“I
can’t believe you found another body,” my mother said, in a somewhat
accusing tone. She paced back and forth in the mansion’s kitchen, where Piper,
Moxie, Socrates, and I waited while coroner Vonda Shakes, some EMTs, and a few
uniformed police officers tromped around upstairs. Needless to say, the
fundraiser had come to an abrupt end when the ambulance had arrived. “And you
had to do it when I’m trying to sell a house,” Mom added. “Really, Daphne!”
“I
helped you by catching Tinkleston,” I reminded her, raising my hands,
which an EMT had been nice enough to wrap in bandages. I looked
like a boxer— which was appropriate. The cat had really put up a fight when I’d
tried to capture him so he wouldn’t get lost in what I’d known would be
inevitable excitement. I’d barely managed to carry him a few feet down the hall
and secure him in the bedroom with the fireplace.
“And don’t you think it’s best that I
found Miss Flynt before your big-city socialite buyer arrived? What if she’d
asked to see the bathroom again? I don’t think finding a body on a house tour
bodes well for getting
that ‘full asking price’!”
“Daphne’s
probably right,” Moxie said. “I wouldn’t be able to even think about the
wallpaper if there was a dead person in the tub.”
My
mother gave Moxie one of her signature funny looks.
Then
the reality of Miss Flynt’s death began to sink in for me, and I suddenly felt
sad.
“Could
we all stop talking about Miss Flynt like she’s an object? Or an inconvenience?”
I requested. “She wasn’t the easiest person to deal with, but she did a lot for
Sylvan Creek and animals.”
“Daphne’s
right,” Piper agreed. “I think, in our shock, we’re acting a little callous.”
She rubbed her
arms like she was cold, although her
silk shirt had finally dried, leaving behind a water stain. “And where is
this ‘buyer,’ anyhow, Mom?” she asked,
taking a seat on an upholstered bench that ran the length of the bank
of windows. It really would be a lovely
spot for morning tea. Then my sister checked the wristwatch she always wore, in case her phone ever died.
Which never happened. “It’s getting late.”
“I
don’t know where she is,” Mom said. “I’ve been trying to text her, to postpone,
but she’s not responding. I suppose she’s still en route. Traffic between
Manhattan and the Poconos can be dreadful, even on a Saturday evening.”
That
was true. A lot of city folks had weekend homes in the mountains, and the
commuter route was perpetually backed up, even at odd hours.
“I’m
stepping outside for a moment,” Mom told us, tapping at her cell phone.
“Reception is sometimes bad in these old houses. Maybe she’s not even receiving
my messages.”
Piper,
always restless, rose again as the back door shut behind our mother. “I’m going
outside, too, to
clean up.”
Either
Moxie or I—or both of us—probably should have offered to help gather up the
jack-o’-lanterns and take down the chandeliers, but neither of us volunteered.
Moxie
began fidgeting with her nails, pretending she hadn’t heard Piper, no doubt so
she wouldn’t miss any gossip-worthy news from the coroner or police.
Socrates,
sitting quietly at my feet, also averted his gaze.
“Come
on, Moxie,” Piper finally prompted. “I’m sure you won’t miss anything if you’re
on the lawn.”
Moxie
stuck out her lower lip, like she doubted that. Then her shoulders slumped.
“Oh, fine. I’ll help.”
Piper
turned to me, her eyebrows raised over her wire rims. “Daphne?”
Before
I could answer, the doorbell rang. “I need to get that,” I said, grabbing the Falling
Leaves candle off the counter again. Resourceful and brave Piper had
located a fuse box in the basement, but she hadn’t been able to restore the
power. “It’s probably Mom’s big commission.”
“Oh,
fine,” Piper grumbled, taking Moxie by the arm. “We’ll see you in a few
minutes, though, right?”
I
didn’t make any promises. I just hurried toward the foyer, with Socrates
lumbering along behind
me, and opened the front door. “Welcome
to Flynt Mansion . . .”
I
started to greet the visitor in a way I assumed my mother would. Then I
realized who was actually standing on the porch, and the words died on my lips.
The
person waiting to come inside wasn’t speechless, though.
“So,
you’re mixed up in another possible murder,” Detective Jonathan Black said,
shaking his head and marching right past me into the house. Then he looked me
up and down, frowning. “And are you dressed as a boxing witch?”
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Bethany Blake lives in a small, quaint town in Pennsylvania with her husband and three daughters. When she's not writing, cooking for pets and people or riding horses, she's wrangling a menagerie of furry family members that includes a nervous pit bull, a fearsome feline, a blind goldfish, and an attack cardinal named Robert. Like Daphne Templeton, the heroine of her Lucky Paws Mysteries, Bethany holds a Ph.D. and operates a pet sitting business called Barkley's Premium Pet Care.
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