Have Yourself a Beary Little Murder

by Meg Macy

  Once everyone finished dinner, Maddie and I cleared the table. We’d have two pieces of leftover cheesecake for breakfast. I rinsed the dishes and then loaded the dishwasher while my sister wiped the table. Our usual chores from childhood. Why did we fall back into old habits so easily? Some things never changed. Except for the funeral home, evidenced by Alison Bloom’s vehement rejection of Dave Richardson. I couldn’t help wondering what was behind that.

  Maddie and I trudged upstairs after the others left for home, weary, our pets following. My sister sat cross-legged on my window seat and switched on the tiny battery under her top. The lights flashed merrily in the glass’s reflection. Onyx jumped up beside her, curious, eyeing her shirt, while Maddie stared out the window. I kicked off my slippers and nestled in an armchair. I wanted to crash, but something was on her mind.

  “So what did you think about Alison and Dave?” she asked at last. “Maybe they have some bad history. Something has to be wrong, or she’d sell the place to him.”

  “Yeah, so it seems.”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’re not curious to find out.”

  I waggled my index finger. “I never said that.”

  “Aha.” Maddie grinned. “So the sleuth will get busy.”

  “It depends on what Mom can wrangle out of her first. Alison lied to my face, remember, and I bet she blames me for Mason questioning her again.” I yawned. “Anything else? I am so whipped. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “I can tell by the bags under your eyes. Girl, go put some night cream on or you’ll look like an old crone,” she teased. “Keep me posted, although I’ll be busy all week. Text me if you do find out anything. Mom tells you stuff before she does me.”

  “That’s not true—”

  “Don’t go there, Sash.” With a laugh, Maddie headed to her room. Onyx followed, still fascinated by her shirt’s flashing lights.

  I slid under the covers, hoping to reclaim the hours I’d lost last night. But sleep eluded me again. Tossing and turning gained nothing but a neck ache, so I switched my Kindle on and tried to read. A wonderful historical mystery, with a duo of private inquiry agents much like Holmes and Watson. I immersed myself in Victorian London for a few hours, at least, until my eyes refused to stay open. And slept through my alarm clock.

  “Sash, wake up! It’s after nine. I’m late for work, too.” Maddie shook me again, hard, and then rushed out when I rubbed my eyes. “Coffee’s getting cold.”

  “Nnngh.” I needed a hefty swig to fuel my energy. “What day is it?”

  “Wednesday,” she called out. “Happy Hump Day.”

  I felt like a hump, or more like a lump of lead. Yesterday was Tuesday, and the open house. Memories flooded back. The noise, the excitement of kids seeing Dad dressed as Santa Bear, and all those wonderful cookies. And cheesecake for breakfast. I headed for the shower, pulled my wet hair into a ponytail and dressed. Turned my shirt right-side-out, and then grubbed through the dresser drawers for matching socks. By the time I got Rosie outside, fed, and grabbed my coffee mug, the clock showed ten fifteen.

  “You’re late, but thankfully, no customers showed up yet.” Aunt Eve smiled when I sank onto a chair with a huge yawn. “I tried calling you. I even texted, although I don’t know if I did it right. These newfangled phones are beyond me. Tim, Deon, and Flora Zimmerman came in at seven this morning. Everything’s back in place, so that’s good. Flora supervised the whole thing, telling them where to put the racks, and making them spot clean the floor.”

  “Wow. We’ll have to give them extra in their Christmas bonus.”

  “Flora deserves double for making all those gorgeous gingerbread houses. They were the hit of the open house.”

  “The staff party on Saturday—” I yawned again. “Everything’s been ordered, right?”

  “Yes, and it starts at two o’clock. I’m praying it won’t snow.”

  “I hope so, too. I’d hate for people to not come, after we ordered all those cookies from Amanda. She’s working so hard.”

  Aunt Eve laughed and then waved at the phone. “People will love them. I’ve had three calls in the last ten minutes, asking which bakery made the cookies yesterday. Everyone knew the teddy bears came from Fresh Grounds, though.”

  She snatched up the receiver when it rang again. Pulling out my cell, I noticed several missed texts. Not from my aunt, but from Maddie, Mary Kate, and Isabel French, who’d left a voice mail as well. I listened and felt bad that her dad had fallen last night. Mrs. French needed her help today, since he’d been taken to the hospital for X-rays.

  I texted back, telling her to take as much time as she needed. Family first, that was the Silverman family’s mantra. Then I called Mary Kate. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Uncle Gil’s on the warpath,” she whispered. “He’s here, ranting about what happened, so I can’t talk loud. Did you hear that Alison Bloom refuses to sell out to Dave Richardson? And she wants a big chain to buy the funeral home! Even Garrett’s upset. The whole village is talking about how unfair it is.”

  “I heard. But people can’t boycott the funeral home, like Starbucks or Amazon.”

  That was a poor joke, but Mary Kate giggled anyway. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

  She hung up. Next, I called Maddie, since she’d called while I was either in the shower or getting dressed. Before I had a chance to share what Mary Kate said, my sister cut me off.

  “Mom’s probably blowing a gasket. Digger stopped by the minute I unlocked the door and said Mrs. Bloom was taken in for questioning last night, at midnight. I guess Mason wanted to grill her again about stuff,” Maddie said. “And you won’t believe who saw her leave the Silver Birches on the day of the parade!”

  “Grandma Silverman.”

  She gasped. “You knew, and didn’t tell me?”

  “First, I wasn’t sure if I could trust what she said, and I haven’t had a chance to confirm it with anyone else there. We know Grandma’s sharp, but other people might not believe it.”

  “Digger said two other residents saw Mrs. Bloom returning, around eight o’clock. So she must have left for sure at some point.”

  “Hey, I have to call you later. Customers.”

  Reluctantly, I hung up. Three strings of jingle bells made a merry sound, but it felt more like hammers tapping on my skull. I gulped coffee while the couple browsed the shop. Not that it helped. Other people arrived to pick up their wizard bears, and a number of visitors expressed their disappointment over missing our open house for one reason or another.

  “Put it on your calendar for next year, then. We enjoy hosting it.”

  “I heard it was wonderful,” one woman said, “and who baked the cookies?”

  Maybe Mary Kate would end up with more competition than from Vivian Grant’s Pretty in Pink bakery. I made a list of the contest bakers’ names and phone numbers and gulped a second and third cup of coffee. The day dragged on forever, and missed opportunities defined the hours. Jay left a voice mail, since I’d set my cell phone to vibrate and forgot to reset the ringer. When I called him back, his phone went to voice mail. So did Maddie’s.

  Frustrating wasn’t the word.

  At six o’clock, I turned the sign to CLOSED. I’d enjoyed watching a dad shop with his two daughters. They’d insisted on choosing their own teddy bears for Christmas, instead of trusting Santa Claus. One wanted a Santa suit, but the other sister wanted a purple summer dress. I sent Aunt Eve to hunt through our storage rooms upstairs. She brought two dresses, sandals, and a tiny beach umbrella. Delighted, the family bought the lot plus a sled to fit both bears.

  I brushed away a tear after they left. I couldn’t wait to share such moments with my own kids. One day.

  Thursday proved easier. I’d finally caught up on sleep, and talked to Jay on Friday during my lunch hour walk with Rosie. While she wandered over the Village Green, and I hung onto her extended leash, Jay suggested all kinds of things to do between Christmas Eve and New Year’s.
He also made me promise to call on Saturday night after our staff party. Bright sunshine warmed my face and boosted my mood.

  Even the investigation into Cal Bloom’s death had taken a back seat.

  “Sasha! Over here,” Maggie Davison called out.

  She beckoned from her shop doorway on Main Street. I tugged Rosie’s leash when she resisted at first but she trotted into the Magpie’s Nest in hopes of a treat.

  “Sorry, Rosie. I don’t have a cookie for you,” Maggie said, “unless you want a piece of leftover bacon? Oh, you do? Why am I not surprised.”

  We both laughed when my dog gobbled the strip in one bite. “What’s up?” I asked. “I’ve got to get back to the shop.”

  “You haven’t heard, then?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Alison Bloom’s in the hospital.”

  “What? How did she end up in the hospital?”

  “Kristen took her in last night. Alison was so dizzy with vertigo, and she couldn’t stop throwing up.” Maggie made a face. “Yuck.”

  “Alison Bloom must have caught a bug. I heard plenty of residents at the Silver Birches have come down sick. Jack Cullen’s in the hospital.” I straightened my shoulders. “Wait. Didn’t she have that meeting today, with the funeral directors?”

  “Yeah, bad timing. And Mr. Cullen passed last night. Why do so many people die during the holidays?” Maggie sounded wistful. “My mom did. Not that Aunt Barbara ever cared, and she expected me and Dad for Christmas dinner anyway that year. I absolutely refused. Maybe that’s why Aunt Barb hates me so much.”

  “She doesn’t hate you.”

  Maggie tossed her curly hair. “Yes, she does, and so does Cissy. They both want me to give up this shop. I’m thinking it’s not what I want, since Uncle Richard talked me into it. I’ll sell or give away all this stuff to whoever wants it, and move to Chicago.”

  I sympathized with her but took my leave. Rosie and I crossed the street to Fresh Grounds, where I picked up my lunchtime bagel. Wendy pulled shots for lines of customers, while Garrett worked the cash register. I didn’t get a chance to ask either of them if they’d heard anything new. I headed back outside and dialed my mother’s cell phone number. Her voice mail kicked in, too. Dang.

  Mom was bound to know everything about Alison. She might be at the hospital right now, in fact. I walked faster toward the shop. Being late twice in one day—horrors.

  “The manager might dock my pay,” I said to Rosie, but she didn’t laugh.

  We made it back with one minute to spare, with no waiting customers. When Renee Truman showed up at two, I rushed to the factory’s shipping department. Deon and Tim didn’t need an extra pair of hands and sent me to Flora Zimmerman. She frowned, and then directed me to help sort fabric pieces once they were collected from the cutting machine.

  Not the most glamorous job, but it kept me well away from the sewing machines. Sorting took more brain power than I realized. I had to recheck my work several times and count the pieces, making sure I didn’t miss a limb or an ear piece for each individual bear.

  “Ms. Silverman?” Tim Richardson waited until I glanced up from the board in front of me. “Detective Mason’s here to see you. Over in shipping.”

  “Uh, okay. Thanks.”

  I glanced around, hoping no one had heard Tim, but Joan Kendall and other workers watched with curiosity when I followed him. Mason stood chatting with Uncle Ross. That was a big shock. He’d been the prime suspect in our sales representative’s murder earlier this year, and resented being targeted. Apparently, my uncle had gotten over that. They laughed together and then shook hands. Mason turned to me next.

  “Mind if we find someplace private?” he asked. “Unless you want to come over to the station. I’ve got a closet for an office.”

  “A closet?”

  “Literally.” He pushed up his glasses. “I like this place better.”

  “Follow me, then.”

  I led the way to the stuffing machine, enclosed in its own room. Jay had put up the walls, installed the door, and even added shelves for storing the huge twenty-five-pound bags of polyester fiberfill. I didn’t like being here, but there wasn’t another option.

  “That’s a lot of stuffing,” Mason said.

  “Each sixteen-inch bear takes half a pound, so we go through a lot of these bags every week.” I leaned against the edge of the shelves without glancing at the machine. “Have you caught up on Detective Hunter’s notes?”

  “Still haven’t gotten them. Unless they ended up in my Spam folder. If he printed them out, they could be buried with the other case folders on my desk.”

  “How many others?”

  “A dozen or more.” He shrugged and took out his notebook and pen. “Some are from a couple years ago. We keep hoping for a fresh lead, a witness who decides to talk. You never know what might turn up. Okay, did you happen to see Tony Crocker at any point during the parade? And what time.”

  Everything seemed fuzzy, since so much had happened. The days and weeks all jumbled together. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes to concentrate. “I did see him, before the mayor went off to get into his costume. They argued about the election. Crocker demanded a recount. Mom wasn’t happy about that, since it would have cost the village a lot of money.”

  “Yeah, he admitted that. He also claimed that Phil Hunter threatened him.”

  “Isabel French told me she overheard them. I guess Hunter told Crocker he’d better not make trouble for the Blooms. Or something like that.”

  Mason looked disgusted by that information. He was silent, jotting it all in his notebook. “Okay, thanks. I’m tying up loose ends, since Hunter didn’t follow through on much. Anything else you might want to add? Rumors about the murder, I mean.”

  “No, but how is Mrs. Bloom? I heard she’s in the hospital.” I hesitated, and then rushed on. “Maybe this sounds silly, but she was supposed to have a meeting with many of Cal Bloom’s colleagues from the Michigan Funeral Directors Association. She wanted to find out how much the business is worth, and find an interested buyer.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “Remember that Dave Richardson wanted to buy it. Expected to buy it, in fact. Cal Bloom had papers drawn up for the sale in the spring.”

  “I don’t see the connection.”

  “What if—”

  “What if it was something she ate for dinner? There’s always some kind of food safety alert coming out about E. coli or other types of contamination.” Mason thrust his notebook into his coat pocket. “I’ll go check out what the doctor thinks, but I’m due back for a meeting on the Ypsilanti case. I can’t miss it. I don’t trust Hunter to handle things.”

  “So does Chief Russell agree, that Cal Bloom was murdered?” I asked.

  “I never said that.”

  “But what about the blow to the head?”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Mason sighed. “Your chief finds it hard to believe someone would target such a friendly guy. Me, I know anything can happen.”

  He headed for the exit. I shut the door to the stuffing room, shivering a little, and returned to sorting fabric pieces for our teddy bears. My curiosity gnawed at me while I worked. Even if Chief Russell didn’t agree, no one had to convince me.

  Murder will out, as Chaucer once wrote.

  Chapter 23

  I spent Friday night preparing for the next day’s combination staff party and wedding in the factory. I’d bribed my friends Elle and Wendy into helping, too. Elle brought Mary Kate and insisted she sit to supervise while we worked.

  “But I’m past the miscarriage stage—”

  “You’ve been on your feet all day, Mary Kate. Give those puppies a rest,” Elle said. “Come on, Sasha. Help me with the wedding decorations.”

  “Mom’s bringing them tomorrow morning, so we need to set up tables and then tape the floor for the Reindeer Race.”

  We laid down long strips of duct tape in the space that Deon, Tim, Uncle Ross, and my dad had cleared.
They’d lined the sewing machines against the windows, so we covered them with white sheets. While Christmas songs played on Elle’s phone, “Santa Baby,” and “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas,” we arranged the tables, covered them with green linen cloths, and set up chairs. Amanda Pozniak had delivered her boxes of Cranberry Walnut Snowball cookies earlier that day, so I led my friends on a raid.

  After we sampled a few and brushed away any evidence of powdered sugar, I handed them pairs of elastic gloves. “Ready to fill the trays?”

  Elle snapped a glove over one hand. “Yes, Dr. Silverman.”

  “It’s not brain surgery!” Mary Kate giggled. “Behave.”

  Once we arranged the cookies and covered the trays with plastic, they headed home. I let Rosie outside before bedtime and curled up with a blanket, a book, and my dog for some relaxed reading. I woke at one o’clock in the morning, the book tilted sideways, and rubbed my stiff neck. Rosie and I headed upstairs to bed. I rolled over and closed my eyes. Hmm. My mind raced between the investigation, the upcoming wedding, and the wizard bear deadline.

  Sitting up, I reached for my cell and checked for any text messages. Nada from Jay. But there was a voice mail notification. Mom had returned my call, which I missed since I’d left the phone near the bed. And she sounded worried during the playback.

  “Alison hasn’t regained consciousness. The doctors aren’t sure what brought this on, but it’s not flu. They’re doing all kinds of lab tests, blood work and such, but it could have been something she ate that had given her—”

  Beep. I winced at that loud and annoying sound, signaling the cutoff time. Mom hadn’t called again with more information. Could it be food poisoning? After what happened to Cal Bloom, I wondered if the killer also wanted Alison dead.

  Was Kristen that greedy? Things would fall into place for her after the sale of the Silver Scoop. She’d get her yoga studio. But what if that million dollar life insurance policy tempted her? That I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know her that well, but it seemed so vicious.