’TIS THE SEASON TO POISON
I pondered what Olivia could have meant as I made my way back to Thistle Park—and was greeted by the sight of Truman’s police cruiser in the drive.
Out of the frying pan into the fire.
The chief was already sitting at the kitchen table addressing my sister. Rachel wore a worried expression atop her green-and-white striped minidress and red tights.
“I was just telling your sister about Lacey’s toxicology results.” Truman beckoned me to take a seat. The local radio was blasting Chipmunks Christmas music. I snapped off the dial for this macabre conversation. The cheery, ultra-falsetto voices seemed discordant with what might be depressing news.
“As I was telling your sister, it was no accident. Lacey Adams was poisoned.”
My heart skipped a beat in morbid anticipation.
“How?” I asked Truman.
He shook his head, already baffled by what he was about to say. “By drinking antifreeze mixed with Hawaiian blue punch and blueberry vodka.”
My heart beat in my rib cage like an agitated bird. I recalled my mother’s shaking fingers unscrewing the top of a bottle of electric blue juice, Lacey glowering above her atop the bar. Luckily, Truman hadn’t yet noticed my panicked expression. . .
Books by Stephanie Blackmoore
ENGAGED IN DEATH
MURDER WEARS WHITE
MURDER BORROWED, MURDER BLUE
GOWN WITH THE WIND
MARRY CHRISTMAS MURDER
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Marry Christmas Murder
Stephanie Blackmoore
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
’TIS THE SEASON TO POISON
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
Recipes
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Stephanie Hayes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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ISBN: 978-1-4967-1753-5
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1754-2 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1754-6 (ebook)
CHAPTER ONE
“I’m at the airport, Mallory. Please come get me.” I felt a rueful smile on my face as I heard the trill of excitement in my mother’s voice.
“Very funny, Mom. You were here just a couple of weeks ago at Thanksgiving.”
I wasn’t due for a visit from my sweet but meddling mother until a few days before Christmas. It was only the first week of December, and I wondered what had put her in a joking mood. I gazed at the kitchen of my B and B, tucked atop a hill in Port Quincy, Pennsylvania. I soaked up the holiday milieu. A skinny, flocked tree, one of seven in the mansion, stood attention in the corner of the room. This specimen was the most casual Christmas tree of the bunch, decorated with all the handmade ornaments my sister Rachel and I had crafted in our youth. There were misshapen snowmen and snaggletooth angels, fuzzy reindeer, and glittery pinecones, all lovingly made by our small hands a few decades ago. Hundreds of red and green twinkle lights blinked back at me in merry rounds. The sweet, piquant smell of cardamom cookies baking vied for olfactory attention with the sharp scent of evergreens from the garland hanging above the window seat. The ledge overlooking the back porch was filled with a dozen candles in silver, red, and gold. Their electric flames cast a warm glow against the frosted glass. The MP3 player on the island blasted out a stream of Motown Christmas hits. All was calm, all was bright. December was my favorite time of year, and I was making the most of it.
My mother snapped me back to reality. “I have news. We finally sold our house! Your stepfather and I are moving to Port Quincy immediately. That is, right now.”
She’s one hundred percent serious.
The neat row of cardamom cookie men and women I’d just retrieved from the oven slid to the ground, where many met a crispy death on the black-and-white checkered floor, broken into cookie smithereens. I managed to rescue a few with my oven-mitted hands, stifling my yelp. I nervously bit into one of the cardamom army’s brethren that hadn’t perished on the floor. The cookie was delicious, and noshing on the crispy little confection gave me a certain satisfaction. Talking to my mother Carole sometimes reduced me to stress eating.
I placed the portable phone on the island so she couldn’t hear me chew. My sister, Rachel, breezed into the room and glanced at the caller ID feature. She pushed the speaker button, a smirk lighting up her pretty face.
I was distracted by my sister’s getup. She wore a red velvet jumpsuit, complete with bell-shaped sleeves and a daringly cut neckline. Her feet were ensconced in gold high-heeled boots, and she completed her look with glittery red earrings nearly swishing to her shoulders. Her caramel waves were perched atop her head in a jaunty genie ponytail, and one brow was arched, a silent question begging me to fill her in on our mother’s call.
I should have known when the phone rang it would be my mother. I’d recently installed a landline so my guests at the B and B would have an infallible way to contact me without dealing with the vagaries of cell phone outages. So far the only callers had been random telemarketers ignoring the line’s unlisted status. The only other person who had the number was my mother, for use in case of emergency.
And Mom moving to Port Quincy definitely classifies as an emergency.
I loved my mother dearly. Don’t get me wrong. But she was a bit of a meddler, and we’d had a fantastic relationship these past few years since she and my stepdad retired to the Emerald Coast of Florida. We’d see each other about four times a year, catch up and reminisce, and I’d be treated to a healthy dose of unsolicited advice. I thought she’d been half joking about moving to my adopted hometown of Port Quincy. Rachel and I assumed she and my stepfather would opt for their old stomping grounds in Pittsburgh, a safe and pleasant two hours away.
“Mallory, this isn’t a joke. Come get us!” My mom’s voice resonated around the room via speaker, a little shrill at having been ignored. Rachel jumped back, nearly dropping her own cardamom figure, this one a squat snowman. She testily bit off his hat and sent a sigh toward the phone on the island.
The airport west of Pittsburgh was
hours away. I felt myself growing a bit testy.
“I’d love to pick you up, Mom. But I have an appointment in . . .” I glanced at my watch, “fifteen minutes.” I did have a business to run.
But I couldn’t tamp down an undeniable thread of amusement. I giggled that of course my mother would hop on a Southwest flight from Pensacola post haste in a bid to get started on her move ASAP. She didn’t do anything by half measures.
My stepfather drily explained my mother’s hastiness. “I realize this is short notice, girls. But your mother believes all the good houses currently for sale in Port Quincy will be snatched up if she waits any longer.”
My mother had a keen interest in real estate, having been a stager before she retired. Rachel and I exchanged a glance and shrug.
“Fine. We’ll just rent a car. I thought my only daughters would be more excited.” My mother delivered her speech with a healthy dose of petulance. I heard Doug soothing her in the background. I felt myself soften by degrees.
“It’s not that we’re not excited! We are.” I glanced at my sister, who nodded vigorously, despite my parents not being able to see her gesture over the phone. Her long, sparkly red earrings clanged against her shoulders.
“It’ll be so fun to see you all the time rather than just holidays,” Rachel chimed in. Then my mom had to go and ruin all the warm fuzzies we’d just cultivated.
“I hear you munching on something, young lady. You need to watch your figure and keep the interest of that fellow of yours!” My mother’s voice of censure rippled through the air, and I stopped mid-bite, another half-eaten cardamom figure momentarily spared. Rachel tried unsuccessfully to tamp down her giggles. I was simultaneously annoyed at my mother’s antiquated views on my cookie consumption and my figure, while also being amused at her use of the word fellow to describe my boyfriend, Garrett. That’s how it usually was when I interacted with Carole, a confusing mix of annoyance and appreciation. Rachel and I said our goodbyes and waited three seconds to start laughing.
“No doubt it’ll be a blast to have Mom here for the holidays.” I removed a second tray of crispy cookies and slid them more carefully onto a cooling rack.
Rachel nodded her agreement and plucked a jaunty soldier from the rack. She blew a stream of air onto the cookie and popped it into her mouth.
It would be a treat to spend the whole month of December together rather than the short visit she’d booked for the week of Christmas Eve through New Year’s Day. It was the one time of year my sister and I had refused to book a single wedding. We had a few events to throw, but nothing major. And no one did Christmas like my mother. Not that she would have much help to lend in the decorating arena. The mansion was already decked out from top to bottom. I hadn’t let Christmas influence me prior to Thanksgiving, but as soon as the sun rose on Black Friday, all bets were off. When others were rising at dawn to score deals on gifts, Rachel and I tore around Thistle Park with boxes of greenery, tinsel, and mistletoe.
The spirit of the season was woven into the very fabric of the mansion. And I owed my zest for the holiday season to my mother Carole. She had made the winter holidays extra special for my sister and me because that’s when our father had left. I tamped down a wince of pain, remembering presents under the tree, but no dad. My mother had gone into typical decorator overdrive that December to stamp out the indelible mark made by my father’s absence. She’d drowned us kids in ribbons, tinsel, cookies, and Christmas tunes to numb the pain and redirect our attention. It had almost worked. Little by little, year by year, the sorrow subsided. A tradition that had been born of sadness morphed into a joyful, boisterous, over-the-top celebration.
Our B and B bore that familial legacy. Green twinkle lights winked each evening from the trees and shrubs surrounding Thistle Park. Stately candles lit each window, and giant twin wreaths with cardinals nestled within the boughs greeted visitors at the double front doors. We’d woven fresh and artificial garlands through the spokes of the grand staircase. A massive tree, nearly worthy of a White House lawn, stood sentinel in the front hall. It was decorated with glass ornaments fashioned in the factory owned by the family that had originally built the mansion. While the trees outside of the B and B and the one in the front hall were tasteful and traditional, the other six scattered about the mansion were kitschy and fun. Rachel and I had holiday music blasting in our third-floor apartment, and we reveled in the season and the tradition our mother had cultivated for us.
Still, a tiny frisson of doubt nestled between my shoulder blades at the thought of my mom and stepdad taking up permanent residence in Port Quincy. I’d gotten into some crazy situations over the past few years, and my mom was the empress of worry and catastrophizing. It was easier to allay her fears and concerns from afar.
Rachel seemed to channel my thoughts and let out a breath with an audible gust. “It will be interesting when Mom and Doug are here all the time.”
I gulped.
Make that forever.
I glanced at my watch and confirmed we had a few minutes before our appointment. There was no time to ruminate, as we had a planning meeting to attend. My sister and I did a 180-degree turn and focused our attention on the pastel parade that would be my best friend Olivia’s spring wedding. Last night Rachel and I had finished up our presentation of ideas on my tablet. I’d recently switched from using heavy, tactile idea books to share planning ideas with couples and their families. The tablet was sleek and efficient, but I still gathered a neat and tidy bundle of fabric swatches for brides and family members to examine. I didn’t want them to miss out on personally examining all of the small touches. It was fun to observe their faces lighting up as they brushed their fingers over luxe fabrics with surprising textures, whether rich brocade or slippery silk. But I had to admit I didn’t miss ferrying around the heavy tomes I used to use, the massive three-ring binders groaning with sketches and swatches. Couples still got to experience a glimpse of the styling of their big day with precise place settings at wedding tastings, their five senses stimulated with a representative meal.
And that was the experience I’d designed for Olivia and her family. I swelled with pride as Rachel and I ferried minute portions of a meal perfect for the springtime feast Olivia and her fiancé, Toby, had requested. We’d assembled a cucumber, citrus, and dill roulade for the salad course. Next was ginger mahi-mahi with grilled root vegetables for the main dish, followed by a citrus-and-berry angel food wedding cake. The food and theme seemed somewhat discordant, all light and effervescent springtime amidst the explosion of evergreens and cheery Christmas decorations, while outside the chilly wind whipped around the grounds. But we’d suspend disbelief and be transported to a sneak preview of Olivia and Toby’s big day. We placed the dishes on the sideboard in my office and awaited our guests.
The doorbell clanged, and I ushered in Olivia’s parents and grandparents. Olivia’s mother, Goldie March, was as quiet and dignified as always. Her dark hair was done in a sophisticated chignon, her brown turtleneck sweater dress subdued and refined. Olivia’s father, Alan, was more animated. The tall man gave me an affable hug, his wire-frame glasses slipping down his nose, his gray hair perfectly coiffed.
“Goldie? Like Goldie Hawn?” Rachel’s smile faltered when Olivia’s mom dropped her hand like a hot coal. Mrs. March may have shared her name with the celebrity, but her affect and style were the antithesis of Ms. Hawn’s. Goldie March was buttoned up and staid.
“Yes,” Goldie admitted, her face somewhat dour. “It’s short for Marigold. We have a tradition of botanical names for the women in our family.”
I hadn’t met Olivia’s grandparents and smiled at the older couple who emerged behind Goldie.
“I’m Clementine March, Olivia’s grandma.” The woman before me shrugged off her sporty, silver parka and hood with a flourish. She had pretty silver hair, cut in a short, spiky style. I blinked in the light of the hall’s chandelier and realized the tips of each spike had been dyed a vibrant green. Someh
ow Clementine March avoided looking like an exotic southwest cactus and had landed in the territory of bold, grandma chic. Large diamond studs twinkled in her ears. The rest of her attire was understated, close-fitting black exercise garb.
“Clementine! I had no idea you were Olivia’s grandmother!” Rachel squealed and rushed forward to exchange air kisses with the older woman, who dispensed with formalities and gave my sister a hearty hug. “Clementine is my favorite yoga instructor at Bodies in Motion.”
“And Rachel is my best student!” Clementine bestowed a fond look on my sister. Both women were tall, and their styles were similarly bold. Clementine had finished her all black, beat poet yoga getup with blinking Christmas light earrings. My sister and Olivia’s grandmother were two peas in a pod, style wise.
“And I’m Olivia’s grandpa, Rudy March.” The most arresting guest of all shrugged off a large Sherpa coat. He took in the bird chandelier, a fixture formed of concentric rings of glass birds chasing each other around and around. He next scanned the colossal Christmas tree and let out a low whistle.
I felt like doing the same. He was the spitting image of a Norman Rockwell Santa Claus, complete with a shiny bald head, thinning white hair, a voluminous snowy beard, tiny spectacles, and a jolly affect. The man looked like he’d just come to life and walked off a holiday edition Coca-Cola can.
Rachel and I hung up our guests’ coats in the small vestibule to the left of the door. We ushered Olivia’s family into our shared office and took seats on the poofy chintz and striped furniture arrayed around a low, walnut oval table. And we began our wait for the bride.
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