Something Borrowed, Something Mewed

by Bethany Blake

  Rule-following Roger appeared perplexed. “Why didn’t you fire her?”

  “I was a brash kid once, too,” Gabriel said. “I wanted to give her another chance. Although I did warn her that she’d pay the legal fees and damages if we got sued. Which wouldn’t have been easy on the salary I was paying her.” He had momentarily forgotten why we were all gathered that evening, but quickly realized he shouldn’t have made a joke. “The bottom line is, Laci was no angel. But I didn’t believe for a minute that she was involved in Sinclair’s homicide, or that you were in any danger, Daphne.”

  Elyse set the plate of muffins on the table, and Roger reached for one. Having eaten Elyse’s baked goods, which were her Achilles’ heel, I would not be making that same mistake.

  “What convinced you Laci was innocent?” Roger asked Gabriel. “She was one of the last people to leave the party.”

  “For one thing, Laci was doggedly chasing down clues, with as much fervor as Daphne usually exhibits.” Gabriel drained and set down his mug, which thunked on the marble. “I didn’t think anyone would go to such great lengths to deflect suspicion. Especially since she wasn’t above pointing out circumstances that indicated she might’ve done the deed.”

  “She did that with me, too,” I said. “Or, at the very least, she asked if I thought she was guilty.”

  “In spite of everything, I’m still not convinced Laci wasn’t involved somehow,” Piper said, reaching for a napkin holder in the middle of the table. Grabbing a thick, white napkin, she handed it to Roger, who looked like he wanted to spit out the bite he’d taken. I had been there and actually done that. Piper turned to me again. “Why were you even meeting her?”

  “Piper.” Roger had managed to swallow, and his voice was soothing but firm. He squeezed her hand again. “A young woman is dead.”

  That simple reminder drained my sibling of color and her anger, which was rooted in frustration with me. “Sorry,” she said more quietly. But she didn’t stop questioning me. “What drew you there, Daphne? What did you hope to find? Or learn?”

  “I was hoping to uncover something that might help clear Roger’s name,” I said, wanting Piper to understand that, while I was driven by curiosity, I was also trying to be helpful. “The night Laci came to Winding Hill to get shots of the police taking away the bag with the garter, she told me two things.”

  The doorbell rang, and Elyse went to answer it, with Paris and Milan at her side. I could tell by the way she looked back over her shoulder that she was reluctant to miss key parts of the story, but she had no choice.

  Roger leaned over his barely touched muffin, clearly curious. “What did Laci say?”

  Gabriel was also listening intently, stroking his dark, devilish goatee and taking mental notes for a story that I was sure would appear the next day.

  I pushed aside my mug, which I hadn’t touched. I’d once had a bad beverage at Elyse’s house, too. “I mentioned the suitcases I’d seen on Abigail’s bed. One of which disappeared between the time I found the body and the time I returned to get the cat, Ms. Peebles.”

  I wasn’t sure if this was new information for Gabriel and Roger, and I couldn’t tell by their expressions, so I explained in detail.

  “I’d noticed a Louis Vuitton and a plain black case. The black one was gone in the morning. Laci indicated that she might have some insights into the missing bag, and she thought we should compare notes.”

  Gabriel had lost a colleague, but he’d been a hard-boiled crime reporter in Philadelphia, and his eyes gleamed with interest. “What else did she say? What’s the second thing?”

  I glanced at Piper, who was curious, but guarded. She wouldn’t let herself get too enthusiastic about my sleuthing. Then I told everyone, “I also asked Laci what she and Daisy Carpenter had been arguing about near the woods at the Owl & Crescent Art Barn on the night of Piper’s shower.”

  I expected someone to ask me about Laci’s response. But no one had a chance, because at that inopportune moment, Detective Fred Doebler entered the room, telling me, “I’d like you to start that story from the beginning, please.”

  Chapter 36

  “Poor Laci,” Moxie sighed, batting away some wildly flapping helium balloons, clutched by a little boy who ran past us, dodging amid the many people and pets at the Wags ’n Flags celebration in Pettigrew Park.

  The annual community picnic, always held the day after the fireworks as part of Sylvan Creek’s extended July Fourth celebration, was one of my favorite summer events, and I tried to shake off memories of the previous night as we strolled past rows of tents set up by food vendors representing a whole melting pot of cuisines. I hadn’t quite regained my appetite after finding Laci’s body, but I had to admit that my mouth watered a little at the smoky scents of charcoal and barbecue sauce, mingled with Mexican, Thai, Mediterranean and Chinese spices.

  “Does Detective Doebler suspect anyone—except you?” Moxie asked, nibbling on an ear of Mexican street corn, which was smothered in mayonnaise, cotija cheese and ancho chili powder. Somehow, she’d managed to finish half the cob without getting so much as a spot on her blue romper, which she’d sewn from a 1965 Butterick pattern.

  “I think I’ve already been ruled out,” I noted, glancing down at my sundress, which had gained a stain, although I hadn’t even touched any food. “Jonathan was right. His partner has given up on investigating me and is starting to look at me more like a nuisance. Just like Jonathan used to do.”

  “Speaking of handsome detectives”—Moxie’s segues to Jonathan Black were seldom subtle—“how are things shaping up in California?” she asked, giving me the side eye. “Has he wrapped up that case so he can come home?”

  I shook my head. “No, Moxie. And I’m increasingly convinced he should take the job and stay out there. The alternative is to resent me for the rest of his life.”

  My best friend didn’t answer, and, for the first time, I took that as tacit, if reluctant agreement.

  I’d been trying to convince Moxie that Jonathan’s best option was to seize the San Diego opportunity, yet it pained me to a surprising degree that she had seemingly caved in and conceded that I was right.

  I was also bothered by Socrates’ clear disappointment in me after I’d shared what little I’d known about the argument between Laci Chalmers and Daisy Carpenter with Detective Doebler.

  My canine sidekick had accompanied me to Wags ’n Flags, but our ride to the park had been quiet, and he’d quickly darted off with Axis and Artie, who’d come with Gabriel, Elyse, and the greyhounds. Snowdrop had taken a break from hanging out at Daisy’s tent, representing In a Pickle, to play, too.

  I spied all the dogs, including Tiny Tim, running around near the creek, close to where Moxie’s boyfriend, Mike Cavanaugh, was flipping burgers for the local VFW. As a veteran who’d served overseas and suffered an injury just before coming home, Mike was a member in good standing. Moxie believed that hanging around with other vets, including Jonathan, was helping him adjust back to civilian life after a rocky reentry.

  Moxie and I both waved to Mike, who grinned and raised a spatula, and all at once, I figured out where she’d probably been the whole time I’d been trying to reach her about the silver bag. I could also guess why she hadn’t been glued to her phone.

  “You were with Mike when I was frantically texting you about the bag from the Gilded Lily, weren’t you? And here I was a wreck, thinking you were being interrogated by Detective Doebler!”

  “I don’t know why you were so worried,” she said. “I was able to show Detective Doebler that I still had my bag. And I texted you back to explain the next morning.”

  She had, but for once, I hadn’t been able to interpret her emojis, which had included a striped container of popcorn, a collie dog and a wishing well. As we walked past a tent sponsored by Whiskered Away Home and manned by eccentric cat-hoarder-turned-decent-manager Bea Baumgartner, I finally figured out the symbols.

  “You were binge-watching reruns of L
assie, weren’t you?” I asked, waving at Bea, who didn’t notice me. She was wrangling a basket of kittens, all wearing Uncle Sam-like vests. They looked adorable.

  “Only the first twelve episodes,” Moxie said. “We still have about five hundred seventy to go.”

  I couldn’t believe there were that many. “That’s a lifetime of kids stuck in wells.”

  Moxie grinned. “I hope so!”

  I hadn’t been positive before, but I knew then that my best friend fully intended to marry her high school sweetheart. I was confident they would live happily ever after.

  I was feeling more optimistic for Piper and Roger, too, now that he’d been exonerated for one murder—Laci’s—which was almost certainly tied to Abigail’s death. There had only been a brief window of time between a sighting of Laci leaving the Gazette’s offices on the evening of the fireworks and my discovery of her body. Roger had been at the lake the entire time. Lots of people remembered seeing him and Piper sitting in matching lawn chairs, waiting for night to fall.

  “Where are your sister and her betrothed?” Moxie asked, reading my mind, as usual. She tossed her picked-clean corncob into a bin. I assumed that our next stop would be Daisy Carpenter’s tent, which was about fifteen yards ahead of us. I’d told Moxie she had to try one of the pickles displayed in glass jars that Daisy, who was smiling and chatting with customers, had artfully displayed on a rustic table. Stopping us both for a moment, Moxie wiped her fingers with a napkin and threw that away, too. “Piper and Roger are missing a crucial part of the Wags ’n Flags experience!”

  “I think they’re enjoying a quiet day together, celebrating the fact that Roger is a little closer to being off the hook for homicide.”

  “That is a good feeling,” Moxie confirmed, speaking from experience.

  “Hey . . . bridesmaids . . . wait up!”

  Moxie and I both turned at the breathless sound of Fidelia Tutweiler’s voice.

  “Daphne, I heard about the latest body.” Fidelia bent over and sucked wind. Then she straightened, still breathing heavily. “Is there ... anything I can do?”

  “Thanks, but I’m afraid not,” I told her. “It’s in Detective Doebler’s hands now.”

  Fidelia got her breathing under control. “I was worried when you didn’t text. Then I was relieved you were okay.”

  I’d completely forgotten that I’d promised to contact Fidelia, and I bit my lower lip. “I’m so sorry. I totally forgot. Things just got crazy . . .”

  Fidelia rested a hand on my arm. “It’s okay. I’m sure I wasn’t a top priority at the time.”

  I still felt badly and worried that I’d bruised Fidelia’s always fragile self-esteem.

  Moxie was also concerned about my accountant, but for a different reason.

  “What happened to you?” she inquired, gesturing to Fidelia’s hand, which still rested on my wrist. Looking down, I saw scratches on Fidelia’s fingers.

  Although the wounds were far from severe, the lacerations were puffy and red, and I asked, “Are you okay?”

  Fidelia removed her hand, seeming embarrassed. “Ms. Peebles got stuck on a light fixture. On the ceiling! I don’t even know how she got there. And when I tried to get her down, she kind of panicked.”

  I felt terrible. “Do you need me to take her back?”

  “No!” Fidelia cried. Her face fell. “I really enjoy her company, and I’m hoping she’ll come to enjoy mine.”

  I had a feeling that Fidelia’s apartment, more than her personality, was contributing to Ms. Peebles’s uncharacteristic bad behavior. She was an accident-prone cat, but never mean.

  “I still have a key to Abigail’s house,” I said. “I could stop by after All Paws on Deck and get some of her things. Toys, and her bed. Maybe it would help her settle in.”

  “Oh, that’s way too much trouble,” Fidelia protested.

  “It’s really not far out of the way,” I assured her. “And it will only take me a few minutes.”

  “Well, if you’re sure,” Fidelia agreed, but uncertainly. She rubbed her scabbed fingers. “It might help.”

  “Pets do like to have their stuff,” Moxie noted, holding out her vintage, woven basket purse and opening it so we could look inside. Sebastian was sound asleep on a soft scrap of fabric, his pink tail curled up over his nose. “Sebastian won’t go anywhere without his wubbie.”

  I assumed his “wubbie” was the tiny blanket.

  Moxie closed her purse, and I said, “Hey, Fidelia, do you want to get a pickle?”

  “I . . . I don’t know if that will be possible,” she noted, looking past me with a funny expression on her face.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, only to have the question answered when I turned around and saw that someone was about to cut into the line that had formed to buy briny treats.

  Detective Fred Doebler, who was striding through the park, followed by two uniformed officers, all of them heading straight for Daisy Carpenter’s tent.

  Chapter 37

  “I swear, I was working late at the restaurant,” Daisy insisted, her gaze darting between me, Moxie, Fidelia, and Detective Doebler, who was sweating in his suit. The two uniformed officers, who barely moved, nevertheless stood out, and, noticing their presence, a crowd was gathering around the In a Pickle tent—and not to buy pickles. Daisy wrung her hands in one of her blue-and-white dish towels, wilting under what I considered to be unwarranted harsh treatment at the hands of Jonathan’s partner. I didn’t think Detective Doebler should be basically accusing Daisy of murder in public. “I didn’t know anything about poor Laci,” she promised, “until I read the Gazette this morning.”

  At that moment, Gabriel emerged from the milling throng, snapping pictures. I wanted to tell him to knock it off, but he was just doing his job, covering the latest development in murder investigations that now directly impacted his newspaper.

  Snowdrop, Socrates and the other dogs had all run over, too, and all at once, the protective poodle snarled and latched onto Detective Doebler’s pant leg, shaking it roughly.

  Axis stayed quiet, while Artie and Tiny Tim yapped shrill approval. I wished the pug wasn’t wearing his PUG NATION T-shirt, but it seemed to be his only summer outfit.

  “Hey!” Detective Doebler barked, too, when Snowdrop growled again. “Knock it off, mutt!”

  “Snowdrop, no!” Daisy cried, her brown eyes wide with dismay. “Please, stop!”

  Knowing that the once-spoiled pup was just slipping a bit, reverting to her former bad behavior, which had included some snapping, I swooped down, planning to scoop her up and gently remind her to mind her manners.

  Socrates intervened first, calmly nudging Snowdrop until she let go, looking chastened. As the serene basset bumped his big, reassuring head against her delicate ear, she whimpered with fear and, I thought, remorse.

  “It’s okay, Snowdrop,” Moxie promised, jutting her lower lip. She didn’t like bullies, and I could tell she sympathized with the loyal, defensive dog.

  Fidelia remained mute, as if overwhelmed by the whole chaotic scene.

  “Snowdrop is sorry—and please don’t treat her rudely,” I told Detective Doebler. The perturbed poodle had misbehaved, but he shouldn’t have called her a mutt. Not that there was anything wrong with mixed-breed dogs. I loved them. But he’d intended insult. I again bent to pick up Snowdrop, who was trembling, and Socrates stepped back, hanging his head in a gesture that looked like an apology for giving me the cold shoulder. He also should’ve known that, when push came to shove, I would protect our friends, but love had temporarily blinded him. I gave him a look that said he was fogiven, then returned my attention to the human drama.

  “Miss Carpenter, I need you to come down to the station to answer some questions,” Detective Doebler said, his face bathed in more staccato bursts of light from Gabriel’s camera. Detective Doebler gestured for Daisy to walk with him. “Let’s go.”

  Daisy looked too shocked to protest, her eyes silently pleading with me, as
if I might have answers.

  I only had questions myself, though.

  Should I call an attorney?

  Or was Daisy even under arrest? Because Detective Doebler hadn’t said that.

  And why was Jonathan’s partner being so obnoxious, making a big scene?

  I knew Jonathan would’ve approached Daisy quietly, in a more private setting, if at all possible. He wouldn’t have strode through a happy event, humiliating someone who might very well be innocent. And he certainly wouldn’t have mugged for the camera, like Fred Doebler was doing.

  “Daisy, what can I do to help?” I asked, sounding like Fidelia, just minutes before. I stroked Snowdrop, who was wriggling to get down and follow her person. “Come with you? Or contact a lawyer?”

  “Please just watch Snowdrop,” Daisy requested over her shoulder. She wasn’t wearing handcuffs, but it still looked like an arrest, the way the two officers walked closely behind her. “I know a lawyer, if I need one.”

  Detective Doebler moved to follow his fellow officers, and I fought back growing anger, because it wasn’t a productive emotion and only clouded judgment.

  Moxie wasn’t quite so generous. “He’s acting like a real big shot while Jonathan’s away—for now,” she grumbled.

  Detective Doebler heard the comment. He turned slowly around, glancing at Moxie, then addressing me as Gabriel kept snapping away.

  “You’re lucky I’m not dragging you down to the station, Ms. Templeton,” he said in a voice close to a growl. “And when Black leaves permanently, believe me, I’ll look more closely at you the next time you find a body.”

  I didn’t answer him, because I didn’t respond to threats. And, even though I kept telling myself that it was best for Jonathan to move, I hated that Detective Doebler was rubbing that difficult reality in my face. He smirked, acting like he was doing me a favor when he told me, “In the meantime, you ought to be thanking me, because it looks like your brother-in-law, Berendt, will likely get off scot-free.”