped a cracker into smooth, tangy chèvre, which was a perfect complement to the sweet cherries. “Daisy Carpenter was considering fleeing town . . .”
I could tell by the flicker of concern in Jonathan’s eyes that he knew Daisy was a suspect, so I quickly added, “. . . but I helped her calm down, and for now, she’s sticking around.”
“I assume she was leaving because she had a pretty strong motive to kill Sinclair. The blackmail about her former business.”
I pulled back slightly. “I didn’t realize Daisy had admitted that. And how much does Detective Doebler tell you?”
Jonathan grinned again. “He’s not used to working alone. He likes to bounce ideas off me now and then.”
“So what do you think about Daisy as a suspect?”
“Unlikely. And I’m basing that on gut instinct and her claim that she left the mansion before Laci Chalmers, while Dexter Shipley seemed to have disappeared—which doesn’t mean he wasn’t somewhere on the property.”
“Daisy could be lying.” I held up my hands. “Not that I think that. I really like her.”
“Yet, she was considering running away. That’s not a good sign. Maybe we’re both wrong about her.”
I recalled the towels I’d seen Daisy using. “Did the lab ever identify the fibers found in Abigail’s wounds?”
Jonathan could tell I was asking for a reason. He put me under a microscope. “Not that I know of. Why? Do you know something?”
I thought back to my experiment, and how it seemed like it would’ve been very difficult for someone to use a dish towel as a weapon. And Abigail had been a tall, commanding woman, while Daisy was petite—although her arms and hands were probably strong, from chopping, kneading and stirring . . .
“Daphne?” Jonathan’s voice broke into my thoughts.
“Just tell me if you ever hear about the fibers,” I said. “Depending upon what they’re from, I may have something to say.”
Jonathan didn’t like that deal, but he nodded agreement, while still watching me closely by the flickering light of the fireplace and the soft glow of the candles. The storm had grown worse, and rain was streaming down the windows, wind whistling across the chimney. Jonathan’s eyes were nearly as dark as the sky outside, and all of my resolve to maintain a tiny bit of distance from him melted away into a big, messy puddle that I soon wouldn’t be able to resist jumping into.
He must’ve seen me caving in, but he hesitated, sort of asking permission without saying a word. I gave the slightest nod, and he leaned closer to kiss me. My hand moved up to wrap around his neck, my thumb brushing the scar on his jaw. I felt like I could’ve stayed in that moment forever, which was perhaps why he pulled back. I knew he was thinking about how I’d pushed him away, the other night, and worrying that he was pressuring me into doing something I wasn’t sure was good for me right then.
He was probably right, but I didn’t take my hand away. I kept tracing that jagged mark while my eyes searched his.
I wanted to finally learn the story behind the old wound I’d noticed the first time I’d met him and that had intrigued me ever since. He’d never volunteered the tale, and, until recently, I hadn’t felt like I could ask questions. Some instinct told me that he hadn’t just cut himself shaving or something silly like that.
That night, I couldn’t resist any longer. If I was going to trust him not to break my heart, he needed to trust me with his past.
“Jonathan, what happened?” I asked quietly, still studying his eyes. I thought I saw a flash of wariness, and I feared he was going to put his guard up, like he sometimes did.
Then the moment passed, and I asked again, “How did you get this mark?”
He caught my hand with his, trapping it and holding it. He wasn’t pushing aside the question. Just giving us room to talk. “I don’t even know,” he told me, facing the fire and dragging his free hand through his hair. “There were so many injuries that day. Me, and a lot of other men. And Herod, who, of course, didn’t make it.” Herod was the dog who’d been his canine partner when he’d been a SEAL. His voice was dispassionate, but I knew he was deliberately keeping his emotions in check, even as he made a grim joke. “It’s a wonder I don’t look sewn together like Frankenstein’s monster. I didn’t even notice the cut on my jaw, and wouldn’t have gotten it stitched anyway. The medics were saving arms and legs, not looks.”
There was so much unsaid in that story. So many details left out, not to mention a strong suggestion that he’d suffered injuries more serious than the one that had left a visible hint at his past. But it was the first time Jonathan had come close to telling me anything about the battle that had claimed his friends and his beloved dog, and I didn’t ask for more information. I just rested against his strong shoulder and clasped his hand, both of us watching the fire and listening to the storm, until he gently moved away from me again, if only to see my face.
“Daphne, if I’ve learned anything from combat, and cancer—not to mention solving homicides—it’s to appreciate life on a moment-by-moment basis, however trite that might sound.” He grinned, teasing me. “You, of all people, should know that. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’ve delivered that lecture to me, backing up your argument with quotes from everyone from the Buddha to Socrates. The philosopher and the dog.”
I’d slouched down a bit, and I looked up at him. “Somehow, my philosophical training and the counsel of a very wise canine flew out the window when you said you might move to California. Suddenly, all I can think of is the future and what will happen with us.”
“Believe me,” Jonathan said, “I’m giving that topic a lot of thought, too, especially when I’m working at the chapel, where my mind is free to wander. And I think the fact that we’re both uncharacteristically worried about the future actually bodes well for us.”
I understood what he meant, and I pulled myself back up, feeling a bit more optimistic. “So what do we do now?”
“Keep talking about our options. It’s all we can do right now.” He arched an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you’d even consider moving ... ?”
My heart quickly sank again, if only because I was going to disappoint him. “I have too many ties here, including family, friends and a three-year lease on a business I just started.”
He wasn’t happy, but he was realistic. “I expected that answer, and I think you’re right.”
“Plus, I just hired a new employee. One who seems to need some guidance, and maybe a female sounding board, as much as a job.” I pictured the ramshackle biker bar that Dorinda occupied. “Well, maybe she needs the job just as badly.”
Jonathan leaned forward, frowning. “Who’s the mystery hire? Another formerly felonious accountant?”
“Well, she does have a record,” I said. “But Dorinda Berendt won’t be handling my books. She’s going to be my part-time dog walker—which will actually help me out quite a bit. And hopefully help Dorinda, too.”
“How so?”
Lightning flickered outside, and I knew I would be wise to get on the road before it got much later. I started to rise, telling Jonathan, “She really is a sort of lost soul, who I think is acting out against her overbearing Realtor mother by dropping out of college and living above the Wild Hog.”
Jonathan managed to stand up before me, probably because I’d twisted myself into a half-lotus position, and he offered me his hand. “Sounds like you’re doing a good thing. That place is pretty rough. Although the food is great.”
“You’ve eaten there?” I accepted his offer of assistance, and he pulled me to my feet. “Why?”
“More than one homicide investigation has led to the Wild Hog,” he told me. I moved to pick up the cheese board, but he clasped my arm and shook his head, letting me know he’d clean up later. “Dogtags found out I served in combat, too, and he always insists that Doebler and I eat on the house.”
“Yeah, he seems like a nice guy. Unlike the person who stole Piper’s bike, which I left in the parking lot while I convinced Dorinda to not only be a bridesmaid again, but to sing at Piper’s wedding.”
Ignoring what I thought was big news about Dorinda’s agreement to share her talents, Jonathan gave me a funny look. “Since when does Piper ride a motorcycle?”
“It was a bicycle,” I informed him. “Blue, with twenty-one speeds.”
“I won’t even ask why you rode something you pedal to a biker bar. And I’ll see what I can do,” Jonathan promised, following me toward the door. “I know some of the guys who hang out at the bar. They might be persuaded to return the bike.”
“Thanks. Dorinda promised to help, too.” I didn’t sound or feel hopeful, and I wondered if I could put off telling Piper about the theft until after the wedding. She hardly rode her bicycle, at least not that I knew of.
We’d reached the door, and Jonathan crossed his arms and cocked his head. “How about Dorinda Berendt? Does she ride something with a little more power than an old Schwinn?”
“The Schwinn was Moxie’s,” I noted. “If I remember correctly, Piper has . . . had . . . a Cannondale.”
“Daphne, about Dorinda . . .”
I had been stalling with the speculation about my sister’s brand of bike, because I knew Jonathan was making the connection between my near-accident at Artful Engagements and Dorinda’s hangout.
“Just give her a little more time, okay?” I requested. “I think she’s going to contact your partner and tell him everything she told me.”
“Which was ... ?”
I hesitated, not sure how much of Dorinda’s story I should share. Instead, I asked, “Vonda Shakes put Abigail’s time of death at around one a.m., right?”
Jonathan nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t sure why I was bringing that up, so I added, “I think Dorinda’s innocent. She was at Artful Engagements the morning I found Abigail’s body.”
Jonathan clearly didn’t think I was making a very good case for Roger’s sister, but he let me continue.
“She drove past me midmorning. If she’d killed Abigail in the dead of night, why go back in broad daylight, riding the world’s loudest motorcycle?”
“You’ve heard the old adage about returning to the scene of the crime, right?” Jonathan reminded me, as the dogs all trotted into the room, led by Artie, who had an adorable string of drool trailing from his recessive lower jaw. It looked to me like they’d all been napping during the storm. Socrates’ droopy eyes were sleepy. “Maybe she left something incriminating and went back to claim it,” Jonathan added. “The risk of a daylight visit might’ve been worth it if she felt she needed to protect herself.”
“That’s possible,” I agreed, then was struck by another thought. One that shook my faith in the Berendt family for just a moment. I quickly rejected the idea and told Jonathan, “But I still think she would’ve gone earlier if she’d left something.”
Jonathan smiled. “I suppose you’re right. Maybe you should partner with Doebler in my absence.”
He was joking, but the comment dragged me back to a dilemma I’d forgotten about while we’d discussed the crime. Jonathan realized that he’d returned the conversation to a difficult subject, too. But it was one we couldn’t avoid.
Or maybe we could. Jonathan took both my hands in his and drew me closer. Neither one of us seemed overly eager to speak at all.
I glanced quickly at Socrates, who seemed to realize that he and his canine buddies had returned too early. Nudging Artie, who looked like he wanted to run to us, he steered the Chihuahua and Axis toward the fire, while I looked up at Jonathan again.
“You don’t have to leave, you know,”
he said quietly, his voice deep and his blue eyes dark again, while thunder rumbled overhead. He drew me even closer, so I rested against his chest, and he slipped his arms around me. Bending his head, he rested his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my ear when he whispered, “Stay.”
That was the best invitation I’d ever received, but it came at the worst time. And then Jonathan muddled the moment for me further by murmuring something I barely heard, because my heart was pounding so hard. Words that nearly made me accept his offer, but which ultimately sent me out the door, into the rain.
Socrates was quiet on the whole ride home, and I didn’t speak, either. As the windshield wipers swiped back and forth across the dark glass, I kept replaying how Jonathan and I had parted.
And when I wasn’t agonizing over our last moments at the door, I kept wondering if there was a chance that Roger, who had looked so pale and shaken on the day he should’ve gotten married, had confided some midnight misdeed to Dorinda. In which case, she might have rushed to Artful Engagements not to confront Abigail but to see if she could do anything to protect the brother who looked out for her, and whose image was inked permanently on her flesh.
Chapter 22
The sun was bright and my schedule busy enough to get me out of bed early the next morning, in spite of spending a restless night in the loft.
Feeding Tinks and Ms. Peebles, who ate their homemade Meow Mash-Up kitty chow from bowls I was slowly pushing closer together on the kitchen floor, I next gave Socrates some of his favorite PowerPup breakfast. Then I brewed some tea using an herbal blend I’d bought at the local farmers’ market from a stand operated by a former hermit named Max Pottinger, who’d been brought out of his shell, and the woods, by an affable Saint Bernard named Bubba.
I wasn’t very hungry, but I ate a fresh plum, also from the market, before strapping Socrates into the van, hopping behind the wheel and heading for a pet-sitting job in town. However, as I passed by Piper’s farmhouse, I saw that her Acura was parked near the barn, which struck me as odd.
Something Borrowed, Something Mewed Page 12
