Chapter Eighteen
Finally — finally — we reached the café and its pastry menu.
Today’s special was apricot “eggs.” They were made to look like a fried egg on a piece of toast, with a halved apricot as the yolk, powdered sugar and milk glacé as the white, and puff pastry as the toast.
Half the fun was the trompe l’oeil. The other half was hoping the taste added up to delicious.
Not wanting to bank entirely on that hope, I also ordered a lemon-raspberry tart I knew was delicious. Clara added a slice of lavender cake as her for-sure treat.
“So,” Clara said, “what do we know?”
I didn’t look up from my mouthful of tart. “Well, one thing’s clear.”
She brightened. “Oh?”
“Willow calls that dog Izzy behind Zoley’s back.”
She deflated slightly, consoled herself with a mouth of “egg” then roused to say, “Good for her. Did you see the way her mouth twisted when you brought up Lucifer? Not because she doesn’t like the dog — that’s obvious. Probably over treatment of that poor puppy, starting with calling it Lucifer.”
Or, possibly, Willow’s mouth scrunch was from something the dog walker had eaten.
Clara’s thoughts had gone a different direction. “You know, her description of the man who tackled Damon matches the guy who lurked around when I saw the woman with Damon. You saw him, too, last night.”
“I saw a shadow. No way could I identify the person behind that shadow.”
“I could.” Her innate honesty prompted, “Probably, I could. When it comes to Damon and Bryon, it sure sounds like the two men aren’t — weren’t — friends. Everyone talks about Zoley and Pammy being so close, but I wonder about that friendship.”
“Because you noticed Zoley didn’t talk to Willow a lot, yet dropped in the fact that Pammy was a scholarship girl at their school?”
“Why would anybody do that?” She shook her head. “Glad we have Willow as a witness. She was in their house, saw them daily, picked up hints of what was going on, how they interacted. We have to pay attention to what she says and— What? Why are you pointing at me?”
“Because of what you said, Clara. How they interacted and that Willow Yost saw that. And she did. But other people would have, too, even without other friends. We just have to figure out who.”
Her gaze went unfocused for a moment, then came back to me.
“I’d say parties, but that would require having other friends— Oh, restaurants.
The Swindells would have been seen at restaurants for sure, because I don’t see either of them specializing in comfy dinners at home.
The Tavern, for starters. In fact, I’ve seen them there, for sure. Is that what you were thinking?”
“I was thinking that people who saw them interact includes us.”
* * * *
“But we already know what we saw,” Clara objected.
“We don’t know what the other one observed. We haven’t shared those observations. Not in any organized way. Like Pammy’s makeup from last night. Yeah, we both noticed it, but what did we think? To cover bruises or just a lousy makeup job?”
She opened her mouth to respond, I thwarted her by continuing.
“Let’s come back to that. First, what struck you when they came in for the first class?”
“The rivalry between Damon Swindell and Bryon Georger,” she said promptly.
I nodded. “The two women were the friends. The guys weren’t.”
“Agreed. Although . . .”
“What?”
“Did you get a sense of tension from the women?” she asked.
“Yeah, but that could be concern over how their dogs would behave, how they’d be perceived as dog owners.”
“I didn’t get the impression either one cared enough about her dog to be worried about that.”
I recalled the four humans and two dogs entering the training center for the first class. “You’re right. Neither handled her dog and they didn’t seem particularly interested. The guys were more focused on the dogs.”
“Competition,” she inserted. “Especially Damon Swindell. He wanted to beat Bryon Georger. He was like one of those over-the-top sports parents who expects the child to perform great so he can bask in the glory.”
Uh-oh. Was that what I was doing with Gracie? Pressuring her so there’d be a Lassie-like glow for me to bask in?
“The dogs are a means to an end,” she continued, apparently not picking up on my self-questioning. “Having Lucifer do better than Izolde, so Damon could feel like he’d beaten Bryon.”
“You’re right, Clara. It wasn’t the same with the women. They weren’t living out their competition through the dogs. Yet there was tension . . .”
We looked at each other.
“That look. Damon and Zoley having a thing,” Clara said.
“I think so, too.”
“You think Pammy knew? Or suspected?”
“That would certainly explain tension between the women.”
“Yet they seemed quite friendly and . . . and . . . Weird.”
“What?”
“I’d say there were significant looks between the women, too. Last night, when the two guys got bent out of shape about the tic-tac-toe game, you’d think one or both of the women would step in and smooth the waters, especially being good friends, as everyone says they are.”
“Are you questioning if they are good friends?”
“There’s definitely a connection,” Clara said slowly. “And from what Donna and Willow said, they’ve been friends a long time.”
“Then how could Zoley cheat with Damon, the husband of her good friend?”
“Maybe they hadn’t acted on it. Unfaithfulness by thought and look, but not the main event.” She didn’t believe that.
Neither did I.
“When Damon said you’re fine to Zoley,” I said. “He wasn’t trying to win her over. He was certain he already had her, so didn’t need to be nice.”
“Same way he treated his wife.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I agreed.
My thoughts skipped from that track to another one.
I have no idea how long I was silent before Clara asked, “What are you thinking, Sheila?”
“About where he was found — Gallows Path. You said it was southwest of here and Donna said Damon Swindell’s family was from that part of the county . . . What do you know about that?”
“Me? Nothing more than you do.”
“But you know the county and the people . . .”
“Not all of them,” she protested. “I could ask Gran, but she and her boyfriend are on a social media and telephone fast for the month. By the time a letter got there—” Clara’s Gran lived in Belize with her senior citizen boyfriend.
“—and she replied . . . Who knows when we’d hear and she might not know anything.
You know who you should ask? Urban Parhem. ”
Harder done than said.
Not because the head of the county’s volunteer historical society was difficult to find. Not because he wouldn’t share what he knew.
It was the asking part that was hard.
I’d thought we were friends, yet he’d kept things from me that connected to a previous inquiry, which had handicapped us.
“In the meantime,” she continued, as if my asking Urban was settled, “let’s drive by Gallows Path.
” She made it sound so much more innocent than visiting the scene of the crime would have.
“We’ll come right by where the Swindells and Georgers live on the way back.
Then we can pick up dinner and go back to my house and talk this over. ”
I looked down at our empty plates.
With the apricot “eggs” being terrific, we’d each scored double treats.
“You don’t think we’ll still be full from these pastries?”
“No,” she said firmly.