Have Yourself a Beary Little Murder

by Meg Macy

  “No joke?” Mason had retrieved his notebook and scribbled fast. “I’d better jump on this business with Hunter right away. Could blow any chance of a fair trial.”

  “By the way, did you tell him how I’ve helped investigate cases?”

  “Never told him anything.”

  Maddie shook her head, mouthing, “Digger.” My anger seethed. That weasel.

  “Anything else, Sasha?” Mason asked. “Okay, but text me if either of you come across anything else important.”

  He returned to his SUV, while I followed Maddie inside. Multiple sources. Hmm. Maybe I could find out if one of the staff at the Silver Birches had seen Alison leaving the day of the parade, when she’d claimed otherwise. Brother. This investigation business could be tricky.

  In my mind, the only absolute was murder.

  Chapter 16

  “It’s all set,” Maddie announced on Tuesday morning. “We have a winner.”

  Bleary-eyed, I poured myself a second cup of coffee. “Okay, who? Or should I say which cookie came out on top? Did you get a chance to call Isabel?”

  “Yes, but she was too busy to notice anything. Everyone entering crowded around her with their boxes and trays, blocking her view.” My sister shrugged. “I couldn’t get a hold of the chef, Georges Martin. I let Mom, Dad, and Aunt Eve do a final taste test, but they thought all four entries were wonderful. So I let Dad choose the winner.”

  “Wow, better not tell anyone that.”

  “He’s as fair as I could get at the last minute. Mom and Aunt Eve thought Mary Kate’s was the prettiest, but that doesn’t count. I wanted it judged on taste.”

  “Bet they were all good.” I snapped the lid on my travel mug. “I’ve got to open the shop in five minutes, so please tell me who won.”

  “Mary Kate’s teddy bear came in second place. Dad detected a touch of peppermint in the dough, or the icing. I’m not sure which, and you know he doesn’t like it.”

  “Okay, so who came in first place?”

  I knew I sounded testy, but Maddie could really pull my chain. Especially early in the morning—if you called nine forty-five early, that is. She flashed that mischievous smile and handed me a small box tied with a red ribbon.

  “Here you go.”

  “What’s this?”

  “The winning cookie. I should say the leftovers. Ah, ah, ah, you might get powdered sugar on that black sweatshirt. Wouldn’t look good with that silver teddy bear graphic.”

  “The Cranberry Walnut Snowball won? So who baked them?”

  “Amanda Pozniak.”

  “Really? Wow, will she have time to make enough? I mean, she and Abby must be swamped with holiday customers at the antiques shop.”

  “Amanda’s on break from her part-time job at Great Strides Therapeutic Riding. She’s a certified instructor, and loves helping kids and adults with disabilities,” Maddie added. “She told me she’d have plenty of time to bake them for the staff party.”

  “So what about the others? I hope they’ll make cookies for our open house. We can pay them, too. Only not as much as the prize winner.”

  “You know Mary Kate and Wendy will, and Hilda Schulte already offered to make her Date Nut Jingle Bells. I’ll ask Flora, too.”

  “Great, that’s a big relief. I’m helping in the factory later today, if you need me.”

  At her nod, I headed to the shop. Although my fingers itched to open the box and gobble a snowball cookie, I restrained myself. Several customers waited on the porch. I set my coffee mug and the box under the counter, then unlocked the door.

  Tuesday morning flew by, although we didn’t have a deluge of customers. At twelve thirty, I traded places with Renee Truman and raced to the factory. Not to work on a sewing machine, thank goodness, but in shipping with Deon Walsh. Tim Richardson was with his family for his grandfather’s visitation. I shared the Cranberry Walnut Snowballs with Deon before we started and pronounced them buttery, sweet perfection.

  We’d gotten seriously behind boxing up orders for the wizard bear, to the shops selling them, to customers who ordered via email, telephone, and at the Bear-zaar.

  Deon worked fast, and I had a hard time keeping the pace of adding packing materials around the plastic-wrapped bears, taping the boxes shut, labeling, and stacking them for pickup by either FedEx or UPS. I also bandaged a finger with a nasty paper cut. It wasn’t deep enough to bleed much, but red stains wouldn’t have looked good on the cardboard box or labels.

  The afternoon zipped by as well. I checked my watch, suddenly aware that darkness had fallen outside. “Deon. Deon!” I waved a hand in his direction, so he pulled off his headphones with an easy smile. “It’s half past six. The visitation’s tonight at the funeral home.”

  “I’m going, too. Are you working with me tomorrow?”

  “You’re stuck with me the rest of the week until Tim’s back. But we hired Isabel French. She’s starting in a few days, so that will help. We’ll probably have to put in a lot of overtime to make sure everything gets out before Christmas.”

  “No problem, boss. Don’t mind the extra pay, to be honest.”

  “Okay then.”

  I headed to check the magazine rack by the door. Staff had taken most of the Teddy Bear Times copies I’d placed there, which had our article about winning the Child’s Play Toy Box Co.’s Magic of Christmas contest. I’d have to order more. Matt and Elle were also selling them in their bookstore. Apparently villagers had been buying multiple copies as keepsakes, to go along with their Beary Potter wizard bears.

  “Sasha, come on,” Maddie called from the doorway. “Dad took his car into the shop, and mine needs brake work. We’ll all have to pile into your car.”

  “Can I change first?”

  “No time, sorry.”

  “Let me wash up, then, at least.”

  I trudged to the restroom, grumpy that they couldn’t give me fifteen minutes to look more presentable than my dust-smudged pants and teddy bear shirt. I could have used a makeup retouch, too, given my reflection in the mirror. After washing my hands and swiping a damp paper towel over my clothes, I grabbed my coat and purse. Dad and Maddie waited by the car, but Mom was nowhere in sight. Uncle Ross and Aunt Eve were also missing.

  “Mom’s inside changing,” Maddie said. “We’ll give you five minutes if you want a new outfit. Hurry up!”

  I dashed inside and ran upstairs. Rosie nearly tripped me in her excitement, tail wagging. “Sorry, baby, you can’t tag along tonight. I hope they let you outside, though.”

  Knowing my mother would take her time, I washed my face and quickly reapplied my makeup. After I twisted my hair up, I chose a maroon top, long black skirt, and boots, and then knotted a thick scarf over my gray wool coat. By the time I rushed down the steps and joined Dad and Maddie, my mom had yet to appear. Rosie followed me outside. I stayed on the porch and hoped she wouldn’t linger in the cold.

  “Come on, Rosie. That’s my girl.”

  Once I sent her inside, I rushed back to the car. “—hounding her,” Mom was saying. “It’s a shame, Alex. How can they treat her so unfairly?”

  “Because Alison Bloom’s a suspect in her husband’s death.”

  “But she’s innocent!”

  He sighed. “The police have to ask questions, many times, in case the story changes. They’ll ask Kristen and other family members. Including Cal’s first wife—”

  “Who is she, by the way?” I interrupted. “Does she live around here?”

  “No.” Mom sniffed in disdain. “Joyce lives in California. She left and took Kristen out there when she was four or five. And sent her back to attend high school when Joyce found another man, although she didn’t marry him.”

  “Cal told me she preferred alimony to remarriage.” Dad started the car.

  “At least she won’t get any more,” Mom said. “That’s ended now. Joyce lived in a commune for years, so no wonder Kristen is into yoga and meditation.”

  I sat back and pondered th
is new information. I didn’t know Kristen lived in California during early childhood, and returned to find Alison as her stepmother. Perhaps she didn’t want to conform to rules after living in such a free, communal environment.

  Dad stopped the car behind the hotel on Archibald Street, which brought me out of my thoughts. “I should have dropped you all off, but at least I found a parking spot.”

  “But Alex, it’s so cold.”

  “I’ve circled the block twice, Judith. I can’t park illegally—”

  “Look at that car, over there, in front of the fire hydrant.” Maddie grinned. “Digger probably wrote up that ticket. He loves making the guilty pay.”

  “You’ll have to find another spot,” Mom said. “Go back and drop us off, please. I’m wearing heels, not boots.”

  Maddie was already out of the car, however, so I followed her. We trudged past the courthouse toward the funeral home. Cars lined the road, and no doubt filled every parking lot in the village. It looked as if everyone in Silver Hollow, and maybe every other community for miles around, decided to pay their respects to Tom Richardson. By the time we squeezed through the crowd in the foyer, the chatter of people was deafening.

  The Richardson clan numbered over two dozen. That didn’t include Tom Senior’s first wife and two daughters, who moved to Lansing. Mom had updated us in the car about Paula marrying a state-level politician, retired now, plus everyone else in the extended family. Her memory would be a huge bonus if Mom ran for mayor. Dad would have more freedom to explore his own interests if she did. Retirement suited him.

  The family’s matriarch, Cleo Richardson, greeted visitors in the main parlor. Floral arrangements, baskets, large potted plants, and several framed memorial plaques filled the back wall on either side of her husband’s casket. A crowd stood around three easels with collages of family photos. Muted organ music played overhead.

  I recognized one of our largest silver bears in the middle of a heart-shaped, huge red poinsettia wreath placed on a wire stand. Eight small white bears were woven in between the red flowers. I felt a touch of pride seeing the card that read THE SILVERMAN FAMILY. Mom had mentioned ordering the floral tribute earlier today, and how the eight bears symbolized all of Tom’s children by both wives. Mary Monroe had outdone herself with the display.

  Once I signed the registry with Maddie, we watched Dave and Leah Richardson roll out extra wheeled coat racks into the foyer. Tom Richardson Junior; his brother John; their wives, Ann and Nickie; plus their sister Diana, all gathered around Cleo. Phil and Claire Richardson, the two youngest kids, both single, chatted with a group of friends. I had no idea if Mr. Richardson’s first wife and children were present.

  Richard and Barbara Davison stood talking with Mom, so I pushed my way through the crowd to join them. “It’s adorable with all those bears,” Barbara said and nodded to me. “You’ve met our son, Sasha. Rob is married to Diana, and they have two boys.”

  He extended a hand, so I shook it with a wan smile. In my opinion, Silver Hollow had too many intermarriages. I supposed other small towns had the same problem. I also sensed tense competition between my mother and Barbara Davison, who gushed about her grandsons’ private school, their sports activities and prowess, their height and slim builds. I noticed Mom chewing her lip, pea green with jealousy.

  No wonder she wanted grandkids so badly, but I refused to pop out babies to please her. In my own time, when I was ready, thank you very much.

  Maddie nudged me and nodded to a close-knit group on the farthest side of the parlor. They all glanced around, uneasy, and only spoke to each other in whispers. No one bothered to greet them, and the woman in their midst looked forlorn.

  “That must be Tom Senior’s ex-wife, Paula, and her two daughters,” my sister whispered. “Mom told me that Diana Davison took Paula’s job at the Quick Mix.”

  “What doesn’t Mom know.”

  “No kidding. I bet they feel like outcasts here.”

  Maddie was right about that. One little girl with two pigtails fidgeted and hung onto her grandmother’s hand. I felt sorry for the poor child, who looked confused among strangers. The noise and crush of people were giving me the jitters, too. And I lived here.

  Suddenly I caught sight of Lois Nichols, her eyes narrowed, her mouth pursed in a grim line. And she was heading my way.

  Oh, joy.

  Chapter 17

  I squirmed my way through the crush of visitors to avoid her, but ran straight into Cissy Davison. She gasped in pain. Gus Antonini helped her balance while she hopped on one foot. “Are you all right, honey?”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Totally my fault.”

  “Where’s the fire?” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “I probably shouldn’t have worn these heels tonight, but they’re one of my favorite pairs.”

  I glanced down at her strappy, navy suede shoes that paired well with her matching skirt and muted cashmere sweater. Cissy sank into an empty chair. I quickly grabbed the nearest one before someone else could sit beside her. Gus stood vigil, hands behind his back, as rigid as a bodyguard. His black suit, black shirt, and silver tie added to that stereotypical image.

  Avoiding Lois Nichols was worth the price of listening to Cissy’s complaints. Eventually she got around to her cousin’s tawdry Christmas decorations, as expected, along with Maggie’s lack of business sense.

  “I managed the Time Turner without any problems, even after I started planning our wedding. It’s going to be on Valentine’s Day, did I tell you?” Cissy flipped her blond hair from one eye. “Did Maddie mention I asked you both to be in the wedding party? We’re having an even dozen, satin red gowns, and white roses. It’ll be gorgeous.”

  “No, she didn’t tell me.” I groaned inwardly, knowing we’d be only fillers to round out that number. “Thanks for thinking of us, but—”

  “We can discuss everything later. I can’t tell you how many vendors have signed up, for the chocolate fountain, musicians for the ceremony and the reception, of course. Oh, and the photographer, but the hall we put a deposit on is trying to change our date! Can you believe it. Why would we agree? It’s the best day to have a wedding.”

  Cissy rolled her eyes. I waited her out, hoping for the chance to bring up the disputed photo. I was dying to know whether Cal Bloom had groped her, since Maggie never explained. Some things made the rounds of the village gossip mill, while others were quashed on purpose. No doubt due to Barbara Davison’s diligence.

  Unless it never happened.

  Cissy’s ramblings cut into my thoughts. “—how they’ll be taking those cement blocks away. So my parents are selling. My brother is against it, of course, and Debbie, too.”

  I blinked, wishing I’d paid more attention. “They’re selling their house? You mean after the city council votes to open Theodore Lane and connect it to Main Street.”

  She nodded. “That’s not the only reason. They usually spend a few months in Florida for the winter, but they’re moving because of all the murders here.”

  “People are murdered in Florida, too.”

  “I suppose, but they want a gated community. Safer, you know.”

  Repressing a laugh, I didn’t reply. Any criminal could find a way in, gated or not, locked or not, to a community, a house, a safe. But Cissy wouldn’t appreciate hearing that.

  Gus winked. “I think they ought to renovate their house into apartment units. Keep a finger in the pie, real estate-wise. They own that block downtown with the Magpie’s Nest and the Bird Cage, plus the Walsh’s cottage.”

  “And the florist and hair salon,” Cissy added.

  “Really? I didn’t know that,” I said.

  “Yeah. Let’s mingle, Gus. My foot’s better.”

  “Hang on a minute.” I’d scrambled awkwardly from my chair and cleared my throat. “So, I heard something about a photo of you that Cal Bloom had—”

  “That louse! You saw it?” She seemed relieved at my denial. “I wasn’t half-naked at all, like some peopl
e said. It was quite tasteful.”

  “Forget it, honey. It’s all water under the bridge,” Gus said, although I caught a flash of guilt in his dark eyes. Cissy flounced off toward her parents. “She’s kind of sensitive about that photo, Sasha. It was meant for my viewing pleasure only.”

  “But you showed it around to your friends.”

  “Aw, come on.” He gave a sharp laugh. “She’s hot! Can I help being proud of my babe? But I didn’t appreciate that jerk stealing it. What kind of privacy is there nowadays. Who knows what happened to it.”

  “Did Mr. Bloom make a pass at her? When he visited her at the Time Turner.”

  “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t spread that around.” Gus sounded terse. “He’s dead. Leave it at that, in terms of the photo or anything else.”

  “Given his murder—”

  “Who said it was murder? That detective, Hunter, stopped to talk to us last Sunday. He said Bloom had a heart attack,” Gus said. “Now you’re telling me someone killed him?”

  “The investigation is still ongoing. I’m sure Chief Russell will hold a press conference when he has more information to share.”

  “Thanks. Maybe I’ll ask him.”

  “You were at the parade last Wednesday, right?”

  He blinked. “Yeah, but not for long. We left about five or six o’clock, around there. We had a dinner reservation at the Regency. Why?”

  “People might think you both had reason to take revenge. But like you said, it’s all water under the bridge.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  Clearly aggravated, Gus stalked off and whispered in Cissy’s ear. Her cheeks flushed red, but she didn’t glance at me. The two of them cut into line, spoke with Cleo Richardson, and then surged toward the exit. Uh-huh. The Regency Hotel was less than a block from Bloom’s Funeral Home. The timing was right. Motive and opportunity also played a role. And I wondered what connections Gus Antonini might have, if he asked for help.

  An interesting development, indeed.

  “Sasha Silverman!”