by Meg Macy
She threw me a desperate look and then scurried toward the back. Leah pressed a button, stepped inside the elevator, and then vanished when the double doors closed. How odd that Dave dismissed her in such a sharp tone, as if she were a wayward child.
Curious of her skittish behavior, I yearned to follow her to the basement. Dave gripped my arm, however, and led me out of the parlor. He only loosened his hold in the foyer and drew me toward his office. I shook him off, however.
“I can’t stay, but I’m sorry for your family’s loss. You have my sympathies.”
“Thank you. Dad lived a full life and is no longer suffering. His bronchitis developed into full-blown pneumonia. He couldn’t shake it.”
“Leah was so upset on Saturday at the Bear-zaar. I was worried about her, and that’s why I came today. To make sure she was all right.”
“Her nerves have gotten bad. Dad’s death came at a bad time, when we’re so focused on helping Mrs. Bloom and her daughter get through this difficult ordeal. Cal Bloom is—was—our boss, after all. We’ve been loyal to his family for years.”
“Did you know the mayor’s death may not have been an accident after all?”
Dave looked guarded. “What makes you say that?”
“Rumors I heard. Mr. and Mrs. Bloom were on the brink of divorce. Kristen also had financial problems. Murder requires a motive, after all.”
“Murder?” He barked a laugh. “You can’t honestly believe Alison Bloom would kill her husband. That’s ludicrous. And Kristen would be the last person to lift a hand against her father. She adored him, and he doted on her. His only child, remember.”
I bristled. “Perhaps, but it seems odd that her detective boyfriend is assisting with the investigation. Some people might think that’s a conflict of interest.”
“I wouldn’t know. But let me assure you, the last thing Alison or Kristen would do is murder anyone. And certainly not Cal Bloom.”
“What about Tony Crocker? He’s pretty sore over losing the re-election.”
Dave scoffed at that as well. “Tony’s a windbag and off his rocker about so many things. He showed up at the last council meeting and accused several people of fixing the election.”
I changed the subject. “Is it true you covered delayed vendor payments for the funeral home? I heard Cal Bloom sat on supply invoices for months.”
“Who told you that?” When I didn’t reply, Dave blew out a long breath. “Yes, I did. Cal was too busy, and I wasn’t going to let him down—so I took care of it. He treated me like the son he never had. I trusted him to repay me. Cal had that huge bill every month for his mother-in-law at the Silver Birches. I’m sure you know how expensive it is, since your grandmother lives there.”
“I don’t, really, but my dad—”
“Listen, Sasha. I’d advise you to stop spreading rumors around town. Cal Bloom met with an unfortunate accident. End of story.”
Despite Dave’s aggravated tone, I stuck to my theory. “But he wasn’t found near any electrical outlet. Someone must have taken him to that bench, after the mayor was dead.”
“Then let the police figure out what happened. If they can.”
That last comment stung me. I tossed out that last hint from Leah. “What a shame Mrs. Bloom might not sell this place to you after all.” He narrowed his eyes, but I plunged on. “After all, Cal taught you everything. And how inconvenient, getting sick last Wednesday.”
“These things happen.”
“Cal Bloom also expected you to work at the Bear-zaar Saturday. Leah was stuck doing everything in the kitchen, although my dad helped her.”
“I was so sick, I barely got to see my father before he died.” Dave cocked his head. “I’ve heard how clever you are, Sasha, tracking down murderers. Maybe the police find it helpful, but go home and forget about it. Cal Bloom wasn’t murdered.”
With that, he steered me out the door. Miffed by his admonishing words, I marched down the walkway to my car. For some reason, his stubborn insistence about an accident rang false. Leah had acted fearful, too. That bruise on her neck—how did she get that? Had she suspected her husband of being involved, questioned him coming down sick before the parade? It did seem beyond coincidence. Or perhaps she’d witnessed something.
I was clueless about identifying domestic abuse, or helping a woman in that situation. Even where to go for assistance. Maybe I should find out more information.
But Dave didn’t strike me as violent. I’d been wrong in the past, but this seemed too strange. I knew anyone could do anything when pushed to the breaking point. Was it possible that Dave faked his illness? That he hadn’t gone home, and met Cal Bloom instead. Maybe near one of the generators beside the floats, when Dave pressured him about his promise to sell the funeral home . . . If Cal told him he’d found another buyer, someone who could afford to pay more than what Dave could afford, it might have been the last straw.
He’d get what he wanted by making the murder look like an accident. It sounded like Dave expected the police to accept that ruling. No matter who was guilty, no matter how much evidence was found to form a theory, any detective had to have one vital element.
Proof.
Chapter 14
Back at home, I unlocked the door and laughed when Rosie raced over to greet me. Her leash’s end dangled from her muzzle. “Poor thing! I get the hint, but it’s cold.”
Onyx was curled in the hollow of her new microbead pillow, soaking in the late afternoon sunshine. Clouds to the west promised a hint of overnight snow. First, I checked the cleaning crew’s progress in case they hadn’t finished, but spotted the invoice on the kitchen counter. Then I toured the shop. The floors gleamed, all the Christmas decorations had been put back into place, and the crew accomplished every task. I logged into PayPal and then forwarded the paid invoice email to Aunt Eve so she could print and file it in the morning.
I shrugged into my coat and fastened Rosie’s on before adding her harness and leash. “Hope this place stays clean for the open house. Come on, girl.”
She led the way outside. I needed to think over everything I’d learned today and sort out the possible suspects and motives. Who had last seen Cal Bloom, and where? Despite Dave Richardson’s forceful words, the mayor’s death seemed too pat. Whoever killed him hadn’t thought of taking him so far away from a source of electricity. It didn’t seem natural. And it smacked of an arrangement, in my opinion.
The mayor was also nowhere near any homes, only the closed and locked Quick Mix Factory. I doubted if Lois Nichols had a key. Although the elementary school was close, no cars had been parked in that lot—which meant teachers and students had all gone home, too. No witnesses, unless one of the custodians had been around, but I doubted that. Had anyone seen a car? Someone arranging the mayor’s body on that remote bench?
Rosie sniffed a strip of grass beside the picket fence on Theodore Lane. The Davison’s house, a near perfect match to ours, had been swathed with real evergreen boughs, red velvet ribbons, and swags of pinecones. Nothing artificial for Barbara Davison. Her husband wouldn’t have cared, but she embodied Martha Stewart’s homemade and handmade style. Mom tried to convince me to match Barbara’s elegant style for the Silver Bear Shop’s exterior, but I wouldn’t budge. She’d have to compete with her friend in other ways.
I glanced back at the Silver Bear Shop. The oversized snow globe on the lawn, with its teddy bear in a rocker and falling flakes, looked so sweet—and Santa and his sleigh perched on the roof with more bears spilling out of his sack. Both emphasized our brand as a fun place for children. Once darkness fell, bright lights would outline every window, door, railing, and the eaves. And inside the shop, more lights decorated the Christmas trees, wreaths, and garlands. Our customers adored it all. That counted far more in my book.
Thanks to Maddie’s clever marketing, too, online sales were booming.
Rosie barked at a squirrel who dashed across the lane and tugged me along in a frantic chase. My scarf half-str
angled me, so I unwound it and left it hanging loose. My breath steamed in the air when I stepped over the rusty cement pylons that blocked traffic. If only the village council would vote to open Theodore Lane. And soon. It would help the Queen Bess Tea Room, our shop, and my sister’s business. Maybe they’d vote to pave the empty lot, too, but keep most of the trees intact. I’d have to mention that possibility to Gil Thompson.
I headed away from the village and skirted Silver Lake’s shore. A large array of pine and fir Christmas trees stood in a lot near a truck hitched to a small camper. Tony Crocker, wearing an orange hunter’s jacket, heavy pants and boots, and thick leather gloves, took a customer’s cash and then hefted a baled tree onto the waiting car’s roof. He looked strong for his age and tall build, lashing the tree tight with rope. Crocker hailed me in a loud voice.
“Hey, aren’t you one of the Silverman girls? The one who found the mayor?”
I walked his way, although I kept my dog from crossing the rutted, dirty snow. “My mother found the body, actually.”
“Didn’t figure Cal Bloom would go belly-up like that. Heart attack?”
“The police aren’t certain yet,” I said, “but they’re asking questions—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Crocker spat on the ground. “That fancy detective accused me of offing Bloom. And he’d threatened me at the parade about asking for a recount. Jerk.”
“You also said something about Cal Bloom not being a puppet for much longer. Don’t you think some people might have taken that wrong?”
“What the—I wasn’t talking about him ending up dead!”
When Crocker waved another car into the lot, I stepped back to avoid a splash of mud. “You accused people of fixing the election, after all. From there, it’s only a few short steps to get revenge on your political rival.”
“Listen, missy. If I wanted Bloom dead, I’d have shot him with my hunting rifle and then waited for the cops to arrest me,” he snarled. “Go walk your scrawny dog somewhere else. I’ve got a business to run.”
Rosie growled, apparently unhappy at being called scrawny, but I pulled her down Main Street toward the village. “He’s the one who wanted to talk to me,” I muttered under my breath. “And his trees looked scrawnier than Rosie.”
I grumbled over that unfortunate meeting until we reached the porch steps. I hadn’t noticed walking back to the shop, being so angry. Rosie refused to linger outside, despite the squirrel that raced up a tree. She jumped onto the window seat, however, and barked like mad with her paws against the glass. Onyx hissed her displeasure.
“Oh, stop. There’s plenty of room for you both, Nyxie.”
The cat swatted Rosie anyway but then curled around, rump to my dog’s nose. Rosie sniffed, the usual disgusted behavior, and then stretched out once I unfastened her leash. Guess she didn’t mind wearing her coat and harness, so I left her alone. The cat’s tail whipped back and forth, hitting Rosie a few times. I sighed and left them to their shenanigans. No voice mail messages blinked on my cell phone, which I’d left on the counter by mistake, but Ben had texted to meet at Quinn’s pub. Seven o’clock, so I had a few hours to kill.
I pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. Should I check the latest news, or email?
Neither. Channeling my super-organized sister, I powered up my laptop and created a document. Added three columns. Titled them with “Suspects,” “Whereabouts,” and “Motive.” Then I plugged information in the rows below the headings.
“Alison Bloom, at Silver Birches until Grandma saw her leave at some point before the parade started. Maggie Davison overheard her and Cal arguing over money to pay for her mother’s care. She didn’t know what time that happened, either.”
I stopped talking to myself, feeling silly. Whatever the case, Alison had a strong motive, given the possible divorce. Alison might have thought the court would side with her husband, given his popularity. Plus being widowed would save lawyer fees.
I typed in Kristen Bloom and Phil Hunter’s names next, although I wondered if Alison had also lied about them. Had they gone to the funeral home, or was she pointing suspicion her stepdaughter’s way? Alison admitted to their difficult relationship. Most motives boiled down to money, and with her dad’s death, Kristen inherited a lot of dough. Enough to pay off her loan and fulfill her dream of a yoga studio.
Next, I added the names Cissy Davison and Gus Antonini. They both had a beef with Cal Bloom over that intimate photo and a possible groping incident, according to Maggie. But maybe the mayor got rid of the photo after Cissy sent that letter via Flynn’s legal firm, demanding its return. It could be a motive for revenge. The mayor had shown it around to certain people in Silver Hollow, after all. Embarrassing, to say the least.
“I saw Tony Crocker at the parade, too.” I added his name to the Suspects column with satisfaction. “He claims he’d have shot the mayor and confessed, but that sounds like bragging. He resented losing the election, given his demand for a recount.”
I chewed a fingernail, and then typed Dave Richardson’s name next. I added “home” under Whereabouts with a question mark. I only had his word for it, but Leah would certainly cover for him. Most victims of abuse did, according to my quick research on domestic violence. She might also be too loyal to admit that Dave faked his illness. What if he’d confronted Cal Bloom, killed him, dragged the body to the bench, and then continued his pretense of being sick at home? Missing the Bear-zaar lent credence to his story.
How could I confirm that?
“Maybe I can get Leah alone again without Dave interfering.”
I added Lois and Harry Nichols next as suspects. I hadn’t seen them at the parade, and couldn’t imagine the two of them dragging Cal Bloom’s body, given Harry’s cancer. But Lois might have asked someone else to help her. If she’d expected the mayor to help negotiate health care benefits with the Quick Mix Factory, heaven help Cal Bloom. With her violent past and jail time, Lois was capable of anything.
Sighing, I saved the document. Then I headed to Pinterest, a website with glorious photos of colorful flowers and gardens, cozy books and nooks, teddy bears, gorgeous teacups and teapots, or historical pictures. I found it relaxing to browse through and click the links. It also eased the overwhelming stress from our frantic production of the Beary Potter Keepsake wizard bear, the bake-off contest, the open house, and our staff party.
Thank goodness I shopped year-round for family gifts, which saved me come December. And online ordering was also a lifesaver for last-minute items. But I loved visiting bookstores to relax and find last-minute gift items. Nothing else could beat that.
Guilt plagued me, though. I should put a few hours in at the factory, but the thought ratcheted my stress level back up a few notches. I wasn’t competent at sewing. The stuffing machine scared the daylights out of me. I couldn’t get the image of finding Will Taylor’s dead body in front of it. Even the thought of boxing up finished bears gave me a headache. I’d go tomorrow. Unless Renee Truman couldn’t cover for me.
“Hi, Sasha!” Mom breezed in through the back door, followed by my father, who carried bags of groceries. “Playing on the computer again?”
“Working, actually.” I’d switched to checking out holiday teddy bears for sale a few minutes before their arrival, but closed my laptop. “Dad, did you know Teddy Hartman’s Bears From the Heart company is going out of business? I read an online article in a New Hampshire newspaper. What a shocker.”
“Really?” He dumped the bags on the kitchen island and breezed over to plant a kiss on my forehead. “Closing down, or just selling out?”
“Sold out to that larger teddy bear company in Vermont. Didn’t say why, though.”
“Given the competition lately—”
“Are we ever going to sell the Silver Bear Shop and Factory?” I sounded anxious, and my tone stopped both my parents in their tracks. They looked surprised. “Just curious.”
“You’d have to make that decision,” Dad said. “You an
d Maddie both, since it’s your company, along with your uncle. Our fingers are not in the proverbial pie.”
“Oh.” That answer surprised me in turn.
“Why aren’t you at the factory, Sasha, helping to sew the wizard bears?” Mom stashed milk, eggs, butter, cheese, and meat in the refrigerator. “Ross told me the staff is getting behind, and will need overtime hours.”
“Sasha deserves a break,” Dad said, “so why don’t you help at the factory, Judith?”
“Me? I worked my tail off getting the parade off the ground. That wasn’t a walk in the park, you know. The phone calls alone were staggering. And all those meetings.” Mom washed her hands at the sink. “Now I understand why Amy Evans worried about leaving all of a sudden. She felt bad, but family comes first.”
“Did you talk to Maddie yet? About feeling stressed.”
“Yes.” She washed celery, tomatoes, and carrots in the sink and fetched a knife from the block. “That’s why I wanted to cook a few meals for you two. Your refrigerator is empty, and you’re both exhausted. I told Mads to scale things back, but she won’t.”
“She has more clients than she expected at first.”
“A one-person company.” Dad grunted. “She wants to do it all herself, too.”
“Maddie can handle it,” Mom said. “By the way, I’m making Brunswick Stew in the Dutch oven for later, plus Swedish meatballs for dinner. I hope you don’t have plans, Sasha.”
“Actually, I’m meeting friends at the pub—”
“You’d rather have a greasy burger?”
“You didn’t let me finish.” I waved my cell phone. “I’d rather have dinner here and then meet them. I’ll text Ben and Wendy that I might be a little late.”
“Good.”
Now that Mom was satisfied, I followed Dad to the adjoining room. He sank into a leather armchair near the fireplace with the Silver Hollow Herald. “I need to ask you a few questions about Dave Richardson. Remember he got sick the day of the parade.”
“That’s what he told me in Christmas Alley.”
