Tess stopped mid-fill, cocked her head to the side and looked at her. “We are talking about Goober, right? My Goober?”
“Yes, your Goober,” said Hannah with a laugh. “For some reason, he was on his best behavior last night.”
A crash coming from what sounded like the living room caused them both to yell out at the same time, “Goober! No!”
“I’ll go check on him,” said Hannah.
Tess put the teakettle on the stove and turned it on. She grabbed the mug with the candy cane handle along with another one with Christmas reindeer on it and put an Orange Spice teabag in both of them.
Hannah came back a minute later. “No problem. He just knocked over a small box of books,” she said, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs and sitting down. “So, how was your first night here?”
Tess opened the pantry door and grabbed a package of shortbread cookies. “It was really good,” she said, walking over to the table and setting the bag in front of her guest. “I was up in the attic putting boxes away when I . . .”
Suddenly, Goober came running in from the hallway, his tongue hanging out, and skidded to a stop in front of the kitchen door. He barked once and looked up at Hannah.
“I’ve got it.” She stood up and opened the door to the back yard. “There you go, Goobs. Have fun.”
The dog ran out into the yard, his nose hovering close to the ground seemingly picking up scent after scent. Tess grabbed the teakettle from off the stove and poured the boiling water into the mugs. “Here you go,” she said and placed the one with the reindeer in front of Hannah.
“Thanks,” said Hannah as she picked it up and held it in both of her hands as if to warm them. “So, what are your plans for today?”
“I’m going to run into the office for a bit, sign some papers for the bank, and then Char’s coming over later to help me finish unpacking the boxes and put things away.” She looked at Hannah. “How about you?”
“I’m picking up another dog . . .” She pulled her cell phone from her coat pocket and glanced at the time. “Shoot. I’m supposed to be there in fifteen minutes.” She stood up, shoved the phone back into her pocket and pulled out her gloves. “Thanks for the tea,” she said, slipping them on.
“Thank you for watching my boy,” said Tess showing her to the front door.
“Anytime,” said Hannah.
When Tess opened the front door, Goober came romping into the foyer with a rolled-up newspaper in his mouth. He dropped it on the floor at her feet and gave his body a shake.
“Hey,” said Tess, “how’d you get out of the back yard?” She picked up the newspaper, looked down at him and frowned. “Whose yard did you steal this from?”
Goober looked up at her, his big brown eyes wide, and he gave her a quiet “Woof,” along with a tail wag.
“Well, now what am I going to do?” said Tess, staring down at the dog. “I can’t leave you here in the house by yourself. You’d tear the place up. And I can’t let you out back . . .”
“You want me to take him until you can figure out how he got out of the yard?” said Hannah, standing on the porch.
“No, that’s okay,” she said and sighed. “I’ll just take him to the office with me. They all love him there.”
“Okay,” said Hannah, “just let me know if you change your mind.”
Tess closed the door then shuffled back into the kitchen with Goober following closely behind her. On her way to the table, she turned on the small TV that was sitting on the counter and turned the sound down low. Pulling the rubber band from around the paper, she sat down, unfolded it and began perusing it as she finished her tea.
On the “What’s Happening” page toward the back of the paper, she noticed a picture of a young woman with dark, shoulder length, hair with a steak of white on both sides that framed her face. She held an oil painting of a pine tree with a bird sitting on one of its branches. The headline read: “Whispering River’s Annual Holiday Art’s Festival to be Held Next Weekend.”
“Look, Goobs, the festival is coming to town. That’ll be fun, don’t you think?”
The dog gave a yip.
She skimmed the article until Goober nudged her leg, and when she looked down at him, he licked his chops.
“Are you hungry?”
Goober let out a sharp yip then started turning in circles.
“Let’s get you some breakfast. Then I’ve got to get ready for work.” She set the paper down, got up and went into the pantry to get his food.
A moment later Goober started barking incessantly. Tess walked out from the pantry with his bowl in her hands and looked over at the dog. Standing on his back legs with his front paws up on the counter, he seemed to be fixated on something.
“Goober! No!” she yelled. “Get down from there.”
Goober barked again and then looked over his shoulder at her. As he backed away from the counter, his paws pulled something off of it, sending it to the ground with a bang!
Tess couldn’t tell what it was, because the pup’s large body was blocking it. She walked over to the dog, pulling him off of the object, but stopped abruptly.
“What the . . .”
Tess stared down at the old book from the attic, lying open to the 3-D pop-up of the tree. She furrowed her brow. “I don’t remember putting that there last night.” She looked at her dog. “Did you get that off of my desk?” He woofed. “Bad dog,” she said and shook her finger at him.
She bent down, set the dog’s bowl on the floor and picked up the book, checking to make sure that the fall hadn’t damaged it. Setting it on the table next to the newspaper, her eyes gravitated to the picture of the painting and the woman holding it.
Instead of eating his breakfast, Goober walked over to the table and nudged Tess’s leg with his nose, then gave another quiet “Woof.”
“Be a good boy and go eat. I’ve got to get ready for work.”
She started to walk out of the kitchen, when a news story on the TV caught her attention, stopping her. An anchorwoman dressed in a dark green jacket sat behind a news desk. On the screen to the side of her was the same picture of the woman from the newspaper, holding the painting. The tagline above the image read: Local Artist Missing.
Tess turned up the volume.
“Local artist, twenty-two-year-old Rachael Warren, was reported missing yesterday by her boyfriend, twenty-five-year-old, Max Dovelin. . .” said the anchorwoman.
“Oh no . . . That poor child,” murmured Tess as she stared at the picture on the television.
A new picture of the artist standing with a young man with brown hair flashed up on the screen. The white streaks in her hair showed more prominently in this photo. Both people looked happy and seemed to be laughing.
The reporter looked into the camera and said, “When questioned by the police, Dovelin told authorities that he had not seen the missing woman in a couple of days . . .”
The camera cut to a video of the young man talking to a different reporter. His face seemed fraught with worry as he spoke. “Rachael and I had dinner at Trois Poules, on Friday night then I dropped her off at her house. I didn’t hear from her on Saturday, so I called her cell phone several times and left messages. When I didn’t hear from her yesterday, I went to her home . . .”
The camera cut back to the reporter. “According to Dovelin, Warren’s car was parked in her driveway, but there was no answer when he knocked on the door. Authorities were immediately notified by Dovelin, stating that he was worried she might be inside the house and possibly incapacitated.”
The video cut to footage of police vehicles with their red lights flashing parked in front of a blue and white bungalow with uniformed men going in and out of the house.
The camera cut back to the reporter. “Police broke into the residence but did not find Warren. A search is now underway for the missing artist.”
The original picture of the artist holding her painting flashed up on the screen again.
“Warre
n is best known for her painting entitled Bird in a Tree, which won the grand prize at last year’s Whispering River Holiday Art’s Festival.” The anchorwoman looked into the camera. “If you have any information on the whereabouts of Rachael Warren, please call the Whispering River Police Department.” She turned to her male co-anchor and said, “Dan?”
Tess stared at the picture of the missing woman, a smile transfixed on her face, until it vanished from the screen.
The co-anchor smiled into the camera and said, “In other news . . .”
Tess walked the few steps back to the table, picked up the newspaper and stared at the picture of the young woman holding her painting. She read the caption under the picture out loud. “‘Rachael Warren, last year’s grand prize winner with her award-winning entry, Bird in a Tree.”
Goober nudged Tess’s leg again and let out a sharp, “Woof!”
Tess’s gaze migrated over to the old book on the table . . .
“Woof!”
She glanced back at the picture in the paper . . .
“Woof!”
“Goober, quiet,” she said. She set the paper down, opened the book to the first pop-up and stared at the two side-by-side. The similarities to the one in the newspaper painted by the now missing woman were uncanny. Her eyes bounced back and forth from book to painting, painting to book.
“Woof!”
She glanced at her dog, his eyes wide and his tailing sweeping the floor with each wag. She looked back at the book, stared at it for a moment then wrinkled her nose and said, “Hmm, that’s interesting.”
Carefully closing the book, Tess left it sitting on the table and hurried out of the kitchen.
Chapter Four
Thirty minutes later, Tess, dressed in dark blue pants with a cream-colored mohair pullover sweater, hurried into her office and rummaged through her desk drawer until she found the file marked ‘Taxes.’ She pulled it out, opened up a hard-sided, vintage, leather briefcase that was sitting on top of her desk and tossed the file in on top of some other pieces of paper. As she closed the lid and latched it, she yelled out, “C’mon, Goobs, let’s go.” And then she headed toward the front door.
Goober came running in from another part of the house, his tongue hanging out, and sat at her feet so that she could clip the leash onto his collar. As soon as she opened the door, the dog ran straight to the forest green Dodge Durango parked in the driveway and sat by the back door, waiting for Tess.
“In you go,” she said after opening the door. Goober immediately jumped into the back seat and sat. “Good boy, Goobs.” She gave his head a ruffle and then tossed her briefcase on the floor behind the driver’s seat.
Tess’s new house was situated on the outskirts of Whispering River, a beautiful little community of approximately six thousand residents, about fifty miles northeast of Syracuse, New York, and nestled in the pines. She and her late husband, Howard, had lived closer to Syracuse, but when he passed away, her friend, Char, suggested she move to Whispering River to be closer to them.
It seemed like a good idea to Tess.
So, she sold the house she and Howard had lived in, moved to Whispering River, got a job with a surveying company drawing maps and found an apartment in town within walking distance to her office.
It was a difficult transition for her—two suddenly becoming one—so she got a puppy in the hopes of filling that void. As the dog grew, though, Tess realized that the apartment was going to be too small for the two of them, so she decided it was time to go house hunting.
“You doing okay back there, boy?” Tess said, glancing in the rearview mirror at Goober, his wet nose smudging the window. She smiled and lowered it half way. With nose up in the air, he stuck his head out and took in all of the new smells wafting by.
Once they crossed the bridge over the Little Otter River, the road turned into the main street leading into a quaint town filled with two story brick buildings and Victorian houses that had been turned into boutique hotels, shops and restaurants.
Tess smiled as she drove slowly, admiring the tasteful Christmas decorations adorning every building along Main Street. It was apparent by the meticulous attention paid to every strand of light, every garland and every tree bulb, that the residences of Whispering River loved their holidays.
As she drove under the banner strung high across the road reminding people of the upcoming Holiday Art’s Festival, her mind flashed on the missing woman from this morning’s news.
“That poor child,” she murmured. “I sure hope she’s okay.”
At the end of Main Street, Tess turned right, drove about three blocks and pulled up in front of an old three-story brick building. As soon as she put the Durango in park, Goober started prancing on the seat and barking.
“There will be none of that in the office,” said Tess, getting out of the car and opening the back door. “You hear me? You need to be on your best behavior.” She grabbed Goober’s leash and her briefcase and closed the door.
Built back in the early 1900’s, Tess’s office building had once been an old armory. Now it housed various commercial-type businesses, not reliant on foot traffic. Her company, Husker’s Engineering, occupied the bottom floor.
She walked into the building’s tiled foyer. On the right were two elevators and a set of stairs leading to the upper floors. To the left was a glass door with her company’s name painted on it. She pulled the door open and walked into a small lobby, which consisted of a few chairs, a coffee table, a couple of tall potted plants and a reception desk.
A young woman in her early twenties with light green eyes and burgundy colored hair cut into a sharp wedge sat behind the desk answering the phone.
Tess smiled at her and said, “Good morning, Skye.”
“Husker’s Engineering, hold please. Husker’s Engineering, please hold . . .” The receptionist waved at Tess and then broke into a wide grin when she saw Goober. “Husker’s Engineering, how may I direct your call? One moment, please.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Morning, Tess.”
Tess walked down the short hall and turned right into the last office. Instead of paintings, the back wall was covered with framed maps of varying sizes and age. Below them sat a drafting table with a partially hand-drawn topographical map on it.
She set her briefcase on the floor next to a desk that faced the door, pointed to a dog bed in the corner of the room and said, “Go lay down.”
Goober trotted over to his bed, did a couple of three-sixties and then plopped down and closed his eyes.
Tess pulled out the desk chair, sat down and began thumbing through a stack of mail that had, most likely, been placed there by Skye. She stopped when she came to today’s paper, unfolded it and stared at the photograph on the front page. It was the same picture of the artist from this morning’s news story. The headline read: “Search is Underway for Missing Local Woman.”
Before she could read the story, Skye walked into the room, causing Goober to jump up and trot over to her. “Goober,” she said, bending down and patting his head, “look how big you’ve gotten!” She looked over at Tess. “Are you sure he’s not part pony?”
Tess laughed. “No, I’m not, not at all. But at this rate, if he keeps growing, I’m going to have to buy a bigger house.”
“Speaking of houses, have you moved in yet?”
“Last night was my first night in it.”
“And? How was it?”
Tess wrinkled her brow. “Interesting . . .”
“No doubt considering how old it is,” said Skye, pulling out the chair across from Tess and sitting down. She glanced at the paper. “I saw that story on the news this morning. Isn’t that awful? And right before Christmas.”
“Yes, it’s terrible.”
“What do you think happened to her?” said Skye.
“It’s hard to say,” said Tess.
“Maybe she was kidnapped, and she’s being held somewhere for ransom.”
“Oh pshaw,” said Tess with a
wave of her hand. “You watch too much TV.”
“It’s possible,” said Skye.
“Possible, but not very likely,” said Tess. “This is Whispering River we’re talking about. We don’t have kidnappings here.”
“Well, whatever happened to her, I think the boyfriend might have had something to do with it.”
“With what? Her disappearance?” Tess furrowed her brow.
“Mm-hmm,” said Skye with a nod of her head. “For sure.”
Tess tilted her head to the side. “Why would you think that?”
“Well . . .” Skye took in a deep breath as though she had a long-winded explanation. “My friend’s sister knows someone who knew the missing woman, and she said that-”
“Knock, knock,” came a male’s voice.
The two looked toward the door at a tall, nice looking man with deep blue eyes and a dusting of grey around his temple and sideburns. Dressed in a sharp looking dark blue suit with a red Christmas tie, he carried a manila envelope at his side.
“Mr. Walker!” said Tess with a surprised look on her face. “I didn’t expect you for a couple of hours.”
“I know, but I was down the street at the drugstore getting some of that Echinacea you suggested, and I thought, since I was so close, I might as well stop in now.” He walked into the room, looked directly at Skye and flashed her a charming smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Skye’s cheeks flushed a rosy color. “No, not at all. I was just leaving,” she said standing up.
“Morgan Walker,” he said, extending his hand to her.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Walker. I’m Skylar Eckhart, the receptionist,” she said, grasping it, “but everyone calls me Skye.”
“Skye, what a beautiful name,” he said, his gaze lingering on her lips. He draped his other hand over hers. “And please, call me Morgan.”
“Morgan,” she said, her red face deepening in color. “I’ve got to get back up front.” She pulled her hand free and bumped into the chair as she scooted past the banker.
Mr. Walker grabbed her by the arm to keep her from losing her balance, and pulled her close to him. “Are you okay?”
Candy Canes & Corpses Page 55
