by Meg Macy
“Wow.” Elle grabbed a cinnamon muffin. “You know what they say about becoming a mom. You lose brain cells every day. That’s a nine-month loss. Scary.”
“That’s not funny,” Mary Kate said, although she laughed. “But I sure don’t have time for my own problems when Julie comes first.”
“All right. The Guilty Pleasures Gossip Club is officially open,” I said, “unless you don’t want to hear everything about what happened at the parade.”
“We do! I missed out on all the fun last Wednesday, stuck in the coffee shop.”
“That’s your specialty. Sasha’s is finding dead bodies.” Elle pretended to duck behind her book at my wrathful glare. “Just kidding!”
“I wish Digger Sykes would stop saying that all the time. Besides, my mom found Cal Bloom. Not me.”
I explained the whole story once more, how the parade grand marshals, Flynn and Cheryl Cummings, had tagged along to search, and about finding the mayor’s blackened skin underneath the Santa Bear costume.
Elle whistled. “Freaky. He must have come into contact with an electric current.”
“So either the shock fried him, or he had a heart attack?” Mary Kate asked.
“No idea, and the cops haven’t reported the autopsy findings yet. What’s odd is that the mayor’s gone. He was larger than life, you know?” I sipped my latte. “I guess Alison Bloom has been questioned a bunch of times at the station.”
“I haven’t heard anything,” Mary Kate said sadly. “I’m so busy, and exhausted—”
“You need a break or you’ll get sick,” Elle interrupted. “Why not hire another barista or two? Julie will need more attention before and after the baby comes. Let Wendy Clark do more baking. She’s a whiz at decorating, so I bet she could manage your recipes.”
“You’re right, but it’s so hard to let go.”
“And you’re better off not knowing the sordid happenings around the village,” I said. “Did I tell you Mom wants me to prove that Mrs. Bloom is innocent?”
“I can’t believe she’d kill her husband.”
“You can’t believe anyone would steal from the penny dish, Mary Kate.” Elle snorted with laughter. “Happens a lot more than you’d think.”
“Let’s get back to the Blooms,” I said. “Maggie Davison overheard them arguing at the parade. Tell me what you think.”
I related what I’d learned from Alison Bloom about Kristen, and added my mother’s reaction to Maggie’s story. Both of my friends looked puzzled.
“No way would she lie about that,” Elle said firmly. “If Maggie heard the mayor threaten to stop paying for Mrs. Jackson’s care, he said it. And he must have been serious. So Alison threatened to divorce him, but hadn’t gotten around to filing the paperwork? I bet it’s more than that. He had a real drinking problem.”
“Yeah. And maybe having an intimate photo of Cissy Davison—”
“What?” Elle’s screech hurt our ears. “Sorry, but that’s so wild!”
Mary Kate also looked shocked when I told them that juicy bit of gossip. “So Cissy and Gus are suspects, too,” I said. “Not just Alison and Kristen.”
“But how did someone get him to that bench by the Quick Mix Factory? You said he wasn’t killed there, right?” Mary Kate asked. “I mean, if he was dead weight, that would take serious muscle. He was a hefty guy.”
“Someone had to notice something,” Elle said, “no matter how far away from the parade floats and generators.”
“It was pretty dark, though, by that time. So maybe not.”
“Okay, go back to when you last saw him. What time was it?”
“I figure he left to go put on his Santa Bear costume between four and five thirty. The parade was set for seven. So it had to be six thirty when we started looking for him.”
“He could have stopped by the courthouse or a restaurant before going home to change.” Mary Kate tapped a finger on her chin. “Alison Bloom is what, five foot five or six? If that, and Kristen is tinier. I doubt the two of them could have handled it together. Cissy and Gus, yeah. No problem there. That dude’s got muscles.”
“But Kristen is pretty fit with all that yoga. Plus she lifts weights.”
“No matter what, it’s always money at the heart of something like this,” Mary Kate said. “Although any inheritance would go to Mrs. Bloom before Kristen.”
“Not unless the mayor set up a trust fund. He might have designated a big chunk for her directly,” I said. “But listen. Flynn dropped by over the weekend. He told me that Kristen is secretly dating the detective assigned to investigate her dad’s death.”
Elle smirked. “My, my. Isn’t that a strange coincidence. What if he helped Alison and Kristen take the mayor’s body over to that bench?”
“Are you kidding?” Mary Kate asked. “He’s a cop!”
“He could be a dirty cop. And it seems shady, if you ask me. If Chief Russell knew, he wouldn’t want Hunter to investigate.”
“And when I met him, he acted like a real jerk,” I said.
“Sounds like the perfect match for Kristen, then.”
“Stop it, Elle. She’s not that bad.” Mary Kate leaned forward in excitement. “I know someone else who might have had a reason to kill the mayor. Tony Crocker.”
“I can think of someone else, too,” Elle said, “although you’re right. Crocker was pretty miffed that Cal Bloom won re-election in a landslide. His son Jake used to cut and bale the Christmas trees grown on the family farm, but he moved up north. Maybe Crocker wanted to retire and add the mayor’s salary as a source of income.”
Mary Kate sighed. “It’s not much money, though, according to Uncle Gil. He’s acting as Mayor Pro Tem until the council can set up a new election. But I’m glad. Gets him out of the shop for a bit, and Garrett needs the break from being bossed around.”
I turned to Elle. “Didn’t you say you thought of someone else who’d murder Cal Bloom? Like who? Or is it whom, if you want to be grammatical.”
“Lois Nichols and her husband.” She grinned at my surprise. “Matt told me Lois is a real pain in the you-know-what to work with at the Quick Mix. She complains nonstop during her shifts. Lois goes on and on about how Harry asked the mayor to help him battle HR over his health benefits. I bet Cal Bloom never promised him anything.”
“But would they kill him over such a minor thing?”
“Who knows? Lois strong-armed her way into the finals of your cookie contest,” Elle said. “How crazy, threatening to sue Mary Kate over a silly recipe. And your family, too.”
“The judges chose her cookie, to be fair. But that reminds me. Isabel French told me at the Bear-zaar that Kristen wanted to sell her share of the Silver Scoop. Now I’m wondering why.” I finished off my second muffin, chock-full of blueberries, and wiped my mouth with a napkin. “Mmm, so good. It looked so lonely on the plate, I had to put it out of its misery.”
“Poor muffin.” Mary Kate gathered up the empty cups. “It’s odd that Kristen and Isabel decided to be business partners. They seem like polar opposites.”
“They are.” Elle rushed off to answer the phone.
“Isabel wasn’t happy when Kristen closed for the winter. Last year they stayed open, remember?” Mary Kate shrugged. “They did okay, since the weather wasn’t all that cold. I’m not surprised Kristen wants to sell out if her heart isn’t in it. But I’m not sure a yoga studio would have a better chance to thrive.”
“I know. Everyone loves ice cream, but yoga? We’ll see,” I added. “You need to take care of yourself, Mary Kate. Remember how you ended up on bed rest last time, two months before Julie was born.”
“How could I forget? All right, keep me posted on whatever you find out. I’d better get back, or Garrett will murder me.”
Elle hung up the phone. “Fat chance of that, he’d do anything for you. Cara’s teacher said I could bring birthday cupcakes over this afternoon. Oh, the joys of motherhood.”
“That sounds like fun. I hoped Car
a liked her present.”
“Oh, she loves Mary Poppins, and the boxed set was a great idea.” She groaned, though. “The cupcakes can’t have peanuts. Can’t be homemade, either. I had to buy thirty packets of juice, too. At least I don’t have to deal with the sugar high in the classroom.”
I gathered up my purse and coat. While Elle sounded flippant, I knew she didn’t mean it. And I’d trade places with her in a heartbeat. That would be so fun to see the kids’ excitement. Instead, I had to satisfy my mother and root out more information about the Bloom family. So Kristen wanted to try her hand at a yoga studio. Isabel French had mentioned that at the Bear-zaar, although I hadn’t really paid much attention.
Shivering in the cold wind, I drove off to visit Isabel French.
Chapter 12
I drove past the courthouse and the Village Green and turned on Oyster Bay Street. A row of Victorian homes stood far apart and back from the narrow road, their ironwork fences draped with lights or evergreen and red velvet ribbons. The vista reminded me of old-fashioned Christmas cards my grandparents sent. Only one house seemed out of place, a Sears Roebuck kit house built in the early 1930s, with half timber and stucco, red and brown bricks, plus an overhanging gabled front porch.
Isabel lived here with her mother. Since her husband’s dementia had worsened, Mrs. French reluctantly placed him in the Silver Birches Retirement Home. I wondered if Isabel found a temporary job already, and what her future would be when the Silver Scoop closed for good.
After knocking several times on the wooden door, I gave up. Dang. I’d wanted to see the interior. I favored the Craftsman style and hoped to own one someday. Although I enjoyed living above my parents’ Silver Bear Shop since returning to manage the family business, I couldn’t see myself raising a family there. I’d want far more privacy.
After divorcing Flynn, I realized I didn’t want another empty marriage. I wanted an equal partner, a man who shared the same values of faith and family. So much had changed since Will Taylor’s death, which hammered home the reality of life and its unpredictability, along with unfulfilled dreams. An odd restlessness had taken hold of me, along with my yearnings for a husband and kids of my own. After divorcing Flynn, I’d also never expected to meet someone living right in Silver Hollow, who’d gone to the same high school. I was thrilled to discover that Jay brought me such happiness.
I drove back to the village’s heart and stopped at Blake’s Pharmacy to buy two boxes of Godiva chocolate. Ben had finished filling a prescription and hailed me.
“Hey, Sasha. Wendy wants to know if you’d like to meet at the pub tonight.”
“Sure. Anything special going on?”
“She has a question for you. Didn’t tell me about what, though.”
“Okay, see you later.”
Next, I drove to the retirement home’s parking lot off River Street. The long, one-story building had been a former elementary school, its windows framed in black. Two wings marched down either side of the front entrance. Leafless oaks, elms, pines, and various shrubs surrounded the Silver Birches, without a birch tree in sight. I chuckled at that. Strands of Christmas lights stretched along the roof, but failed to lend a festive spirit.
The lobby, however, made up for it. A riot of Christmas ornamentation filled the space, including a huge lighted tree swathed in shiny silver and gold tinsel, plus glass balls of every color. Several garish wreaths adorned the walls, and red poinsettias filled the tables along with a nativity display, Santa figures of various sizes, and plastic snowmen.
No one guarded the large desk. The pen by the register book had run out of ink, too, so I groped for a pen in my leather purse. At last, I scribbled my name on a fresh line—not that anyone would check. I flipped through the pages over the last week. Only a few names were logged, most nonresidents with addresses outside of the village. Frequent visitors didn’t bother, like I’d mentioned to Detective Mason.
A staff nurse happened to walk by. “May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. French.”
“Yes, the family’s in the dining room. Poor Henry takes a long time to eat.” She pointed down a hallway with a strong scent of Listerine and bleach. “Take that to the end.”
“Thank you.”
I ambled down the hall, eyeing the framed tepid landscapes and floral watercolors that hung on the walls. Each room had two names with photos of the residents in their younger years; most showed women in their wedding gowns or formal church attire. I had a panicked moment. Would my parents end up here? I dismissed that thought outright. Dad and Mom, in their early to mid-sixties, had plenty of time yet to live independently.
Then again, nothing was guaranteed.
Guilt filled me. My parents deserved to enjoy grandkids soon. Time hung heavy, and the ticking clock echoed in my brain every night before I tried to sleep. That insistent sound plagued me each time I passed the Silver Birches. I’d often avoided visiting my grandmother, too, despite my mother’s urging. That added another layer to my remorse. I swallowed hard and inched along until a wide room opened before me.
Overhead piped-in music played familiar Christmas medleys sung by Dean Martin, Tony Bennett, and the Ray Conniff Singers. All tunes my parents and grandparents loved to hear over the holidays, but no longer played on the radio. Residents sat four to a table, most sitting in wheelchairs, while staff distributed trays with stainless steel–covered plates. An early lunch, since it wasn’t half past eleven. I spotted Isabel with her parents at a back table and threaded my way around the curious residents.
“Sasha, what brings you here?” She waved me toward an empty chair. Isabel wore faded jeans and a sweatshirt, more casual than her mother’s tailored navy pantsuit. “I haven’t seen your grandmother today, but several residents are down with the flu.”
I shrugged off my coat. “Hello, Mr. French. Mrs. French. I brought something for you both.” I slid the smaller box of chocolates over the table’s surface. “Merry Christmas.”
“How nice, thank you.” Suzanne French turned to her husband. “You remember Sasha Silverman, don’t you, Henry? You have a silver teddy bear in your room.”
He gave me a blank stare. Isabel looked sad, her eyes misty. “Dad’s not having a good day,” she said in a low voice. “I was telling Mom about the Bear-zaar and those adorable cookies in the bake-off contest. I can’t wait to find out who wins.”
“It sounds wonderful.” Mrs. French studied me for a moment. “I also understand you found the mayor at the parade after he suffered a heart attack.”
“Uh, yes,” I said.
“I’m not surprised, given how overweight he was. Not like poor Tom Richardson. That man was never sick a day in his life. He managed the orchard and farms that his grandfather started, did you know? It’s a centennial farm, designated by the state.”
“My dad told me that.”
“Good thing his oldest son took over so he could retire. Tom Junior expanded beyond cider and donuts in the fall. He added school tours, the corn maze, the pumpkin painting for little kids, and the haunted houses.”
“They had zombies this year, too,” Isabel said. “They had to turn away several dozen kids from Silver Hollow High who wanted to dress up in costumes.”
Suzanne sniffed. “All that zombie stuff on television and in books. Disgusting. Your father would never approve, and I don’t, either.”
“Oh, Mom, don’t be so old-fashioned. It was all in good fun.”
“It’s too bad Mr. Richardson passed away.” I steered the conversation back to a more neutral topic. “He had a long, full life, though.”
“Very true.” Mrs. French patted Henry’s arm and then encouraged him to eat with a soft word before turning back to me. “I wonder how Dave and Leah Richardson will manage, now that Cal Bloom has passed.”
“He was loyal to the mayor,” Isabel said, “so I bet they’ll take over the business now. They’ve managed it for a long time. Right, Mom?”
Suzanne French nodde
d. “I remember when Victor Blake sold the place to Cal Bloom back in the mid-seventies. And from what I understood, the mayor planned to sell it to Dave Richardson. Who knows if Alison will honor that now.”
“Undertaking seems so weird. Cremation is better.”
“Oh, Isabel. Kids today are too modern. Anyway, Alison Bloom is always here taking care of her mother. I’m not sure the mayor approved of that, but I’m hardly one to blame her.” She smoothed her husband’s hair. “Henry gives the staff less trouble whenever I’m with him. I don’t worry so much, either.”
“It must be stressful, caring for an aging parent or spouse.” I glanced around the dining room. “Is Mrs. Bloom here today with her mother?”
“I suppose, but Mrs. Jackson is in the advanced nursing care wing.”
That answered my curiosity. This area served the residents like Grandma Silverman and Henry French, who walked or made their way to the dining room in wheelchairs, and needed less assistance. The cost per month for advanced nursing care had to be enormous. No wonder Cal Bloom objected to paying. Before I could ask if she’d seen Alison last Wednesday, Mrs. French changed the subject.
“I was quite surprised the other day,” she began, “when a police detective came to the house. Asking Isabel about the mayor—”
“Mom, don’t worry,” she cut in, but I heard a tinge of fear in Isabel’s voice. “Detective Hunter questioned a lot of people besides me around the village.”
“About the parade Wednesday night?” I asked.
“Yeah, only I never saw the mayor there.” Isabel wrung her hands. “I did see Detective Hunter, so I texted Kristen. I think she told him what I said, about how obnoxious he was. I bet Hunter resented it, because he came out two days ago and grilled me like a sausage.”
“Sounds like something he’d do.”
“I called Kristen again, but she yelled at me. Mom even heard her, she was screaming like a witch. Kristen defended Hunter and called me a big fat liar.”
