Hollyberry Homicide

by Sharon Farrow

  ’Tis the Season for Sleuthing

  “Sorry for bursting in on you like this,” Diane said. “Only I thought you’d like to know I did send obits to the papers. You might want to tell Gillian, too. After all, both of you found his body.”

  I didn’t see how finding a dead body required further involvement. Gillian refused to even mention the incident. And I had no business concentrating on anything but A Christmas Carol.

  “Anthony resented his uncle,” Diane went on. “At times, I thought he even hated him. I’d suspect foul play if Everett hadn’t passed away at ninety-five. I still might.”

  I told myself to let this all go. But that was about as likely as telling Minnie to stop singing, “Ba-ba-ba ba-ba ba-ran.”

  “I agree there’s something strange in all this, Diane. But we have no proof of foul play. Especially without an autopsy.”

  “Convenient, don’t you think? Like the speedy cremation.”

  “We can’t do anything about it. But to be honest, Everett likely died of natural causes. And Anthony is simply a greedy relative who will profit from his uncle’s death.” I lowered my voice. “If Anthony did kill his uncle, we can’t prove it.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Diane turned on her heel and marched out of the store.

  Books by Sharon Farrow

  Dying for Strawberries

  Blackberry Burial

  Killed on Blueberry Hill

  Mulberry Mischief

  Hollyberry Homicide

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Hollyberry Homicide

  Sharon Farrow

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  ’Tis the Season for Sleuthing

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Recipes

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Sharon Pisacreta

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  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.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2262-1

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2264-5 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2264-7 (ebook)

  For my sister, Susan Sarpa

  We are the only ones who remember those annual trips

  with Mom and Dad in search of the perfect Christmas tree.

  And how, after hours of parental arguments, they finally

  bought a tree. Only to have Mom announce the next day

  that they had chosen the wrong one.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank my agent, John Talbot, a staunch champion of the cozy mystery. I also extend my gratitude to everyone at Kensington, especially my editor, John Scognamiglio, and the hardworking production and art departments. Finally, I send my thanks across the years to Charles Dickens. Without his wondrous A Christmas Carol, this book could not have been written.

  Chapter One

  “Jacob Marley is dead!”

  I looked up to see Gillian Kaminski beside me. My friend looked too unhappy for someone surrounded by choo choo trains and toy Alpine villages.

  “Don’t get emotional about it.” I smiled. “Jacob Marley’s been dead for about a hundred and seventy years. Also he’s a fictional character.” I returned my attention to the Lionel train chugging along on the table before me. Every few seconds, the green-and-silver train emitted a charming whistle as smoke plumed from its stack.

  I didn’t add that I had been named after this character by my Dickens-loving mother. Like everyone else in Oriole Point, Gillian knew how I came by my name.

  “You don’t understand,” Gillian said. “It’s the old guy who plays Marley in the annual A Christmas Carol.”

  This time I gave her a closer look. She wasn’t joking. “Everett Hostetter?”

  “Yes. I discovered him sitting on a bench near the restroom. And I think he’s dead. But I can’t find anyone who works here.” She scanned the crowd. “Where’s Kit?”

  “I introduced him to the president of the local model-train club. They went upstairs to check out the German antique trains. I’ll run up there and get him.”

  “We don’t have time for that.” Gillian grabbed my arm.

  She pulled me past the toy train layouts blanketing the Victorian house that had long been Oriole Point’s Historical Museum. Once we reached the foyer, Gillian hustled me to the back of the building, It was almost closing time, with visitors making their way to the exit. Perhaps no one but Gillian had discovered the body so far.

  As soon as we came to the end of the corridor, I saw the figure of an old man slumped forward on a walnut bench. I’d been in the museum enough times to know the bench was a replica of a Civil War–era piece on display in a roped-off room upstairs.

  Gillian finally let go of my arm. “Is he dead?” she whispered.

  I knelt before the motionless figure. No doubt Gillian viewed me as an expert on this subject. I had been close to more than one dead body this past year.

  “Mr. Hostetter?” I asked in a loud voice.

  Now that I was right in front of him, I could confirm that it was indeed Everett Hostetter. His head lolled to the side, eyes closed, as if he were napping. I put my hand an inch away from his lips, but felt no breath leave his body.

  Next, I took his wrist. As I feared, he had no pulse. Because he felt warm to the touch, I guessed he had died within the hour. Maybe as recently as a few minutes ago.

  To be certain, I placed my hand over his chest, searching for a heartbeat. I turned to Gillian, who hopped from one foot to the other.

  “Call 911,” I told her. “I’m afraid he’s gone.”

  “How awful!” Behind her wire-rim glasses, Gillian’s blue eyes filled with tears. “The poor man came here tonight to look at trains and now he’s dead. It doesn’t seem fair.”

  Death rarely was, but this wasn’t the time to remind Gillian of it. “Call 911,” I repeated. “Then go to the back parlor where the big Santa trains are set up. That’s the last place I saw Diane Cleverly. She may still be there. As head curator, she needs to know AS
AP.”

  Gillian pulled out her cell phone and hurried off.

  Unlike Gillian, I was not unduly upset. Not only had I been in proximity to death several times, but Everett had had a good long run. He must have been at least ninety.

  I took out my own cell phone and texted Kit. In addition to being a toy train hobbyist, my boyfriend was also an investigative detective with the sheriff’s department. He would know how best to proceed with reporting Hostetter’s death. Although I hated to spoil Kit’s fun.

  While I knew Kit loved trains, I had not been prepared for his exuberant delight at the sight of so many toy trains. I was glad I’d suggested we come to the opening day of the museum’s toy train exhibit, even though we had to wait until our workdays ended.

  Since Gillian worked for me at The Berry Basket, she overheard our plans and asked to come along. I had no idea Gillian was a toy collector, with Thomas the Tank Engine being her longtime favorite. Thankfully, the museum stayed open until seven on Wednesdays, and she eagerly accompanied us after we closed the shop.

  I spent the first hour as a captive audience to Kit’s tutorial about HO scale trains versus O scale trains. Not being his girlfriend, Gillian felt free to wander off on her own. While the train trivia was interesting, I was happy to hand Kit off to the president of the Lake Michigan Model Train Club. As fun as toy trains were, the elaborate layouts and miniature villages intrigued me far more. I’d also discovered the urn of hot cocoa and peppermint cake pops the museum put out for visitors. The evening had gone quite well.

  Until Gillian found a dead body.

  I straightened the collar of Hostetter’s wool coat. It had been left unbuttoned. Leather gloves lay on his lap. Hostetter didn’t look as if he had been about to leave the museum. Maybe he came here to use the bathroom, located just around the corner from the bench. And as an older gentleman, he probably felt the need to sit and rest.

  Placing my hands on the bench, I used it as a support to stand up. This movement disturbed the folds of his coat, which sent one of his gloves to the floor. When I bent down to retrieve it, I spied a gingerbread man cookie on the floor. Or rather pieces of one. Crumbs and cookie fragments lay scattered on the polished wood planks.

  I swept the pieces up in my hand. Not seeing a trash can, I dropped the cookie pieces into my jacket pocket.

  A woman and little girl emerged from the restroom. Both looked startled by the sight of the motionless Everett.

  “Mom, what’s wrong with the man?” the girl asked.

  The woman exchanged worried glances with me. I gave a small shake of my head, replying, “He’s taking a nap. We should be quiet and let him sleep.”

  The girl pointed at the floor. “He dropped his bag.”

  As the mother led her young daughter away, I looked beneath the bench and retrieved a white paper bag. It held two gingerbread man cookies studded with dried candy and trimmed with white frosting.

  A closer examination of Everett’s face revealed cookie crumbs near his mouth. Given his age, a part of me envied Hostetter. I could think of worse ways to go than munching cookies as toy trains whistled from every corner.

  Footsteps sounded on the wooden corridor. I looked up to see Kit striding toward me. “I got your text. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I pointed at the lifeless body of Everett Hostetter. “But he isn’t.”

  I moved aside to let Kit examine the body. A second later, Gillian and Diane Cleverly, the museum’s head curator, joined us.

  Gillian still looked upset, while Diane appeared even more shaken. This surprised me. Diane was an elegant older woman who possessed a serene, unflappable temperament better suited to a Buddhist nun than a museum administrator.

  “I’ve been expecting this.” Diane choked back a sob.

  “Was he ill?” Kit asked her.

  “Everett had health problems, but he rarely spoke about them. And he didn’t care for doctors.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “At least he had a chance to tour the exhibit with me tonight. Although he felt too tired to go upstairs. Considering his age, I should have paid more attention to that. Perhaps questioned him more closely.”

  “Did he mention chest pains? Dizziness, maybe?” I asked.

  She took a deep breath, struggling to get her emotions under control. “No. Only tiredness, which I understand. I’m seventy-six and in good shape. Still, there are days I feel like I’ve been around since the Great Flood. And Everett was much older.”

  “He did seem spry,” I commented. “I rarely saw him use his cane.”

  “Chalk that up to stubbornness and pride,” Diane said. “He should have used the cane, but he always pushed himself. And pushed other people, too.”

  “How well did all of you know him?” Kit asked.

  Diane rummaged in the pocket of her burgundy dress, taking out a tissue. “I met Everett when I was twenty-six, shortly after I earned my PhD in history.” She dabbed at her eyes. “My first position was archivist at one of Everett’s companies.”

  “How many companies did he own?” I asked.

  “A great number. Over the years, he sold off most of them. Three years ago, he accepted a buyout offer for the original company.” She regarded the dead man with affection. “Everyone feared him. Except me. Maybe that was why we got along.”

  I’d always found Diane to be interesting, but now she intrigued me. I was seventeen when the museum board hired Diane as head curator, which was regarded as a real feather in our caps. Not many small regional museums boasted a newly retired history professor from MSU. One with critically acclaimed historical biographies to her credit.

  I wondered about the relationship between Everett and Diane. As far as I knew, Everett was a bachelor. And Diane often spoke fondly of her husband, who died a decade ago. However, Everett came across as an unfriendly crank, while Diane Cleverly was one of the kindest, most charitable women I had ever known. What did these two dissimilar people have in common?

  Kit looked at Gillian and me. “How about you two?”

  “I knew who Everett Hostetter was,” I replied. “But I never had any interactions with him. I don’t think we ever exchanged a single word.”

  “Same here,” Gillian said. “But everyone in town has read his cranky letters to the editor at the Herald.” Gillian’s father, Steven Kaminski, was the editor of the Oriole Point Herald, one of two weekly town newspapers. “Only he always signed his letters ‘A Disgruntled Citizen.’ ”

  “Those Disgruntled Citizen letters were all from Everett?” I asked.

  “Yes. Dad didn’t even print half of them. Mr. Hostetter never stopped being disgruntled.”

  “Everett did tend to be overly critical,” Diane added.

  “I recognize him as the guy who always plays Jacob Marley in A Christmas Carol,” I said.

  “Is this the production Oriole Point’s amateur theater group puts on at the Calico Barn?” Kit was a recent resident along the eastern shore of Lake Michigan.

  “They’re called the Green Willow Players,” I explained. “And A Christmas Carol has been one of their staples for decades. But Everett hasn’t always played Marley. Someone new usually appeared as Jacob Marley when I was a kid. It was only after I went off to college that Everett Hostetter moved here and took over the role.”

  “Everett insisted on playing Marley,” Diane said.

  “I wonder why he didn’t want the lead role,” I mused. “Scrooge is the bigger part.”

  “To be honest, I don’t know how he found the energy to act in any role.” Diane sighed. “They even wrapped him in real chains. He rattled them as he walked about onstage. It’s a miracle he didn’t collapse during one of the performances.”

  The distant sound of EMS sirens greeted our ears.

  Kit stood up. “His next of kin need to be notified that his body has been taken to the hospital. Do you know who that would be?”

  We all looked at Diane Cleverly, who said, “He lived with his nephew, Anthony Thorne. Their house is i
n the Vervain Grove subdivision, near the golf course.”

  Gillian bit her lip. “What do you think he died of ?”

  Diane, Kit, and I looked at each other. “He was an old man,” I said. “It was his time.”

  The entry door to the museum opened as the EMS technicians arrived. When they rushed down the corridor toward us, nearby museum visitors reacted with surprise and alarm.

  While the paramedics began their own examination, Diane cleared her throat.

  “Everett’s nephew is here.” She nodded at the tall, stout man who paused in the museum’s open doorway. “He’s come to drive him home.”

  “Anthony!” She waved to grab his attention.

  Anthony Thorne walked over. “What’s going on, Diane? I’m here to pick up the old man, so I hope he’s ready to—”

  He stopped in midsentence at the sight of his uncle surrounded by paramedics.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Thorne, but your uncle has died,” Kit said.

  Anthony pushed past the paramedic team and shook the lifeless man. “Uncle Everett?”

  “He’s gone.” Diane touched Anthony’s sleeve.

  He seemed confused. “I don’t understand. He just died?”

  “It happens, especially at this age,” a paramedic said. “He may have suffered sudden cardiac arrest, a stroke, even an aneurysm. How old was he?”

  “Uncle Everett turned ninety-five last week,” Anthony said in a dazed voice.

  The two paramedics exchanged knowing looks.

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but he appeared fine when I left for work.” Anthony looked over at Diane. “He said you were going to drive him to the exhibit today. How did he seem?”

  “Same as always. He even brought a last-minute checklist of things he wanted to go over.” Diane turned to us. “As our chief benefactor, Everett oversaw all museum business. He looked forward to this exhibit in particular.”