Murder Beneath the Mistletoe

by Ruby Loren

  “Oh! It’s a…” She shook the round item and it tinkled a little when something inside moved around. “It’s a bell?” she asked.

  George nodded. “You guessed it! It’s from around the time when St. Nick was actually alive, so I thought it appropriate. They’re quite common, actually, but I thought that this one seemed special. It is in fact my professional opinion that this bell fell from the harness of a reindeer on Christmas Eve, a long, long time ago. I’ve written that, too… see?” he said, pointing to a little certificate beneath the bell. It was signed ‘George Strauss, Chairman of the Little Wemley Amateur Archaeological Society’. Holly looked up at George and grinned.

  “That’s amazing. I only hope I can come up with something this good. I’ve been thinking all day, but nothing. Hopefully inspiration will strike tomorrow morning,” she said, and was about to run a nervous hand through her hair before she remembered she’d practically glued it into place with hair spray.

  “Jacket,” she said and ran off, only to return a moment later.

  George’s eyes slid up and down her dress and Holly blushed again. “You look lovely by the way,” he said, helping her on with her jacket.

  She breathed in the scent of verbena and grapefruit that he carried around with him and tried to calm herself down. She was a professional pianist and a private detective. She was a very capable and intelligent woman. She could definitely handle being the date of one of the company directors at George’s work do.

  “Um, George… what exactly does your company do?” she asked, realising - with horror - that she had no idea. To be fair, there hadn’t been time to ask. They’d both been busy trying to work out who was killing off members of the Amateur Archeological Society and convince the police that they personally weren’t guilty. That had been the last time they’d spent any ‘quality’ time together.

  To her relief, George laughed.

  “Oh, don’t think I’ve been holding out on you. It’s deadly boring. We’re an indie graphic design agency. It’s all pretty mundane, which is why I have my hobbies,” he said.

  Holly gave him a small smile. She was lucky enough to get to do exactly what she wanted to do full-time. She wondered if she could figure out a way to ask George if he’d ever thought about taking his hobbies further. She hated to see people stuck doing something they didn’t love - even if it was for good money. Holly got into the car and shook the thoughts from her head. Unfortunately, life decisions like that could only be made by the person themselves. To her, it seemed that some people even actively avoided pursuing their dreams.

  They pulled up outside the Carson Hotel in Orton Hills, twenty or so miles away from Little Wemley. Holly got out of the car and instantly felt the nerves build in her stomach again. She could see couples walking up the steps. It was definitely a black tie occasion. Should she have worn something longer than her cocktail dress?

  “I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone,” George said, taking her hand and pulling her after him.

  Holly fought against the worries that popped into her head. Why was he so eager to introduce her to people? Was there some ulterior motive here? She racked her brains, wondering if the company had a use for a pianist or a private detective. She’d been in newspapers. Was that it? Was George treating her as a celebrity guest? Maybe he just likes you and is proud to say he’s on a date with you, Holly thought, surprising herself with a sudden lack of skepticism.

  George's company was a lot bigger than he’d let on.

  Holly had assumed that his graphic design agency consisted of maybe ten people, tops, but there were at least 100 in the room. She supposed if they’d all brought partners that meant George’s company employed around 50 people - probably more. It wasn’t bad at all for someone who was clearly only in their late twenties.

  “Holly, this is Janet, Marlene, and Cleo. They’re our admin and HR department. Basically, they run the company," George said, suave as ever.

  The three woman laughed politely and one jabbed George in the waist. She quipped back; “If that was the truth, you’d pay us more!” Now it was George’s turn to laugh, but Holly detected it was all in good fun. Even so, she couldn’t help wondering how much George himself made from his business. By the size of the company, and its obvious success, she’d wager it was quite a bit. Not that money is a good reason to like someone more! she chided herself. Some people dreamed of landing themselves a wealthy other half, so that they could never work another day in their lives, but Holly knew she would never retire. She’d keep playing piano until her fingers stopped working, and she’d keep working as a detective until Miss Marple appeared to be a young whippersnapper by comparison.

  George gently slipped an arm around her waist as they moved to the next group. Holly felt a jolt of excitement run through her. She immediately noticed a couple of women that they were approaching throw her appraising looks. She wondered if she’d measure up and then remembered that she wasn’t meant to care about other people’s opinions.

  “This is Holly. She’s a very talented pianist and a very great friend,” George said, his eyes warm. It was a lovely introduction, but Holly couldn’t help but feel disappointed by being introduced as a ‘friend’.

  “A pianist? That must be an interesting job. You’re a professional?” A man with rose-gold hair and a charming smile asked.

  Holly knew better than to bite his head off. People often found it hard to believe you could make an okay living just by playing the piano.

  She knew singers had it worse. Most people thought they could sing, so why should someone be getting paid to do something they could surely do as well themselves? She tried not to think about the number of times she’d seen people demand that a singer let them do a song, or even grab the microphone out of a singer’s hands. All Holly had to put up with was young piano learners, and if she played at a family event, she always let them have a go. As far as she was concerned, whoever paid her the money to play was the boss.

  Holly smiled back at him. “Yes, I’m a professional, but that used to leave me with quite a lot of free time, so I set up my own private detective agency.” She couldn’t help boasting after the man’s natural skepticism. Eyes around the group widened, and Holly realised she was the centre of attention.

  “Hey, we’ve got a pianist playing tonight! I’m sure you’d be better. Why don’t you get up and play one?” another man in his thirties asked.

  Holly couldn’t let this one slide as easily as the first man’s remark. “That pianist is here tonight to do their job. I’m afraid it’s not polite to step in. It’s also my profession. Maybe think of it this way,” she said, realising her words were coming across all wrong. “Let’s say you’re a graphic designer and you’re at an event that used graphic design work done by another designer. Only, when you’re there, people notice you are also a designer and ask you to do some designs of your own - even though they’ve employed another designer for the event. That would be weird, wouldn’t it?” she said as lightly as possible.

  Fortunately, George was there to save her. “Don’t mind Liam… he probably would whip out some of his own designs if that situation ever occurred,” George said in her ear, using a carrying whisper. People around the group chuckled. Liam grinned a little shamefacedly.

  “I don’t know about the rest of you, but why are we asking about piano playing when being a private detective is way more exciting? No offence,” a woman with mid-length black hair quickly added.

  “I’m a bit of a detective myself,” a redhead cut in. “Just the other week, my neighbour’s cat disappeared without a trace. I was able to figure out where it went. Of course, I didn’t get paid for it, but what’s a good deed amongst friends?” she said, deliberately self-deprecatingly.

  “That’s wonderful, Lizzie! How did you know where it was?” Yet another lady said while the woman next to her, who was wearing a shimmering light blue dress, tried to hide her smile. Holly immediately got the impression that Lizzie had a habit of
drawing attention back to herself and everyone there knew it.

  “Hey, I think I heard about one of your cases,” a man with a ridiculously posh voice piped up. Holly prepared her fixed smile, knowing it was Horn Hill House that he was thinking of. “You found that emerald, didn’t you? I’m friends with the Uppington-Stanley family. They said the way you handled the case was… unique,” he finished politely.

  Holly tried not to sink into the ground with shame. The case of the Enviable Emerald had resulted in her finding the gem, which had been apparently impossibly stolen from a locked and guarded room. However, along the way, the police had suspected her of being a fraud and hadn’t taken her seriously - until they’d uncovered the criminal history of the maid.

  All in all, it was a case that Holly would rather no one knew about. She was actually glad this time when Lizzie piped up, only to be shut down by one of the two watching women. Holly picked up that they were called Lauren and Lana. She hoped none of the office women possessed initialed mugs, or they’d be forever fighting over them, and it looked like they had enough to fight over already.

  Holly was still smiling politely as the battle raged over who was the best detective, while Lauren and Lana picked holes in everything. She’d started to daydream about what might happen between her and George later (if anything) and didn’t notice anyone sidling closer to her until someone took her hand. She glanced down when she felt the stranger’s palm against her own, and the crumpled piece of paper that he’d just transferred to her. By the time she looked up at his face, he had already turned and walked back through the crowd, his dark hair the only distinctive feature Holly could pick out.

  With George and the others still engrossed in the banter, she un-crumpled the piece of paper and read the neat and curling script.

  * * *

  I must speak to you urgently about a case. Meet me beneath the mistletoe in five minutes. I need your help.

  * * *

  Holly re-read the note a couple of times, wondering if she should be worried. Was it some kind of joke that the whole office was playing on her? Or was it a transparent attempt to get her alone beneath the mistletoe? She considered the secretive way the note had been passed and her inability to identify the man who’d passed the note, but could get no closer to a conclusion. Was he in danger? And was she about to walk straight into it?

  She turned to George, who was still happily arguing with the man with red-gold hair.

  “…George,” she said, hoping to gain his attention, but he was mid-conversation and unwilling to stop. Holly gave up and wondered what to do. A couple of minutes had already passed. She looked above the room and located the sprig of mistletoe, which had been suspended from a chandelier. She thought it was next to the drinks table, but couldn’t see through the crowd to know for sure.

  “I’m just getting a drink,” she said in George’s general direction and didn’t wait to see if he’d heard her.

  She started moving through the crowd, politely nodding and excusing herself as she slowly made progress. Before she could reach her destination, someone else got there first.

  A scream cut through the tinkling piano and gentle hum of conversation. The crowd in front of Holly parted, and she saw a woman drop a champagne glass. The glass and liquid mingled with the champagne and shards that were already on the floor, lying beneath the body of a dark-haired man.

  On the Naughty List

  Holly’s hands fiddled with the crumpled note. She and the other guests stood in hushed silence. The company’s first aider had tried to attend the man, but anyone could see that there wasn’t a flicker of life left in his body. Foam bubbled at the corners of his mouth. Holly already had her suspicions as to what may have killed him. She was willing to bet that there was poison in the shattered glass of champagne.

  Were you the man who passed me the note? Holly wondered and concluded it was almost certainly the same man. All she had to go on was the dark hair, but surely it could be no coincidence that a man who had handed her a mysterious note talking about a case and claiming he needed help had ended up dead beneath the mistletoe a few minutes later? Murdered, she mentally corrected herself. He’d been murdered beneath the mistletoe.

  “Listen up! The deceased is Timothy Marsden. You will all be interviewed and give statements. This death is being treated as suspicious. You will also make yourselves available for further questioning in the future. That means no Christmas Caribbean holidays. No exceptions,” a familiar voice barked.

  Holly winced and tried to keep her head down. She supposed she should have seen it coming. They were still quite close to Little Wemley, and a probable murder case would be handed over to someone who had the relevant experience.

  Someone like Detective Chief Inspector Stephan Chittenden.

  “I can’t believe anyone would kill Tim. I know you don’t know him, but he was a good guy. Christian and I were literally just talking about him,” George whispered in her ear. Holly nodded when he continued to say how he had no clue why someone would want to kill Tim, and might it have been an accident instead? Perhaps it was a freak aneurysm, or a heart attack? Holly just kept nodding and chewing on her lip.

  She was going to have to show the police the note.

  She really didn’t want to.

  Even in a room filled with other people, you can’t hide forever. Holly’s decision was taken from her.

  “Holly Winter - I suppose I should have known you’d be here,” Stephan Chittenden said, giving her a withering look.

  Holly bristled, tempted to remind the impolite detective that she was the one who’d helped him solve the last murder case he’d worked on. She’d even nearly died in the process.

  “Let me guess… you’re not a part of this. You don’t know any of these people. You didn’t do it. But you’ll be sure to stick your nose in anyway,” Chittenden continued.

  “She is a private detective!” a male voice piped up from the crowd. Holly wished he hadn’t spoken. Chittenden’s face was turning redder by the second.

  “I’m here with George. This is his office Christmas party,” she explained, and George sheepishly joined her.

  The detective rubbed his face with his hand.

  George tried not to wilt. He’d been the prime suspect when someone had started killing off members of the local Amateur Archaeological Society. Being present at another suspicious death, well… it wasn’t ideal for proving innocence.

  “I don’t believe it,” was fortunately all Chittenden had to say, before turning back to his assisting officers and motioning that they should divide up and start taking statements.

  Holly took a deep breath and walked closer to Chittenden, nervously tapping him on the shoulder. “I, uh, was handed a note by a man a few minutes before Timothy died. I think it might have been from him,” she said, thrusting out a hand containing the crumpled paper.

  Chittenden looked at it disdainfully, took it, and then glared at Holly. “This note makes it sound like whoever gave it to you was in deep trouble. The sort of trouble that you should go to the police about.”

  Holly raised her hands defensively. “I thought it might be some twisted joke! I was going to meet him to find out.”

  Chittenden rolled his eyes. “Of course you were.” He pointed towards one of his colleagues. “Go give your statement to Rivers. I don’t want to see either of your faces again tonight. It’s almost Christmas, dash it all,” he added in an undertone. Holly found it was a sentiment she could empathise with. She’d been looking forward to the party with George, and it had turned into yet another crime scene.

  She glanced at the body, lying on the glass shards in a pool of spilled champagne. A man in a white plastic-looking suit was bending over him.

  “Suspected cyanide,” Holly overheard him say to another officer.

  Holly and George gave their statements and then headed home. George dropped her off without a word, even when Holly asked him if she could do anything for him. She knew he was in some ki
nd of shock, but he’d just raised a hand and driven off, leaving her with an empty house and an even emptier feeling inside.

  It’s got to be someone else at the office, Holly thought.

  It was approximately four in the morning on Christmas Eve, and she’d been lying in bed with her eyes wide open for hours. She knew she should be leaving the case to the police, but the case wasn’t willing to leave her alone. After all, if Timothy had been the one to give her the note (and she assumed that was the case) he’d wanted her to be involved.

  She was thinking back to the way the note had been passed prior to the poisoning. Timothy must have got himself a glass of champagne, and his drink had to have been poisoned - just moments before he’d drunk it. No one else at the party had died, and they’d all been drinking the same champagne, so it stood to reason that her theory was correct. It was even more likely that he’d been passed a drink by someone he’d thought he trusted. Someone who he worked with.

  Holly racked her brains, trying to position everyone, but she found it was impossible. There were too many people and she didn’t know them all. Anyone could have killed Timothy Marsden.

  Holly nearly jumped out of her skin when her mobile phone started to ring. “Hello?” she said, her eyes not adjusting enough to read the name on the screen.

  “I think Timothy was blackmailing someone,” George’s unmistakable voice said. Holly breathed in and held it. “It’s definitely murder, isn’t it?” George carried on, sounding depressed.

  “I’m starting to think so,” Holly confirmed. “The note he passed me suggested he needed help, so perhaps whoever he was blackmailing decided that enough was enough.”