Marry Christmas Murder

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “They throw these homes up fast.” Lot after lot had been carved up in precise rectangles, set off with fluorescent stakes and surveyor’s string. Backhoes had carved out basements on some lots, while others had poured concrete slabs and skeletal wooden frames rising up from the snow and mud.

  “Unbelievable,” Truman muttered under his breath as we pulled up to a lot, neatly parceled off just like the others with surveyors’ string. A small crowd had already amassed, trampling on the boundary in their quest to get a glimpse of the back. “People like to listen to the police dispatches.”

  This plot was still largely barren, located at the back of a cul-de-sac. Houses in various states of build hulked around it. I stood back as Truman left the car and brusquely made his way through the small throng of people. The nosy nellies parted like the red sea when they recognized the chief. I realized how it looked driving to the scene with Truman. I kept a respectful distance, though I longed to follow Truman to the back of the property.

  No matter, it was easy to surmise what had happened. A backhoe stood poised and ready to resume digging. A worker in a hard hat excitedly gesticulated to Truman, pointing to the ground and a trash bag and then a tarp where a single long bone lay in repose. It looked large, possibly a femur. I felt a wave of nausea overtake me.

  “Maybe it’s a cow or something,” a bystander hopefully put in.

  “Nah. That’s a human bone. I’m taking an anatomy class this semester. I’d know that anywhere.” A college-aged girl next to me squinted at the bone and explained her reasoning in excruciating clinical and macabre detail.

  The cul-de-sac was nearly filled with parked cars. I recognized a reporter and photographer duo from the Eagle Herald advance on the scene. Goldie and Alan Marches’ Lexus came screeching to a halt in front of the piece of land, barely missing the ever-growing crowd. Clementine and Rudy’s Land Rover was not far behind. Justine, my mother’s assistant stager, sat in their backseat.

  “I told you not to dig there!” Clementine was apoplectic. She blanched as all assembled swiveled their heads to hear her proclamation that seemed tantamount to a confession of murder. She thrust her bag through the open car window at Justine to hold while she waved her hands around as she shouted. “Not because I thought there’d be a body! That’s ridiculous.” She shook her head, sending the green tips of her hair waving and her green bead earrings swiveling like mad. “This is where I have my wildflower and butterfly garden!”

  Interesting.

  The patch of land used to build a house had actually been used by somebody in the March family. It hadn’t just been fallow land.

  “Now, now, it’s okay, dear. We’ll get this all sorted out.” Rudy was still in friendly Santa Claus mode. He rubbed his wife’s back through her thin yoga hoodie and waved away the remains of the corpse, as if a flick of his fat fingers could make it all go away. “That probably isn’t even human. Lots of people sneak on our land to hunt. I bet it’s the remains of a recently fallen deer. A big buck, probably.” It was good Rudy was keeping his calm demeanor in this situation. But I assumed he would soon be proven wrong about the origin of the remains.

  Clementine allowed herself to be partially soothed. “Yes, yes, the matter of the body.” She screwed up her forehead in thought. “Who would dump that in my butterfly sanctuary? And who authorized phase two to leak onto this part of our property? Where will the monarchs stop on their way from Canada to Mexico?”

  The group of bystanders was now staring at Clementine as if she’d gone off the deep end. Perhaps fixating on her lost butterfly garden was her way of coping with the inexplicable appearance of a body on the family land.

  Clementine clarified. “What’s really eating me, Rudy, is that this isn’t where phase two is supposed to start. See that little creek?” Clementine pointed to a gully to the right, about five hundred feet to the east of our present location. “I personally approved the zoning and mapping plans for Rushing Creek. And I wanted to leave this little corner for my garden. The last cul-de-sac was to end on the other side of the creek, and not edge into the plot where we are now. Who changed the plans?”

  This got through to her husband.

  “Who authorized this?” Rudy had morphed from kind, gentle Santa Claus to something out of a Christmas horror film. The six-foot-four bear-ofa man could look pretty menacing when he wanted to. “My wife says this development was to start five hundred feet to the east. Where’s the contractor?”

  I noticed Alan become inordinately interested in his shoes. He edged closer to his Lexus as Goldie gave him a sour look.

  A sheepish man, the same one who’d led Truman to the bones, ambled over to Rudy. “Alan changed the plan. I thought he was in charge of this particular development. At least, that’s what he told me.”

  Rudy’s face grew red enough to match his suspenders. He huffed and puffed around the grounds, seeming more akin to the big bad wolf than Santa. “Nice job, Alan.” He dressed his son-in-law down as if he were a recalcitrant teen. “I don’t mind you taking the initiative sometimes, but you need to run things by me and Clementine. This is supposed to be a family business.”

  The power struggles within the March family continued.

  Rudy walked over to the bones and appeared deflated. “God rest his or her soul, whoever this poor person is.”

  “You have no idea how these bones got here?” Truman’s eyes swept over Clementine and Rudy, Goldie and Alan. “They definitely appear human.”

  Justine had remained stone silent as her employers raged around her. She had left the car and now leaned against a tree, her skin pale and translucent in contrast to her dark hair.

  “She’s going to faint.” I made my way over and put my arm around her shoulder.

  “It’s intentional.” Goldie’s voice was clear and calm, with a thread of anger laced through. “Someone moved these bones here to frame us, just like they poisoned Lacey. No one wants us here in Port Quincy. Developing here has been a huge mistake. We should’ve just left our own land here alone.” She burst into a flurry of tears to match the flurry of snowflakes that had just begun. Alan soothed his wife, seeming happy to fuss over her rather than be on the receiving end of Rudy’s outburst.

  A green Malibu came screeching to a halt in front of the crowd. A figure tore from behind the wheel and around the crowd. The woman moved with alarming speed.

  “What the—”

  “Ma’am, you can’t go any further. You need to stand back.” Faith had arrived on the scene, but her instructions and hand held up like a stop sign were no use. Nina Adams ducked and weaved around the officer like a skilled running back and finally reached the bones. She gave out a wild keening roar of infinite sadness.

  “You finally found her. You found my daughter Andrea!”

  * * *

  When I’d left the scene of the housing development, Officer Faith Hendricks had physically restrained Nina Adams from throwing herself on the exposed bones. At first she just wanted to see the remains she was certain were her daughter’s. Then the accusations had begun to fly.

  “You killed my daughter! Now I’m certain of it. In fact, you probably murdered both of them!” Nina raged as her index finger of censure quivered in the air and pointed to the four March family members.

  The growing crowd of gawkers winced as Truman and Faith led a weeping Nina back to her car. Her accusations swirled around in my mind as I headed home.

  I tended to the mundane matters of my business that I couldn’t ignore. I paid some utility bills for my hulking mansion, looked over food orders for upcoming weddings in January, and checked with vendors on open bids. But my heart wasn’t in my work. I was able to do my tasks on autopilot when my real attention was focused on getting my mom out of jail and digesting the new information about the body.

  It would all come down to the body’s identity. Things wouldn’t look good for the March family, concerning Lacey, if the body was truly her sister, Andrea. Maybe Lacey had uncovered the trut
h— as sure as the surprised backhoe operator had today. And the Marches had silenced her for it.

  I chased away the chill of a draft with a heavy crochet shawl. I kept my cell phone nearby as I worked. I’d double-checked the security system before I’d settled in to work in my office and texted Rachel to let her know I was here. I was taking no chances this sinister December.

  The view outside my office window should have cheered me. Delicate flakes twisted down from the sky against an ever-darkening backdrop. The new snow filled in the divots and footprints of the deer, raccoons, and rabbits who had frolicked across the yard after the most recent snowfall. When the clock struck four, I gathered my things to meet with the minister who would marry Olivia and Toby. I wondered if my friend had learned about this newest disaster to befall her parents. And I couldn’t help but agree with Goldie. Maybe the Marches never should have left Pittsburgh. Their splashy entry into Port Quincy as businesspeople, not mere landowners with a hunting retreat, had gone disastrously.

  * * *

  “Thank you for meeting me here.” Pastor George Millen extended his hand. “Especially with this nasty weather.” The older man was clad in a simple rust-colored sweater and jeans, the effect relaxed and welcoming.

  I sank gratefully into the chair before him. I was pretty sure I’d be safe within the confines of his office. “And thank you for agreeing to marry my friend and her fiancé at such short notice. Olivia and Toby are going to write some of their vows but want to keep the main components of a Lutheran ceremony.”

  The pastor and I got to work crafting and nailing down the elements of the ceremony.

  “And Olivia wanted me to apologize for not meeting with you personally.” I bit my lip. “She’s in a bit of a pickle trying to wrap up some career issues all while commuting down here to plan her wedding.”

  The pastor nodded. “We’re all so proud of Olivia. She has turned into an exemplary woman. I hope she finds peace and the life she wants.”

  I hoped so, too. “Were you here when she was found in the manger?” I blurted out my query before I thought better of it.

  Pastor George nodded, a small, sad smile gracing his lined face. “Thirty years ago, this Christmas season. I thank my lucky stars the Marches were the ones to find her. I think about it each season when we put out our crèche. It’s the same set where Olivia was found. Our board has debated updating the nativity each year, but we just can’t seem to part with it.”

  I blinked and considered Olivia’s plea to look into her adoption. “The police never figured out who left Olivia behind.” I let the statement hang in the air.

  George tented his papery hands before him and rested his elbows on his desk. “It’s a matter I’ve reflected on for thirty years. Even so far as to consider who may have been hiding a pregnancy in my congregation.” He held up his hands in defeat. “But to this day I have no idea.” A look of concern flashed behind his round spectacles. “There is one thing that always got me. It was extremely cold that evening. More like a January or February evening. The temperatures were hovering in the single digits. The blanket Olivia was wrapped in was warm, but no real guarantee against that kind of cold. We didn’t have security cameras on our property then, and indeed, we don’t have them today. But I wonder who was so certain that Olivia would be found. If she hadn’t cried out, she could have just slept on, growing colder and colder.” He shuddered at the thought. “It’s like someone knew she would be found. Like it was guaranteed.”

  We wrapped up our meeting with some amiable chitchat, and I turned up the collar of my pea coat against the now whipping wind. It wasn’t as cold as the evening the pastor had described, but it was close enough. The pretty flurries that had graced the ground at the start of our meeting had dissipated.

  I needed to see Garrett. I needed to work out my feelings. The ephemeral nature of our relationship was no longer enough. I’d taken him for granted, and now I wanted permanence. Life was too short.

  Maybe marriage is for me.

  I didn’t just want the pageantry of a wedding. I wanted a gathering to make a formal declaration and shore up a promise between two people, and with Summer, three. I was able to reflect on it all under a cold, clear black sky. There was an icy breeze, yet I was filled with warmth. It was still the December season. A time of family and love. A time for bringing together old friends and new. Everything would be alright. I paused at my station wagon, perched in front of the church at the street corner.

  Not a creature is stirring.

  Except there was a creature stirring. The tiny baby Jesus crafted in wood lay in repose in the snow next to the three wise men. Then what was in the manger?

  My heart beat as I caught a real, fuzzy blue blanket peeking out from the tiny cradle. The kind you would wrap around a real, human baby. I was out of the car in a flash. My footfalls startled whoever was in the blanket. A feeble cry emanated from the little manger.

  It’s happening again.

  My heart sped up as I reached the wooden cradle. I gently lifted back the blanket, eager to get the baby out of the cold and into my arms.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Meow.”

  Hemingway’s doleful amber eyes stared up at me.

  “Oh, thank goodness!”

  The Persian cat was scrunched in a too-small carrier. The blanket wrapped around the mesh pet carrier must have helped a bit to keep the cat warm now that the sun had dipped below the horizon, but I hustled to get him out.

  “The judge sure will be happy to have you back, buddy.” I unzipped the door to the carrier and the cat nimbly stepped out on his snow-white paws. His purr erupted as he rubbed his snub-nosed face against mine. He appeared to be in good health.

  Except for his ear. The little furry scrap of skin was wrapped in a tiny bandage.

  “Who hurt your ear, little fella?” I carefully pet his head without brushing against the white bandage, with its small amount of blood seeping through. I debated whether to call Truman. A found cat was not an emergency. Judge Frank might think so, but I didn’t. Then again, someone had consciously mimicked the circumstances in which Olivia had been found thirty years ago. The situation did not trump finding a skeleton, but Truman had to know.

  I took the purring Persian to the Butterscotch Monster and cranked the heat. Hemingway pranced around on the bench leather seats, giving practice scratches with the polydactyl paws that had inspired his name.

  “You’re lucky this upholstery is already shot,” I murmured to the big cat as he dug his nails in. He answered me with a soft meow.

  “This had better be good.” I could hear Truman’s near growl even through the rolled-up window.

  “I found Hemingway.”

  If Truman rolled his eyes any harder, they’d jounce from their sockets. “Mallory, I have more important things to do than fetch the judge’s lost cat back to her. I thought you had some sense, but now I’m not so sure.”

  I patiently let him go on and pointed to the soft fleece blue blanket still in the manger. “Hemingway was in that carrier, in that blanket, wrapped just so in the manger. So that when you heard him meow, you’d think he was a baby.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s a horse of a different color.” Truman set off to examine what was now to be considered evidence.

  Half an hour later, I had been officially deputized to take care of Hemingway. Truman had to get back to the station to pull some overtime associated with the found remains. I headed north of Port Quincy to the fancy animal hospital located a stone’s throw from the highway. They had an emergency department that consented to examine Hemingway under the unusual circumstances.

  “Let’s take a look at him.” The veterinarian gave me a reassuring smile as he gently palpated the white cat. Hemingway was a pretty chill guy and consented to the examination with nary a hiss or meow.

  “And you didn’t put this bandage here?” The vet bent in to examine the gauze before he gently removed the tape.

  “Nope. That’s why I�
�m here. To find out if Hemingway is okay before I bring him back to Judge Ursula Frank.”

  “Ah, yes.” The vet smiled and gestured to the corkboard within the examination room. “She begged us to put those up.”

  I stared at Hemingway’s visage in black ink on fluorescent green card stock. I vaguely wondered if the judge would take down all her fliers now that Hemingway was back.

  “Well, Mr. Cat, you seem to be in fine health. I’d bet you’ve been inside and cared for these whole two weeks. You’re fat and happy and seem none the worse for wear.”

  I had to agree, as Hemingway was purring again.

  “Now let’s just see what’s under here.” The vet pulled the gauze with infinite patience as it slowly unrolled from the cat’s ear.

  “Hm. It appears his microchip was removed.”

  “Microchip?” I stared at the small nick on Hemingway’s now naked ear.

  “This little guy had a microchip implanted in his ear. The judge did mention it. If someone had found him and not recognized him, a shelter or veterinarian could scan his ear, learn his identity, and reunite him with his owner.”

  It was a clever system. So long as no one absconded with your cat and removed the microchip.

  “Do you have pets? You should consider getting them microchipped.”

  We discussed the procedure, and I left the animal hospital but not before I’d made appointments to have Whiskey and Soda microchipped. There were two openings on Christmas Eve, and I thought, why not get it over with? By then the hullabaloo from Olivia’s family, a situation I’d begun to categorize as March Madness, would be done.

  I made my way to one of the grand Victorians not far from my own home. I’d decided not to put Hemingway back in the cramped carrier, and besides, Truman wanted it for evidence. I advanced up the path to Judge Frank’s porch with the big fellow resting placidly in my arms, his six-toed little paws happily kneading them.

  “Mallory. What brings you here?” The judge fumbled with her lock and chain. She hadn’t yet seen Hemingway.