My phone played its song, and when I pulled it from my pocket, I was glad to see it was Reed calling. He said he was parked in the driveway and about to bring in the pizza.
We all headed for the front door to meet him, dogs included.
He carried two large boxes, so I figured none of us would remain hungry that night. The end of Hugo’s leash was looped over his right wrist, and the sweet Malinois kept his nose in the air, obviously scenting what was in the boxes. Biscuit’s and Go’s noses soon mimicked his.
I checked the time. Local news would soon be aired on KnobTV, and everyone seemed as eager to watch it as I was that night. As a result, we decided to eat in the living room, where there was a television mounted on the wall.
Reed, Janelle, and I sat on the fluffy old beige couch, while Neal settled in on a matching chair beside it. We put our wine glasses and the bottle of merlot I’d opened on the coffee table in front of us, but we kept the pizza boxes in the kitchen—and out of the dogs’ reach, up on the counter. We ate off of paper plates in our laps.
“Good?” Reed asked as I took a bite of pizza. He’d chosen several toppings, and the slice I currently ate had lots of cheese, pepperoni, and green peppers on it.
“Great,” I told him with a grin.
A talk show about entertainment was just ending, and I used the remote to keep the sound muted for now. We all chatted about our respective days—about things other than Henry Schulzer’s memorial and related subjects, for now. The dogs lay on the floor around us, sometimes begging for a piece of pizza crust, but they seldom got any, seldom being the key word.
Janelle talked about a new photo assignment she had just obtained, thanks to referrals from a couple who’d recently gotten married. She’d been the photographer at their ceremony and apparently they loved what she had done, since they’d recommended her to another couple who’d been attendees at their wedding. Janelle would be taking their wedding pictures in a couple of weeks. “Can’t wait,” she said. “I’ve got some wildlife photos to shoot for an article I’m writing for an online e-magazine and I love that, too, but weddings are special.” She aimed a look toward me, then Reed.
Okay, I knew my brother and his main squeeze assumed that was the direction Reed and I were heading. I assumed it, too, or at least I hoped—but we hadn’t made the final commitment. Not yet.
Even so, I aimed a sideways glance at the guy I believed I wanted to spend the rest of my life with—and found him grinning at me.
Interesting. Were we finally going to have that talk anytime soon?
Neal then talked about a couple of hikes he had scheduled for some of his local hiking enthusiasts as well as visitors staying at the resort. “I’ll be doing a hike each day next weekend,” he said.
“You didn’t do any this weekend,” I said. “Right?”
“Yeah, and you know how I miss it when I don’t. That’s why I’ve worked to ensure I’ll have two coming up.”
Reed then mentioned a couple of neighbor cats who’d had a clawing fight, and both owners had brought them into the clinic late in the day when he’d returned to work after the service. “Both will be fine, and they even seem to have taught each other a lesson, since their owners let them get together again in the office and neither attacked the other. I warned the owners, though, not to leave them alone together, in case this was just a temporary truce.”
“Good idea,” I said.
Most of what I’d be able to relate about the rest of my day I simply didn’t want to talk about, since it was all pretty much related to the memorial and those who’d been there. I did mention that we had a good group of customers at the shops, and that was that.
And in fact it was a good thing I was ready to shut up. The news was just coming on.
I turned up the volume and sat back, my wine glass in my hand. I’d finished my pizza. Now I wanted to watch this as dessert—although I doubted it would be sweet at all.
And boy, was I right.
The Knobcone House of Celebration was in the background as Silas moved his microphone from his narrow, pursed mouth to Dinah’s full-lipped one.
First, he asked why she was there. “I just attended poor Henry Schulzer’s memorial service,” she replied solemnly.
“Then you knew Mr. Schulzer?”
“Not well,” Dinah answered.
“Okay. Now tell me about the birthday party you had a couple of days ago at the Knobcone Heights Resort.”
“That’s right. You were there, too. It was wonderful!” Dinah described it briefly, including her friends who’d attended, and said that her boss at the bakeries where she worked had thrown the party for her—which made me grin. She held up her hand then. “If you’re asking about that because Mr. Schulzer was there, yes, I invited him to join us. But he wasn’t very pleasant after a while. He argued with me and some other people. But nothing was said that would have made any of us angry enough to hurt him.”
“I see,” Silas said.
The camera panned away from Dinah toward the House of Celebration, and no one said anything. When it returned to Dinah, Silas said, “I understand that you work at Barkery and Biscuits and Icing on the Cake, but in addition to staffing those bakeries you’re a writer, too.”
“Yes,” Dinah said. “I’ve had some magazine articles and short stories published, and I’m always working on new ideas for novels though I haven’t published any yet. I’m getting close with a couple, though.”
“And I gather you conduct a lot of research for that?”
She nodded at the camera. “Yes, I do.”
“Does that research involve more than just reading, things like getting yourself involved in situations you hope to write about?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does that mean you sometimes put yourself in the same position as your characters—say, you learn about a particular career such as baking or dog walking or driving a boat, then go do it yourself?”
“Sure. That can be part of the research. A really fun part, and I do it whenever I can.”
“Are any of the novels you’re working on murder mysteries?”
“Well, yes.”
The interview ended then. The next part was Silas, alone on camera with the microphone up to his own mouth, a solemn expression on his face. He reminded the viewer that Henry Schulzer, widower of the murdered former mayor of Knobcone Heights, had been murdered himself.
“So far, there have been no arrests in this murder,” Silas said. “The police are declining to be interviewed right now, but our understanding is that they appear to be gathering evidence that will lead to an apprehension very soon. This is Silas Perring, for KnobTV news. Now, back to the studio.”
Another story came on as another member of the news team, Bobbi Hanger, began talking about a car accident somewhere nearby in the San Bernardino Mountains.
I put it on mute. Then I looked at my companions, one at a time, who had also heard Dinah’s interview. They all appeared stunned, though maybe not as much as I was.
“Did I hear Dinah admit, after mentioning the altercation with Henry—which wasn’t that bad an argument—that she sometimes puts herself in situations related to her research, and that she enjoys it, and that she’s writing murder mysteries?” I asked, but I of course knew the answer.
“Yes,” Janelle replied almost sadly. “She did.”
“She didn’t admit to killing Henry,” Reed pointed out.
“But the implication of the possibility was there,” I said.
“That reporter guy overdramatized it,” Neal said.
“Yes, but … Well, I can see better now why Detective Crunoll came to my shops to question Dinah again. He told me about this interview, which was a public admission of sorts. Silas apparently told him about it, showed him parts of it.”
“And now it’s been aired on TV for anyone to see
,” said Janelle. “Poor Dinah.”
Reed looked at me. “It really wasn’t an admission,” he said. “Although someone—like maybe the police—could read that into it.” He paused. “Still—Carrie, are you certain Dinah had nothing to do with Schulzer’s death?”
“I’m sure you’re not the only one who’ll be asking that now,” I snapped. “I just wish Dinah had listened to me and stayed far away from the news or anyone else nosy other than the police, who have the right to ask her questions.”
“Too bad she didn’t,” Reed agreed. There was a thoughtful expression on his face, as if he was analyzing what I’d just said—and what I hadn’t said.
For I hadn’t really answered his question: was I sure Dinah had nothing to do with Schulzer’s death?
Because the answer, if I were honest, would have to be that no, despite my hopes that my employee was fully innocent—despite my belief that she had no genuine motive—I couldn’t say that I was certain she was. I hadn’t been sure before. And now, after seeing that interview personally, I felt even less convinced of her innocence.
Nineteen
I thought about calling Dinah after watching the news report—but I didn’t. What could I say to her about it that I hadn’t already said? Tell her yet again that she shouldn’t have let Silas interview her? She was certainly aware of that.
But now it was on TV for the world to see.
Was it really so bad? I tried to tell myself it wasn’t as I went back into the kitchen to open another bottle of wine.
Everyone seemed done eating, so I first put the remaining pizza slices into a box and stuck it into the refrigerator. Then I reached into my pantry, where I kept a few unopened bottles of red wine. I chose another merlot.
As I put it on the counter and prepared to get the corkscrew from its drawer, my phone rang. I had an idea who it was, and I was correct, I saw, as I pulled my phone from my pocket. Dinah.
“Hi,” I said as brightly as I could. She didn’t need to know my roiling thoughts and deep concern about her.
“Carrie?” Her voice sounded choked, and I could tell, even with that one word, that she was crying. “It’s horrible. You were so right. But you’re always right, and … and I—”
“I’m not always right,” I said firmly. And that was true, even though I was right this time. “I take it you saw your interview on TV.”
“Yes. And, Carrie, it sounded so bad. I said everything that they showed, of course, but I’m pretty sure Silas edited it. Parts of it seemed out of order, at least. I knew I kind of left the door open for anyone listening to learn about my research and that I’d do nearly anything for research, but not kill people or even hurt them. But playing the interview the way he did makes it sound like I’d injure someone or worse just for the fun of it, for research, even if I had no other reason to harm them, so I could make notes about it and use it in a book. That’s not me, Carrie.”
“I know it’s not.” A thought crossed my mind. “You said the interview was edited out of order? I don’t know if that’s okay to do.” That was assuming Dinah remembered all aspects of what Silas had asked her and when, of course. The adrenaline rush of having a news person with a camera asking questions could certainly confuse someone, mess with how they remembered what had happened. Even so …“I think this might be a really good time for you to hire attorney Ted Culbert. He can check to see if it’s okay for the media to change the sequence of what people say in order to imply something different from what they meant. Maybe he already knows. And he might also be able to help you—”
“—if this leads to my arrest for Henry Schulzer’s murder.” Dinah’s voice broke up then and I heard her crying.
I grabbed the bottle of wine along with another glass from my shelves. I needed a strong sip now as I attempted to figure out what to say next. But I had to wait till I had two hands to open the bottle.
“Would you like me to come to your house and keep you company?” I asked.
“No, thank you,” she managed to gasp. “I think I’ll be better off alone right now.”
“Okay. But feel free to call again anytime, late, early or whatever, okay? And you don’t have to be working a shift to drop in at the shops tomorrow or Tuesday, just for the company and to talk about what’s going on.”
“Thank you, Carrie. I just might take you up on that. Good night.” Dinah ended the connection.
Reed had entered the kitchen as I was talking with Dinah and I’d given him a brief wave. Now he stood beside me as I opened the bottle of wine. “Can I guess who that was?”
“Sure,” I said, “but I’ll bet you already know.” I poured out just a little wine and took a sip. “Dinah saw that news report, too. She doesn’t deny the interview, of course, but she indicated it might not have been presented in the order Silas actually asked his questions.”
“Does it matter?” Reed asked.
“I’m not sure.” And I wasn’t.
But I became a little more certain that it did matter, later on after we’d gone to bed, Reed and me together, Neal and Janelle in his room. The dogs were divided up according to who their owners were, which meant Biscuit and Hugo were with Reed and me, and Go was with Janelle and Neal.
I heard Reed’s heavy sleep-breathing, and Hugo’s slight snore, as I lay there, but Biscuit was silent. Maybe she, too, was awake, thinking. Or more likely, listening for her closest human, me, to fall asleep.
And what was I thinking about? Well, what if Silas had first asked Dinah about her research and how she conducted it, and how important it was to her, and whether she would attempt to do something she was researching? If so, and then he later brought up questions about Henry and Dinah’s birthday party, and the friction that had occurred there, she would have answered truthfully, as she had.
But put those two subjects in their opposite order—the way they’d been presented on the TV news—well, her dislike of Henry’s behavior at her party and her comment that it wasn’t enough for anyone to want to harm him, followed by her statement that she’d do anything to aid in her research … this perhaps implied she might have killed Henry, who she was angry with, in the name of her research.
Too odd? Too ridiculous?
Too incriminating?
I eventually fell asleep, thank heavens, since I had to get up early as always the next morning. I followed the usual routine and didn’t have to wake Reed since he woke up on his own. We attempted to stay quiet so as not to awaken Neal and Janelle, or even Go, but I suspected that at least Go, with his keen hearing, knew what we were up to. Even so, none of them greeted us at that early hour.
“You okay?” Reed asked when we were both in the kitchen, preparing to take our dogs out before leaving.
“Sure. Why?”
“I heard you moving around a lot last night and figured you were worried about Dinah. Either that or you were weighing who would be the best suspect in the Schulzer murder. Maybe both, combined.”
I laughed, then went over to where he stood near the door, Hugo’s leash in his hand. I leaned upward and kissed him, then stepped back. “I guess my way of thinking is pretty obvious to you these days.”
“I guess so, you murder-solver, you.” Reed was still smiling, which was a good thing. He’d had a tendency to try to get me to stop sleuthing … until that sleuthing helped to save him. I’d wondered about what his attitude would be the next time I encountered a murder case, even though I’d hoped there wouldn’t be a next time.
Well, there was one now, and fortunately Reed’s attitude remained more amused than irritated.
We soon parted ways for the morning, though I had a shift scheduled at the vet clinic that afternoon. Today, I was able to bring Biscuit to work as usual, since on the outings I’d planned, like my visit to the veterinary clinic, she could come along.
I did my regular routine of starting the baking, and today Vicky
was the first assistant to arrive. Janelle came in a little later with Go, and I figured my brother had to be awake now, too.
And what did my assistants and I talk about besides our food preparation and anticipation of customers that day? Dinah, of course, and her interview with Silas Perring.
“It wasn’t so bad,” Vicky said when we were both in Icing, filling the glass display case with cookies and cupcakes. “Sure, they mentioned the nastiness at the birthday party, and that Dinah does a lot of things to further her research, but I didn’t get the impression the newscaster was stating that she was the killer.”
“Maybe not, but the implication was there,” I said. “He asked about what she’d do to accomplish her research goals.”
“That would be a dumb reason to kill someone,” Vicky said as she arranged a tray of our popular red velvet cupcakes right in the middle of the display.
“Yes,” I said, “it would be. But that won’t necessarily stop viewers who’ve seen the interview from wondering how far someone like Dinah would go.”
“If that’s all your detective buddies have on Dinah, it’s no wonder they haven’t arrested her,” countered Vicky.
Janelle had walked in during the conversation but stood in the open doorway between the two shops. “No one in the Barkery yet,” she said, “but I heard you two talking. I just hope that public opinion doesn’t make the cops decide they have to try harder to arrest Dinah. Yes, it didn’t sound like she was confessing to anything—but it’s still not helpful in making it clear that she’s innocent, either.”
And so it went for the rest of the morning—at least when I spoke with my assistants in private now and then, for customers soon started coming into both shops. Fortunately, none mentioned Dinah, let alone her interview, so all seemed to go fine … until nearly lunchtime, when Mysha Jorgens walked into the Barkery with a schnauzer mix on a leash. I wasn’t sure whether the dog walker had been here before, but she was welcome, especially if she bought treats now and then for some of her charges.
“Hi, Carrie,” she said. “This is Herr Schnauzer, better known as Herr.” She pointed to her charge. “His owner is visiting the resort, and your brother or someone there referred them to me. Tell me about the treats you have available now.”
For a Good Paws Page 17
