A Winter Tail of Woe

by Addison Moore

  “Me? What about the sheriff’s department? Actually, my husband is the lead investigator in this case, and I’m sure he—”

  “I’m sure he can’t do as good of a job as you.” Her lips twitch to the side. “Sorry. I don’t mean to insult your husband. I’m sure he’s a decent guy. I mean, he landed you and all. But I’ve seen your track record. And I know how passionate amateur sleuths are in general. There’s no red tape for you to get caught up in. You can move faster, with more anonymity. I’ll help you every step of the way. But with or without you, I’m going after whoever’s done this to my sister—to me.”

  My lips press tightly as I consider this. “Okay. But I’ll take it on only because you’ll be working with me. I’m sure together we can solve this in half the time. It’s not every day you have the intended victim right there to hand-feed you vital information.”

  “And I will.” She cringes a bit. “I also have to ask you a huge favor. You see, until I know who did this, I can’t keep Acorn with me. I hear you have a pet daycare center and—”

  “The answer is, I will gladly keep Acorn right here with me. Give me your number. As soon as I hear anything about anything, I’ll call you.”

  She nods. “I’ll be taking a few days off, and then I’ll have to open up the Haunted Book Barn again. It’s our bread and butter, and we’re barely making ends meet as it is. Please call me anytime, day or night. And thank you for taking care of Acorn.”

  She rises and heads to the door, giving her curly-haired pooch a firm embrace.

  “Be good for Mama. I love you.” She plants a kiss right on Acorn’s forehead. “I can’t thank you enough for this, Bizzy.”

  “Not a problem,” I say, opening the door and a few stray snowflakes blow right inside. “Morgan, did you have any recent disagreements with anyone? Who do you think could have done this?”

  She shoots a dark look out into the night. “I don’t know who could have done this. I don’t really know who I had any real disagreements with.” Or at least they weren’t all that recent. “I guess we should start with Fern. We’re good friends mostly. She sings bluegrass for a living and has some uber-wealthy boyfriend who flies back and forth from South America. She’s convinced she’s on the brink of hitting it big. But she always seems to run into a problem with that. And I guess you could say there was a little tension between us.” A lot of tension, but I don’t see why I need to light that match tonight. “Let’s see what the coroner has to say first.”

  She puts her hair back into a bun before taking off into the snowy night, and I watch as she jumps into her car, which is most likely Mabel’s, and speeds away.

  “Just wait until Jasper hears about this one,” I say just as a pair of headlights come down the street and pull into the driveway.

  I tell Jasper all about Morgan and her need to keep quiet.

  We ponder the irony and the tragedy long into the night.

  The next morning, and well into the snowy afternoon, I’m swamped at the reception desk, checking in new guests and checking out the old. Thankfully, I have Grady and Nessa, two of my trusty employees, helping with the onslaught. They’re both recent college grads who have worked with me forever, and I’m secretly hoping they’ll stay on indefinitely. Not much has changed since I inherited the inn last December. We’re still wearing the forest green vests as a part of the dress code. Nothing around the inn has changed either. I wanted all of the employees to feel safe now that there’s been a change in ownership, so I’ve been slow to implement anything new.

  “There’s no way you’re in the red, Bizzy.” Grady blows out a breath once the foyer clears for a moment. “We’ve got more guests than we know what to do with.” Grady Pendleton is a dark-haired looker of Irish descent. He’s turned more than his fair share of female heads around here on more than one occasion.

  “I wish it worked that way,” I say. “We’re still way under the mark for this time of year.”

  “You’ll come up with something, Bizzy,” Nessa says while giving Acorn a hearty pat on the head. Nessa is a brunette beauty who also happens to be Emmie’s cousin. “Might I suggest you go easy on the dead bodies? A corpse is a natural deterrent for most people.”

  Both Grady and Nessa share a dark laugh.

  “Very funny,” I say as thoughts of Morgan Buttonwood come to mind. Jasper said he’d text me as soon as the toxicology results were back and I’m hoping it’ll be soon. I’m always curious when it comes to poisons. There are so many unknowns. I hope the poor girl didn’t suffer much. I know for a fact she didn’t suffer for long.

  Grady shakes his head. “No sooner did I step into the café yesterday to catch a glimpse of the taping than the poor woman dropped dead.” Not that I’m going to confess to having had a mean crush on her. I was sort of hoping we’d meet and hit it off. I haven’t missed one episode of Murder, Mayhem, and Baking since it began, and I wasn’t watching for the grisly factor. Nope. Morgan Buttonwood was the girl for me. I should have warned her not to come to the inn. I’m practically responsible for this disaster. Note to self: no hot chicks should come within a hundred yards of this place.

  I guess Grady will be pleasantly surprised when he finds out Morgan survived her own assassination. That is, if she was assassinated at all.

  I give Fish a quick stroke on the back as she lounges on the marble reception counter. Both Fish and Sherlock Bones are the official greeters of the inn, and for now Acorn is included in the mix.

  The inn has marbled gray wooden floors, dark wooden paneling on the walls, and a sweeping staircase that leads to the second level where the rooms are located. There’s a grand foyer with large mahogany doors, and to the right there are expansive windows that run the length of the lobby that lead all the way to the ballroom.

  Emmie hustles this way from the café, and in her hands is a platter of powdered sugar-dusted confections.

  “I hope you don’t think it’s too morbid, but I baked a batch of snowballs this morning. And they’ve been selling out like nobody’s business.” No sooner does she plunk the platter down than Grady, Nessa, and I each snap up a handful.

  “Mmm, so good,” I moan. “I can see why they’re selling out. They’re so buttery and they practically explode in your mouth.”

  Grady shakes his head while he swallows his down. “That’s not why they’re selling out. Morgan’s viewers have been baking them in honor of her all morning. I follow her feed. And her fans have been flooding the café to see the place she took her last breath.”

  “Great.” I give a few wild blinks. “I mean, I get it. People want to pay their respects. I’m just hoping this doesn’t disrupt the guests.”

  Acorn makes his way around the counter and Emmie gasps at the sight of him. “Bizzy Baker Wilder! How could you not tell me that I was in the presence of labradoodle cuteness? Hey, this isn’t Cinnamon, is it?” She gives a nervous laugh as she leans in for a closer inspection.

  Fish mewls, You’d think her labradoodle radar would have gone off sooner.

  I’m not quite sure how the animals understand one another, but they always seem to and I’m glad about it, too.

  Sherlock barks. That’s because our cuteness was eating up the signal.

  “That’s Morgan’s dog, Acorn. It’s sort of a long story, but he’ll be with me for a while.”

  “Oh my word”—Emmie coos as she takes him in—“Acorn is an exact duplicate of Cinnamon. I’m going to have to run to my cottage and bring Cinnamon down to meet her twin.”

  Acorn barks. Can’t wait to meet her. I’ve been on the hunt for a good-looking cutie for a while now.

  Sherlock barks once again. Sorry, buddy. She’s taken by a golden retriever named Gatsby. But I bet she’ll wrestle with you for fun. She likes to knock things over and growl and bark. You’re gonna love it.

  Fish yowls my way, I’m sure the guests will love all the growling and barking, too.

  There’s nothing better than a cat with a sharp wit and a penchant for sa
rcasm. Some days she’s the only thing that keeps my sanity together.

  Sherlock barks at a couple heading into the foyer, and we look over to see my brother, Huxley, and his new bride, Mayor Woods.

  Mackenzie Woods, Emmie, and I used to be a part of an unbreakable trio way back when. In fact, I guess you could say this little supernatural quirk of mine is all Mack’s fault. When we were thirteen, she pushed me into a whiskey barrel filled with water. It was Halloween and that watery prop was destined to become the hub for the bobbing for apples event. But Mackenzie had far more sinister fun in mind.

  She held me under and darn near cost me my life. Four things came out of that disastrous afternoon. One, I’m deathly afraid of confined spaces. Two, I’m not exactly a fan of large bodies of water either. Three, Mackenzie Woods and I have never been the same. Four, it was that very day I began to hear the prattling going on in people’s minds without so much as an invitation.

  Just a few months back, Mackenzie confessed that it was my own brother who dared her to dunk me.

  Figures.

  My demise somehow played a part in their love story. And speaking of love story, I’m curious what the newlyweds are doing back so soon.

  “Shouldn’t you be on your honeymoon?” I ask as I make my way around the counter and offer my brother a quick embrace. Hux is a divorce attorney, an area he’s personally familiar with from both sides of the table. Mackenzie makes wife number four in his collection of matrimonial mistresses. He gets this particular odd quirk from my father.

  Hux has dark hair and denim blue eyes, and Mackenzie is a chestnut-haired beauty with long tresses and a short temper.

  He glances to his bride. “Mack couldn’t get her sea legs, so when the ship docked for the first time we took off.”

  “Wow,” Emmie says, thrusting that platter of snowballs their way. “Have a cookie. I think the two of you deserve it.”

  Mackenzie looks green just looking at them. “Emmie, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure.” Emmie hands the platter my way and the two of them take off toward the window.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to my brother who looks dapper in a dark coat with a few stray snowflakes dusting his shoulders. Both he and my father opted to take their new brides on honeymoon cruises. Hux chose the coastal seaboard, while my father whisked Gwyneth off to the Caribbean. “I didn’t think Mackenzie got seasick. I mean, her father owns that big boat, and she’s been cruising around the Atlantic in it for years.”

  “I know. I guess the cruise ship threw her for a loop. Odd, since it’s way smoother than that tugboat she grew up on.” He takes a deep breath. “Anyway, we got wind of what went down here yesterday and she was livid.”

  “She was livid? Why? Did she lose her life over it, too?” I make a face at the thought of Mackenzie being livid.

  “No, but she’s afraid Cider Cove is going to lose its reputation. And you should be worried, too. This has gone far enough, Bizzy. You can’t just have one homicide after another take place on the grounds and not expect consequences.”

  “Hux,” I nearly choke as I say his name. “It couldn’t be helped. Besides, the jury is still out. The poor thing could have died from natural causes.”

  My phone buzzes and I fish it out of my pocket. It’s a text from Jasper.

  It’s an official homicide. An organic botanical compound called curare was found both in her bloodstream and the water bottle we procured from the scene. Heads-up, I just let her next of kin know.

  Hux takes a breath as he finishes reading the text right along with me.

  I think back and distinctly remember several people handling that water bottle. Fern, Hollis, and Colt all touched it at some point in time.

  “Well then, Bizz,” Hux says. “The jury just delivered its verdict. It was murder.”

  I glance past Mack and Emmie as they whisper among themselves while staring out at the snowy afternoon.

  It looks as if my investigation just got its green light.

  First order of business, hunting down Morgan Buttonwood’s most trusted friend and assistant, Fern Tuttle.

  Morgan might be alive and well, but Mabel Buttonwood is dead for the simple reason of mistaken identity. I bet with Morgan’s help we can solve this case posthaste.

  I know for a fact Fern Tuttle is a bluegrass singer. Here’s hoping I can get her to sing like a bird myself.

  Chapter 5

  It took more than just my sleuthing skills to track down Fern Tuttle.

  I didn’t want to bother poor Morgan while she mourns this tragic development in her sister’s death, although I think we both saw it coming. Instead, I took a walk down Main Street and invoked three sleuthing masterminds to help me out.

  Okay, so the mastermind part might be a tad bit of an exaggeration, but nonetheless Georgie, Juni, and my mother.

  It turns out, Fern Tuttle and her band, Biscuits and Gravy, are performing tonight at a club in Whaler’s Wharf that overlooks the Atlantic called the Merry Frog.

  Typically, I wouldn’t haul my mother out to investigate anything with me, but once she heard Georgie and Juni whooping up a storm over the good time they were about to have, she wanted in on the action. And here we are, standing in front of a building that looks as if it was constructed solely out of driftwood with a blinking neon sign in the shape of a frog wearing a skirt and a pair of cowboy boots.

  Juni belts out a catcall at a small crowd of bikers walking out of the establishment and they catcall right back at her.

  “Let’s get inside,” I say. “Before Juni leaps onto the back of one of their motorcycles and we never see her again.”

  “Is that a bad thing?” Mom lets the words fly from the side of her mouth.

  “Just a minute,” Georgie says, rifling through her wonky tote bag. I have to admit, the pieced quilt wonder is awfully cute. I’ll have to pick up one or three. “No one has to worry about disappearing with a hunky biker to his pleasure palace. I’ve got this.” She pulls out a small metal object, and it takes a minute for it to register before Juni, my mother, and I are all quick to scream at the sight of the Midnight Special menace.

  “A gun?” Mom swats Georgie on the arm. “Are you crazy?” she riots. “What do you think you’re going to do with that thing?”

  “Have you met your daughter?” Georgie riots right back. “She’s a killer magnet, Preppy. I hopped over to the pawn shop in Edison today and picked up this beaut. His name is Thor. Just wait until you see what he can do.”

  Georgie fires off a couple of shots and a series of screams erupt all around us, but let’s be honest, mostly from us.

  “Get in there.” Mom yanks the three of us into the establishment with herculean strength before she shoves Thor into her purse.

  “Hang on there, Toots.” Georgie dives for Mom’s bag. “You can’t steal my man.”

  A wrestling match ensues and I do my best to yank them apart.

  Juni rattles something pink in our faces and shouts, “I’ve got mace!”

  All three of our bodies stop moving.

  “That’s exactly what we need,” Mom grunts as she takes a full step back.

  “At this point blinding me senseless would be an improvement for the night.”

  “Nobody gets maced,” I hiss over at Juni. “And Georgie, I don’t know how I feel about you running around with a loaded weapon.”

  “Don’t worry, Biz”—she winks my way—“I loaded Thor with rubber bullets. If the suspect starts to give you trouble, just hold up a finger and I’ll take aim.”

  Juni juts her head forward. “Which finger?”

  Mom rolls her eyes. “Do you need to ask?”

  I give a quick glance around the foyer of the Merry Frog with its dark stained floors and walls. A sign above the door reads Native American owned and operated. There’s an orange and blue Southwestern style rug under our feet and framed on the walls are pictures of exotic plants, cornfields, hot deserts, mountains, plateaus, and more Southwestern pr
ints in bold colors. I take a step forward and examine one of the botanical pictures, a heart-shaped leaf that looks like ivy.

  Here’s hoping the Merry Frog serves more than lawn clippings. Thor’s explosive temper has really worked up an appetite in me.

  A brunette in a frilly green skirt and a tight green sweater offers to seat us and leads us into a spacious room where it’s dimly lit, smells like all things deep-fried, and the sound of cheery bluegrass music makes me want to rock to the beat. A large square in front of the band acts as a dance floor, and it’s brimming with bodies while tables dot the periphery.

  Mom leans my way. “Do you see her?”

  I crane my neck toward the stage. “No. But according to her social media, she’s performing live tonight.”

  Mom makes a face. “Do me a favor, Bizzy. Don’t put your whereabouts out there where just anyone can find you. There are nutcases running around on the loose, armed with guns named after a fictional superhero who shoots rubber bullets.” She dips her chin. “I wouldn’t want to test that rubber theory, if you know what I mean. Knowing who we’re dealing with, there’s probably enough silver in those bullets to take down an entire herd of werewolves.”

  Juni gives a wistful shake of her head. “I’ve taken down a werewolf or two with a whole lot less.”

  We take a seat and quickly peruse the menu.

  The waitress wags her pen our way. “Tonight’s special is half off a bucket of legs.”

  “We’ll take two,” Georgie shouts, and just like that, the waitress takes off.

  “And a round of water,” Mom shouts after her before turning back to Georgie. “What did you do that for?” Mom moans. “Those are probably frog legs for all we know.”

  Georgie smacks her lips. “Why do you think I asked for two?”

  A couple of shadows darken our table, and we look up to see not one but two beefy older men in flannels and jeans and enormous silver belt buckles with etchings of deer and snakes.