While Atticus “Kit” Holt didn’t possess Ryan’s movie-star looks, he was far more attractive to me in every way. Even better, his mother had named him after her favorite fictional character: Atticus Finch. Our respective moms would finally meet at Christmas. I was certain the two bibliophiles would get on splendidly.
“Now that we’ve got our food order out of the way, I want to run something by both of you,” Tess began. “David and I came up with a great idea today while we were at the studio.”
“As soon as the lake-effect snow began to fall,” he said.
Although we could see nothing but darkness and snow, we all glanced out the window beside our table. If visibility had been better, we would have had an excellent view of the Oriole River and the marina. On clear nights, we could also see the stone lighthouse at the end of the river channel, which emptied into the huge expanse of Lake Michigan. Even with all the snow, I caught a glimpse of its red rotating light.
“What’s your idea? Something Christmas related?” I perked up.
“Is there anything Christmas related you haven’t done yet?” Tess eyed my Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer sweater. “Except for playing Santa and performing in A Christmas Carol?”
“Knock one of those off the list. Andrew convinced me to play Jacob Marley in this year’s production at the Calico Barn. You know my mother’s obsession with A Christmas Carol. They’ll be thrilled to learn I’m appearing in it. Too bad they won’t get here until Christmas Eve. Luckily, our last performance is a matinee that day.”
Tess looked skeptical. “You’re really in the play?”
“A last-minute thing. Now I have to scramble to learn my lines. Opening night is Tuesday.” I glanced up as our server approached with a pitcher of beer. “That was fast. Especially on such a busy night.”
The two big dining rooms of The Wiley Perch were packed, and the noise level high. I spotted owner Hiram Wasserman speaking with a table of customers by the bar, while his daughter Amber played hostess. Like every other business in town, the place had been lavishly decorated for the holidays. Being Jewish, Hiram included both Christmas and Hanukkah decorations. I loved the plethora of white lights twinkling along every cornice and window. He must have more fuse boxes than The Berry Basket.
We devoted the next few moments to pouring pale Michigan ale into our pint glasses.
Once I enjoyed my first taste, I asked, “Can I hear about this big idea?”
“David and I thought the four of us should take a trip together right after the New Year,” Tess explained. “Things slow down then. It’s a perfect time to head somewhere warm.”
“How about Mexico?” Kit said. “My sister and Greg honeymooned at the Solmar Resort in Cabo. Greg claims they ate their weight in ceviche while they were there.”
“I love ceviche.” Tess sighed. “Especially with shrimp and avocado. We should go.”
“But not only for the appetizers,” David added. “I’ve heard Cabo is fantastic for snorkeling.”
“I’m in. I’ve never been to Mexico.” Scarfing down ceviche while sunning on the beach sounded perfect. Especially in January. I gave everyone a questioning look. “Should we do this?”
Kit lifted his glass. “Cabo San Lucas gets my vote.”
Tess grinned. “We’re headed for Cabo and a mountain of ceviche.”
“That was easy,” David said. “Now we just have to coordinate our work schedules.”
Tess leaned over the table. “Before we get sidetracked by the trip, I want to know how you came to be playing Jacob Marley.”
“Did they choose you because your name is Marlee Jacob?” Kit’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Because you’re too young and beautiful to play Jacob Marley.”
“And you’re not a man,” David said. “Just saying.”
“The entire Cabot family believes my casting will drum up interest. Not that the play needs it. Tickets always sell out for A Christmas Carol. I’m a bit of extra trimming. Like tinsel.”
“But Everett Hostetter has played Marley every year for almost a decade.” Tess seemed puzzled. “How did they get him to step aside?”
“I’m relieved,” David said. “Rehearsals and performances must have exhausted him.”
“He seemed in good shape for his age,” I said.
David didn’t look convinced. “I thought he looked frail.”
“That man is indestructible,” Tess announced. “He’ll bury us all.”
“He wasn’t as indestructible as you thought,” I said. “Everett Hostetter is dead.”
“Dead!” David looked almost as surprised by this news as Janelle had.
“Are you sure?” Tess asked.
Kit sent me a curious look. “I didn’t grow up in Oriole Point, so enlighten me. Do all residents expect to live an unusually long time?”
“Except for the occasional murder victim,” David said in a wry tone.
Kit frowned. “Yes, except for that.”
“Everett Hostetter did seem spry for his age,” I told him.
“I don’t think he missed a single city council meeting,” David said. “Same with school board meetings. He always had a grievance to air.”
“Gillian told me that Hostetter was the one who wrote all those letters of complaint to her dad’s paper. The ones signed ‘A Disgruntled Citizen.’ ”
“That was Everett Hostetter?” Tess asked me. “Although I don’t know why I’m surprised. He had such a cold, unfriendly expression. I never saw him smile.”
“And he seemed to have about as much personality as our lighthouse,” I added. “Not that Everett ever shed much light. A gloomy guy.”
I described how Gillian found him at the museum, with Kit adding a few details. “He appears to have been eating gingerbread cookies when he passed,” I concluded. “At least he died happy. Assuming Everett Hostetter ever felt happy.”
“What was the exact cause of death?” Tess asked.
“I’m guessing his heart gave out.” I took another sip of ale. “Kit and the paramedics didn’t think there would be an autopsy. Unless the family asks for one.”
David looked at Kit. “Why no autopsy?”
“Depends on the circumstances,” Kit said. “Under Michigan law, the family can request an autopsy if they believe the death appears suspicious. Relatives usually want answers if a death occurred during a medical procedure. An autopsy also takes place if the death raises legal issues. Often families want to know if death resulted from a genetic problem they should worry about.”
“An autopsy must be required sometimes,” Tess said.
Kit nodded. “In cases of a possible suicide or murder. Deaths resulting from an injury, fall, poisoning, et cetera. When a healthy child or adult not under a doctor’s care suddenly dies. Or if doctors suspect a person died from a disease that might serve as a threat to public health.”
“None of which seems relevant to the death of Hostetter.” I sat back as our appetizer arrived. “Which means it’s unlikely there will be an autopsy.”
Everyone spread napkins over their lap and prepared to share the breaded zucchini.
“Better for the family.” Tess reached for a zucchini. “An autopsy is not something you want to deal with during the holidays.”
“Or ever,” David muttered.
“How much family did he have?” I wondered. “Aside from his nephew.”
“Anthony Thorne moved to town with his uncle nine years ago,” David said. “I remember because they bought the house my cousin Neal was interested in. From what I can see, it’s only the two of them. Although I’ve seen Anthony with a fair number of women.”
“What does the nephew do for a living?” Kit asked.
“Financial consultant,” David replied. “My friend Craig hired Anthony Thorne several years ago to help him with his portfolio. I asked Craig about it because I considered talking to a financial advisor, too.”
“Because we’re so rich.” Tess giggled. “I convinced David it was a waste o
f money.”
“Was Anthony Thorne any good?” I asked.
David made a face. “My friend said Anthony’s fees were exorbitant. And some of the investments Anthony made for him lost a great deal of money. To make things worse, Craig’s credit card information got stolen around that time. He suspected Thorne had something to do with it, but couldn’t prove it.”
Kit and I exchanged troubled looks.
“Anthony can’t be the only relative of Everett’s,” Tess said.
I thought a moment. “I should ask Diane Cleverly. She got quite upset last night over Everett’s death. She also implied that she and Everett were on friendly terms. I’m wondering if it was romantic.”
“Sweet, kindhearted Diane Cleverly with that stony-faced old man?” Tess shook her head. “I don’t believe it. Unless she took him on as a charity case. No one in Oriole Point volunteers for as many charitable causes as Diane.”
“The Hostetters aren’t from around here,” David said. “A long time ago, Everett came to our studio to see if we could repair a stained-glass transom window. He said it came from his former home in Grosse Pointe Shores. The house he grew up in.”
“I remember that window.” A dreamy look came into Tess’s eyes. “An exquisite piece dating back to 1910. Everett mentioned how every room in the mansion contained at least one window of stained glass. And, yes, he used the word mansion.”
As everyone in Michigan knew, Grosse Pointe was home to some of the most impressive mansions in the metropolitan Detroit area. A place where the giants of the automotive industry such as Henry Ford built their estates. Premier among the Grosse Pointe suburbs was Grosse Pointe Shores, known as the wealthiest town in Michigan.
“If Everett lived in a Grosse Pointe mansion, he probably had a pile of money.” I turned to Kit. “Maybe the police should request an autopsy. To make certain there was no foul play.”
“Even if he was rich,” Kit replied, “there’s nothing suspicious about his death. The man was ninety-five.”
“Rich elderly people do die,” Tess said in a stage whisper. “They’re not all murdered.”
I sighed. “You’re right. Too many recent murders have skewed my thinking. If I’m not careful, I’ll start sounding like Gillian. She believes the play is cursed.”
“That was true four years ago when Carl Fitzbaum played Ebenezer,” David remarked. “He forgot all his lines.”
“Carl finally brought his script onstage and read from it,” Tess said. “At one point, the actor playing Bob Cratchit hit Carl on the head with Tiny Tim’s crutch.”
Kit laughed. “I’m sorry I missed that production.”
“Me too,” I added. “I might like a little slapstick to go with my Dickens.”
“Especially this year, with our perennial Jacob Marley dead,” David said.
“A shame he didn’t get the chance to take his final curtain call.” I did not pretend to mourn the passing of Everett Hostetter. Still, any death is a loss. I now understood Gillian’s shock and dismay. Everett hadn’t expected to die last night. A disturbing reminder that death could come for any of us without warning.
Kit speared a zucchini. “His nephew said he’d inform the rest of the family.”
“Whoever they may be.” I enjoyed my own Parmesan zucchini. “And it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that one of those relatives might request an autopsy.”
“If so, I’ll be the first to hear about it,” Kit said. “The Hostetter death has been assigned to me. Not that I expect there to be anything to do but fill out the report regarding the death.”
“Why wouldn’t Hostetter’s death be assigned to the Oriole Point police?” I asked. “The historical museum is within town limits. Doesn’t it fall under their purview?”
“Let’s just say there’s a conflict of interest involving your local police.”
This startled me. “What do you mean?”
“It’s Officer Janelle Davenport.” Kit hesitated before adding, “She’s Everett Hostetter’s daughter.”
Chapter Five
“Tie me kangaroo down, sport!”
I looked up from the script of A Christmas Carol. “Be quiet, Minnie. Mommy’s trying to learn her lines.”
I was also trying to figure out how none of us had realized Janelle Davenport was Hostetter’s daughter. How frustrating to learn Kit had no further information on the subject.
“Be quiet!” came Minnie’s reply. “I’m the boss. Kiss, kiss.”
With a resigned laugh, I got up from the loveseat and went over to the perch where my voluble African grey parrot held court. Smoothing her feathers, I planted a kiss on her beak.
She responded with several lip-smacking noises, then added, “Give me cashew.”
“You’ve had too many this morning.” I tapped the silver dish of raw vegetables attached to her tall perch. “Eat a few veggies first.”
Minnie let loose with a catcall whistle, her attention drawn to the black kitten who pounced onto the cushioned seat of the bay window. “Kitty, kitty, kitty!” Minnie exclaimed before doing her best imitation of Panther’s meow.
I returned to my comfy seat on the loveseat, determined to focus on the play.
Andrew lied when he said I only had thirty lines. I counted fifty-seven. Some lines long enough to qualify as paragraphs. I hoped to memorize half of them before rehearsal tonight. So far, I had committed ten to memory. But I’d forgotten how distracting my animal companions were. Almost as distracting as the revelation that Hostetter was Janelle’s father.
Minnie broke my train of thought by imitating the ringtone of my cell phone.
She was always at her loudest and most talkative in the morning. I adopted Minnie in June from an Australian family moving back to Brisbane. I quickly fell in love with the avian charmer and couldn’t imagine parting with her. However, Minnie required a lot of attention and endless cashews. Along with a cautious eye to make certain she didn’t hop about the house pulling on loose threads of fabric. If I didn’t keep her wings clipped, heaven knows the damage she’d inflict on the house—and my Christmas trees.
While Panther didn’t speak, the kitten made up for it by batting around toys, knocking down ornaments, and climbing up the drapes bordering my bay window. I found the kitten right before Halloween—fittingly in a pumpkin patch. Orphaned after his mother had been killed, he’d been left to run wild. How could I not take this adorable fur baby home? But I couldn’t break him of the habit of playing with every ornament on my trees. Since I put up four artificial Christmas trees, this provided lots of feline activity.
And next week I had an excursion planned to the tree farm to chop down a live Scotch pine. I knew five decorated trees might seem excessive, but I had a house big enough to hold far more. And I waited all year to smell the delectable fragrance of a fresh pine tree in my house.
For the moment, all my trees were safe as Panther stared out the window. I wasn’t sure at what. Lake-effect snow had fallen all night, and was predicted to continue through the weekend.
After taking a big sip of French-roast coffee, I announced, “Now back to the script.”
There had been no need for Andrew to give me a script. When I compared it to my battered old copy of A Christmas Carol, I realized the theater group had lifted every line of Jacob Marley’s from Dickens’s story. At least no one could criticize the playwright.
As Minnie launched into a chorus of “Jingle Bells,” I focused my attention on the longer passages of my part. I closed my eyes and recited, “ ‘It is required of every man that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit does not go forth in life, it is condemned to—’ ”
A high-pitched bark broke my concentration.
“Marlee, where do you put obraztsy kraski?”
I counted to ten before turning my attention to Natasha Rostova Bowman, my Russian friend and current houseguest. She stood in the entrance to the living room. At her feet sat Da
sha, her Yorkshire terrier, who added an affronted bark.
Although I didn’t speak Russian, living with Natasha for the past two weeks had acquainted me with her most often-used phrases.
“I do not know where your obraztsy kraski are. And they’re called paint swatches in English. You need to refer to them as that when you get around to speaking to the painters.”
“Obraztsy kraski. Paint swatches.” She rolled her large almond-shaped eyes at me.
Despite the early hour and that she still wore silk pajamas and a fleece robe, she was already in full makeup. It was like living with a Kardashian. “Painters do not care as long as I pay them. So where is big box of swatches?”
Minnie’s singing grew louder, almost drowning out Dasha’s barks. I would never learn my lines if this kept up.
“I don’t know. You’re the one always carrying them around. You and your friend with the fanciful decorating ideas.”
“Katrina is not fanciful.” She gave me a suspicious look. “What is fanciful?”
“Unrealistic, exotic, too imaginative.”
“Imagination is good! Exotic, too. People say I am exotic.” She tossed back her lustrous mane of dark brown hair. If Natasha had a better command of the English language, Suzanne would probably cast her as the Ghost of Christmas Past. “I cannot have person with dull ideas help me with Peacock. It will be best spa in Michigan.”
I didn’t know if her spa would be the best, but it might be the most costly. For the past few months, I’d heard constant updates about the construction, design, and decoration of Peacock. I thought she should rename the spa Versailles.
“Then you may want to hire someone focused only on decorating. Not a former Miss Washington/feng shui specialist/psychic medium.”
Natasha held up a manicured finger. “Is good to be so many things. Shows she is raznostoronnly. What you call versatile. You must be raznostoronnly to win beauty contest. I know this. I am beauty queen, too.”
Natasha never tired of reminding people of her beauty pageant past. It wasn’t vanity. She regarded her contest victories to be as crucial to her success as other women might regard a college degree. And who could blame her?
Hollyberry Homicide Page 4
