Hollyberry Homicide

by Sharon Farrow

  Dean chuckled. “A festive touch.”

  “Since the previous Marley just died, I’m not sure how festive the audience will be.”

  “Don’t be a spoilsport.” Andrew joined Gillian at the table, having had the courtesy to bring her a coffee. “By the way, you have too many lights. You’ll blow a fuse again.”

  “I have less lights than last year. It will be fine.”

  “Maybe Marlee is worried about stage fright.” Gillian decided to take a different tack to dissuade me. “If she’s shy about going onstage, you shouldn’t force her.”

  “Shy?” Andrew asked. “Marlee? You two have met?”

  He and his brother enjoyed a good laugh.

  “I’m not shy,” I said. “Or nervous about being onstage. In high school, I belonged to the drama club. During my senior year, I played Chava in Fiddler on the Roof.”

  It had been a lively production, and I had been quite good in it. If I hadn’t majored in marketing, I might have pursued a drama degree. Good thing I hadn’t. My life had seen more than enough drama this past decade. I didn’t need the added theatrics of an acting career. It was one reason I’d left my career as a TV producer in New York City and returned to my hometown. And what I hoped would be a calmer life. So far, that hadn’t been the case.

  “We’re in a bind, Marlee,” Andrew said. “Opening night is in less than a week.”

  “Everyone in town knows you,” Dean chimed in. “They’ll want to see Marlee Jacob perform as her namesake. And I’ll promote it big-time on Instagram and my blog.”

  “You only appear in the beginning of the play,” Andrew added. “After you warn Scrooge about the other ghosts, you can relax backstage until it’s time for the curtain call.”

  “How am I supposed to learn all my lines by Tuesday?” I replied, surprised that I was considering it. “Not to mention the staging?”

  “You appear in just one scene. And you have thirty lines, tops. See for yourself.” Andrew pulled a script from his tote bag.

  Gillian jumped to her feet. “If something happens to her because of this play, I’m going to blame both of you. And, Marlee, you’ll regret not taking my advice.” She stormed past me.

  After Gillian slammed the door behind her, I turned to the Cabot boys. “Wow. I’ve never seen her like that.”

  “The dead body last night rattled her.” Andrew took another sip of coffee. “If she’d found as many as you have, the poor girl would need to be hospitalized.”

  “You should do it, Marlee,” Dean said. “Hostetter’s death throws a shadow over the production. Casting a young woman with your name in the role serves as a distraction.”

  Despite my mother’s fondness for Dickensian names, I also was a fan of A Christmas Carol. I loved every incarnation of the story, from the classic movie with Alastair Sim to Bill Murray in Scrooged. A woman as Jacob Marley would be one more tweak to the famous tale.

  “Fine. Only don’t blame me if the town thinks this is the height of miscasting.”

  The two brothers high-fived.

  “Okay, everyone.” I went over to the switch by the front door. “Prepare to be dazzled.”

  I flipped the switch. The shop blazed with hundreds of sparking lights. Then they flashed off. I clicked the switch several times. Nothing.

  “You blew a fuse again,” Dean announced, stating the obvious.

  “I love Christmas, too,” Andrew said. “But you overdo it.”

  “I refuse to believe there is such a thing as too much Christmas.”

  “I beg to differ,” Dean said. “As one example, your latest blown fuse.”

  “Don’t forget the five pounds I’ll put on after eating my way through all the holiday parties.” Andrew looked happily resigned to that pronouncement.

  I didn’t bother to mention another example of what might also be termed too much Christmas. Or at least too many Christmas cookies. The death of Everett Hostetter.

  Chapter Three

  Determined to hang my hollyberry Christmas lights, I convinced the shopkeepers on either side of The Berry Basket to allow me to use their outdoor outlets. I already had too many exterior lights plugged into mine. Now, thanks to their neighborliness, tiny red lights twinkled along my window boxes and decorative wooden shutters.

  When I stood back to admire my handiwork, snowflakes began to fall. Denise Redfern, owner of the Tonguish Spirit Gallery next door, knocked on her front window to get my attention.

  She pointed at the drifting snow and mouthed, “Snow!” She looked delighted.

  I gave her a big thumbs-up. The past week had brought falling temps, but this was the first real snow. A brief dusting two weeks ago didn’t count.

  Every retailer in Oriole Point looked forward to this. Our downtown had been decked out with garlands, lights, Christmas trees, illuminated menorahs, and wreaths since Thanksgiving weekend. As always, the decorating committee did a wonderfully extravagant job. The annual Christmas tree put up in the village square near city hall was taller than any in my memory. Yet the early December days often reached fifty degrees, with accompanying sunshine. This made it difficult for my fellow Michiganders to get in the holiday spirit.

  But once snow blanketed our village, it became a scene worthy of Currier & Ives. One that encouraged visitors and residents alike to begin shopping in earnest.

  As the wind blew from the lake, I tightened my knit scarf. Today was the first time I’d worn my thick winter parka this season. Up to now, a light quilted jacket had sufficed.

  I looked up and down Lyall Street, pleased at the number of shoppers who strolled along the main thoroughfare of Oriole Point. And on a Thursday, too. The village only held four thousand inhabitants, but our scenic location on the shores of Lake Michigan made us a prime tourist destination, especially in summer. Oriole Point boasted one of the most beautiful coastlines in all the Great Lakes, drawing beach lovers and boaters from around the world.

  It was also a favorite spot for Midwesterners. Chicago was a two-hour drive south, and countless others visited from the other side of the state. Not surprisingly, most people who relocated to Oriole Point originally hailed from the Windy City or metro Detroit.

  The snow drifted down, covering my wooden planters filled with evergreens and pinecones. If the weather predictions were correct, we were in for days, if not weeks, of lake-effect snow. I stuck out my tongue, trying to catch snowflakes as I had when I was a child.

  “A word of advice,” a mocking voice said. “Standing outside your shop with your tongue stuck out won’t drum up business.”

  I turned to meet the sardonic gaze of Officer Janelle Davenport. That in itself was amazing. We didn’t often catch a glimpse of her eyes. Janelle liked to wear aviator sunglasses, even on cloudy days. She once remarked that it made her look intimidating.

  “Merry Christmas to you, too,” I said with little enthusiasm.

  Aside from Chief Gene Hitchcock, Janelle was the only full-time member of our small police department. A competent officer, Janelle had earned the respect of our police chief. However, I found her abrasive, suspicious, and irritating. I suspected she held the same opinion about me.

  She gestured at my shop exterior. “Overdecorating as usual, I see.”

  “Everyone else likes it.” To prove my point, I smiled at three women with shopping bags who now approached.

  One of them called out, “The store looks fantastic.”

  Although the three ladies lived in suburban Chicago, all of them kept second homes here. We’d gotten so friendly, we sometimes met for lunch when I went to visit my parents.

  “Even prettier than last year.” Another woman nodded at my lights, garland, candy-cane decals, and Christmas gift baskets on display in the front window.

  “Thanks.” I gave them all a quick hug.

  “Love your toy soldier, Marlee,” the third lady added. “Is it new?”

  “Found it at an estate sale last month.”

  The six-foot-tall nutcracker soldier
who stood guard beside my shop entrance had cost a small fortune. But I couldn’t resist, even though the red-garbed figure weighed so much, it took four of us to put him into place. I feared I might have a problem finding volunteers to help remove him when the holidays were over. On the positive side, not even the strongest gust from the lake would knock him over.

  “You’ve all arrived at a perfect time. Our free jam tasting begins in ten minutes. And Theo baked crumpets for the event.” I gave them a welcoming smile as they trooped inside. I heard Dean call out a greeting before the door closed behind them.

  I threw Janelle a smug grin. “Told you. People love my decorations.”

  “Looks garish to me.” Janelle took a sip from her thermos. She spent a lot of free time downing caffeine at Coffee by Crystal, our local version of Starbucks. I marveled that her hands didn’t shake.

  Since she wasn’t in uniform, Janelle must be off duty. I wondered if she was getting her Christmas shopping done. Although I had never seen her with a single shopping bag from a downtown store.

  “In town to check items off your gift list?” I asked.

  “No. I returned late last night from driving my sons to Milwaukee. My ex has them until Christmas Eve, then he flies them back Christmas morning. And he better not be a day late. Or I’ll have him up before a judge before he can say ‘Happy New Year.’ ”

  If I were Janelle’s ex-husband, I’d make a special effort to have those boys home in time. “It’s a great opportunity to finish your Christmas shopping. All the downtown shops are running holiday sales.”

  She took another sip from her thermos. “I do my shopping online. Who has time to wander in and out of stores?”

  “I’m glad not everyone agrees with you.” Although I also did a brisk business online via The Berry Basket website. But I didn’t blame Janelle. She was a single mom with two sons and a full-time job. Running my business left little opportunity for me to go shopping as well. And while I didn’t have children, my talkative parrot and energetic kitten required a healthy amount of attention.

  An uncomfortable silence followed.

  “My jam tasting starts soon,” I said finally. “Come in and sample a few. I have several less common jams, including lingonberry and thimbleberry.”

  “No thanks. I’m sure they’re as overpriced as everything else in your store. I’ll stick to Smucker’s.” But she made no move to leave.

  Okay. I’d done my best to be civil. “Well, I guess I’ll finish setting up my overpriced jams. Maybe mark them up a dollar or two.” I didn’t bother to conceal my sarcasm. “Unless you had another reason for stopping by. Maybe you’d like to criticize my haircut.”

  “Calm down. I happened to be across the street when I saw you putting up more lights. I haven’t checked any town ordinances, but you might have exceeded your limit.”

  From her expression, I sensed she wasn’t entirely joking.

  “Come back when you find out.” I slapped my hands together to warm them up. “For now I intend to enjoy the holidays and my decorations.”

  “Oriole Point goes mad over Christmas. And that tree is a danger to the public.” She glanced at the Christmas tree in the village square.

  The town viewed our annual live evergreen as Oriole Point’s version of the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, which meant it had to be of an impressive size. This year, the committee had been too ambitious. The gargantuan tree fell twice during installation. And had fallen twice since. It towered over the other downtown buildings, leaning precariously with every gust from the lake.

  “It is larger than our normal tree,” I admitted. “But you know Piper. Anything to top the last event she put together.”

  “The woman is as much a hazard as that tree,” Janelle grumbled.

  “Piper might have gone overboard this year,” I reluctantly conceded.

  A member of Oriole Point’s founding family, Piper Lyall-Pierce held a lot of sway. She was also married to the mayor. And as the head of the Tourist and Visitor Center, Piper never stopped finding new ways to celebrate the lakeshore and our town. I viewed her life as an endless series of committees, task forces, and holiday festivals. To paraphrase: this was Piper’s town; we just happened to live in it.

  “If that tree falls on a tourist, Oriole Point will be in for a major lawsuit. All because you people can’t stop decorating.” Janelle’s expression turned scornful. “And you’re one of the worst offenders. Since you’re so crazy for Christmas, I’m amazed you aren’t performing in A Christmas Carol at the Calico Barn. Seems right up your alley.”

  “Actually, I am. The Green Willow Players drafted me this morning. They needed an emergency replacement for one of the actors.” I shrugged. “I don’t blame them, given my name.”

  She looked wary, as if I were trying to put something over on her. “What are you talking about?”

  “Marlee Jacob. Jacob Marley. I’m surprised Suzanne and her amateur theater group didn’t think to use me before this.”

  “I’ve lived in Oriole Point for nine years, and every year Everett Hostetter plays Jacob Marley. Did Suzanne finally decide it was cruel to expect such an old man to be part of the production? If so, it’s about time.” Janelle tipped back her head to enjoy a long sip from her thermos.

  “His time was up, but not in the way you think. Everett died.”

  Janelle did a perfect spit take, and I tried not to laugh.

  “Are you serious?” she said, ignoring the coffee she had spilled over her jacket.

  “Of course I am. He was found dead last night.”

  “Found dead! Where? How did he die?”

  News of Hostetter’s death had startled her.

  “Gillian, Kit, and I went to the historical museum for the opening of their toy train exhibit. Right before closing, Gillian spotted Everett unconscious on a bench by the restroom. We called EMS, but he was already gone. Since he was in his nineties, his heart probably gave out.”

  She looked off into the distance and murmured, “Everett dead. Everett?”

  Then she surprised me by laughing.

  “You find this funny?”

  Janelle shot me a sharp glance, as if for a moment she’d forgotten I was here. “I guess I thought he’d live forever. The man acted as if he would, too.” The hint of a smile appeared. “But he was wrong, wasn’t he?”

  “He almost did live forever. In five years, he would have turned a hundred.” A blast of wind from the lake made me shiver. A four-block stroll down Lyall Street led you right onto the Lake Michigan beach. “How well did you know him?”

  Those suspicious eyes narrowed at me. “I don’t see how that’s any business of yours.”

  “Seems a natural question, given your reaction to his death.”

  “My reaction?”

  “You acted shocked by the news.” I paused. “And amused.”

  Janelle shook her head. “I don’t know why I waste my time talking to you.”

  Before I could respond to this unfair remark, Janelle brushed past me. She hurried down Lyall Street toward the white clapboard building housing the police station. More than one shopper stepped out of her way.

  I had never been able to figure Officer Davenport out. Today she had confused me more than ever. She reacted too strongly to the death of a man who had not been a beloved figure in town. A man I wasn’t even aware she knew well.

  Even worse, she seemed happy to learn he was dead.

  Chapter Four

  I didn’t often order a cheeseburger at The Wiley Perch. Because the Great Lakes supplied the beach towns with some of the best perch in the country, most restaurants had it on their menus. But no one served up the delectable lake fish better than The Wiley Perch.

  Tess Nakamura, my best friend, looked at me with surprise after I ordered a cheeseburger and truffle fries. “You always have the perch strips and smashed garlic potatoes.”

  “Feeling in the mood for red meat.” I handed my menu to the server. “Anyone like to split an ap
petizer?”

  Tess turned to David Reese, her longtime boyfriend. “Breaded Parmesan zucchini with the herb dip?”

  David nodded. “Sounds fine to me. Don’t know what Marlee and Kit want.”

  “I never turn down anything with breading or Parmesan on it,” Kit replied.

  I laughed. “Lucky for him he’s dating a girl who’s half-Italian.”

  “Oh, I know exactly how lucky I am.” Kit hugged me close.

  Tess gave a mock sigh. “Young love. We were like that once, weren’t we, hon?”

  “Don’t listen to her. We still have our moments.” David ruffled her hair. “Lots of them.”

  Tess and David Reese met as students at the Rhode Island School of Design twelve years ago. They’d quickly become a couple, professionally and romantically. The gifted pair of glass artists now owned Oriole Glass, which operated as their studio and gallery. They also owned a home a few blocks from my lake house. Although not married, I didn’t know of a couple more committed to each other. David and Tess were my role models when it came to romance. And this time I may finally have chosen right.

  I watched with an air of contentment as Kit joked with David and Tess about whether they should order a pitcher of craft beer. It made me happy to see the three of them get along so well. That hadn’t been the case with my last boyfriend. Instead, Ryan Zellar preferred spending most of his time at the family orchards, surrounded by relatives. I was one of the few outsiders he and the Zellars had admitted to their circle. A circle far too suspicious of outsiders.

  Despite a few misgivings, I surprised myself last winter by accepting Ryan’s proposal of marriage. I soon learned I’d been right to have doubts about Ryan as a trustworthy life partner. Our breakup this past summer had been painful, but inevitable. However, I didn’t nurse a broken heart over it. At the same time, I discovered I had feelings for a slightly husky investigative detective with curly brown hair and chocolate-brown eyes.