“Did you know Janelle Davenport was his daughter?” I asked.
“I knew. More than that, I am not comfortable telling you. Even if he’s dead, Everett Hostetter was my client. I must honor client/attorney privileges.”
We munched cashews silently for a few minutes. “Is it really fair to say Everett was like Jacob Marley,” I said finally, “that neither of them could change their lives? Everett gave up his Grosse Pointe mansion and moved to a modest house in a small village. What if he brought Janelle here? And his nephew. Katrina, too.”
Gareth topped off my glass with cider. “Everett’s dead. None of this matters now.”
“Do you think it was a natural death?”
He spilled some of the cider on the counter. “The man was ninety-five years old. Of course he died of natural causes.”
“I don’t know. There’s something funny about all this.”
“Don’t even mention the idea to anyone. I’m serious, young woman. You’ve stumbled into enough trouble this past year. Don’t go chasing after trouble now.”
“So there is trouble if I go looking for it?”
“There’s always trouble around. And Everett Hostetter caused his fair share of it.”
“How?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Gareth threw back his glass of cider as though it were a shot of whiskey.
When he put his glass down, he turned to me with his usual jovial smile. “I think it’s time for you to move along to your shop. I have Christmas cards to write.”
Except the mood no longer seemed jolly. And I feared the upcoming Christmas might feature far too many ghosts. Not all of them on the stage of the Calico Barn.
Chapter Eight
“I miss Minnie,” Gillian announced as a customer left, laden with purchases. “Why haven’t you brought her to the shop this month?”
Focused on painting berries on the new white lanterns, I didn’t look up from my work space behind the front counter. “In the beginning, I let Minnie stay home because I knew Natasha would keep her company. Now Natasha has grown fond of her. The feeling seems mutual. They talk to each other all the time. The other day Minnie kept repeating ‘ptashka.’ ” I smiled. “That’s ‘pretty bird’ in Russian.”
“Exactly how long is Natasha staying with you?”
“Until her condo by the river is finished.” I sat back after painting the last blueberry on the lantern. Only five more lanterns to go.
“I heard the new condo complex might not be complete until spring.”
“I have no idea.” I wiped my paintbrush on a cloth. “Anyway, I offered Natasha a place to stay until her new home was ready. And I didn’t put an expiration date on the offer. I don’t mind. My house has three floors and lots of rooms. We’re not sharing a small apartment.”
“You don’t find her a bit much?” Gillian asked. “I like Natasha, but she exhausts me.”
“She’s no more exhausting than Minnie. Although that Yorkie of hers needs to chill out.”
When my streaming-music service sent the first notes of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman,” over the shop speakers, I hummed along. Time to forget about Everett and why Katrina, Anthony, and Janelle followed him to my beautiful village. I had lanterns to paint, customers to wait on, another tree to buy, gifts to wrap, and a play to learn.
The script lay on the counter before me. For the past hour I’d alternated memorizing lines, painting berries, and cashing customers out. Thank goodness, Gillian was here to handle the pastry and ice cream counters. Despite the snow, we’d had a steady stream of customers. Unlike Holmes Duck Decoys, The Berry Basket offered a wide variety of goods. I suspected foot traffic was light at Gareth’s store even in the best of weather.
Gillian straightened the bistro chairs. “Does Kit mind that Natasha is staying with you?”
“Not at all. Kit likes Natasha.”
“But the two of you must want time alone. You’ve only been dating a few months.”
“And everything is going great. But I am in no hurry for this to progress any faster.”
She didn’t look convinced. “You’ve admitted that you love him. And it’s obvious he loves you. It’s only natural—”
“That we continue to enjoy each other’s company,” I finished the sentence for her. “And take it slow. Don’t forget I broke off my engagement to Ryan in August. I have no intention of rushing into anything serious. Not even with a man as wonderful as Kit.”
The shop door swung open and four customers hurried in. While Gillian greeted them, I took the lantern into the back of the building, which held my cramped office and the kitchen.
Theo came in every morning before 4:00 a.m. to bake our daily pastries. Because he often left before the store opened, I always found the kitchen gleaming and spotless, as my meticulous baker preferred it. This morning he also left trays of raspberry brownies, triple-berry crumble bars, glazed blueberry muffins, and cranberry tarts.
He’d be pleased to learn Mrs. Berkenbosch purchased the entire batch of crumble bars in the first hour. She pronounced it the perfect dessert for the meeting of her mah-jongg club today.
After setting down the lantern on the stainless-steel counter, I picked up the handle of the next one I needed to decorate. Once I inserted flickering candles, the foot-high lanterns were sure to look festive on the sidewalk in front of the store.
I returned to the shop to find Gillian serving tarts to the ladies, who also sipped today’s complimentary tea: blackberry ginger spice.
I opened my little pot of red paint. Strawberries for this lantern. Strawberries required a bit more attention to detail than blueberries. With a sigh, I looked down at my open script beside me. I had memorized twenty lines so far. And rehearsal was tonight.
A women who enjoyed a tart at a bistro table asked, “What smells so wonderful?”
“This red-currant cranberry candle.” I pointed at the three-wick candle flickering on the front counter. “You’re also by our candle section along the wall. You may be picking up on those scents as well.”
“Mandarin berry is my favorite.” Gillian held up a jar candle.
“Smells like raspberry pie.” I dipped my paintbrush into the red paint. “If you love berry fragrance, all our soaps are berry scented. Quadruple-milled, too.”
This sparked a conversation among the ladies as to which scents they preferred: floral or fruity. Meanwhile, two more customers came in, stomping snow off their boots. When the door opened again, I put aside the paintbrush. With Gillian helping customers and the ladies ready for more tea, I had no time to paint or learn lines.
But when I looked up, Diane Cleverly came toward me.
“Hi, Diane. Good to see you. Here to do a little Christmas shopping?”
Her smile was brief and perfunctory. “Don’t have time for shopping this week. Not with several schools scheduled to tour the toy train exhibit before Christmas break.”
“Great exhibit, by the way. The kids will love it.”
“Hope so.” She undid the top button of her coat, then carefully removed her wool hat, covered in snow. “It’s coming down again. The snowplows will never be able to keep up.”
“Typical lake-effect snow. Once the lake freezes, we’ll just have regular snow.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing.” I knew Diane had spent most of her adult life in Lansing, where lake-effect snow was the stuff of rumors.
“Are you okay?” I asked, curious at her troubled expression.
Although I didn’t know Diane well enough to read her expressions. The museum hired her while I was living in New York. She’d replaced the garrulous and beloved octogenarian Helen McAvoy, who promptly moved to Naples, Florida.
Because Diane was in her sixties when she was hired, some people wondered that the curatorial position didn’t go to a younger person. But I’d worked at the museum one summer when I was in high school, and I knew how little the museum employees were paid. Including the curator. We were lucky to find a ret
ired history professor from Michigan State willing to take on the position.
Diane looked over her shoulder. The women at the bistro tables chatted among themselves as Gillian greeted a couple with young children.
She turned back to me. “I thought you’d like to know the latest about Everett Hostetter.”
“The latest? Is this about his funeral?”
“If only I had news of his funeral.” Diane looked as if she was trying to control her anger. So much for that serene, unflappable temperament I had credited her with. “I’m sure you’ve noticed there’s been no obituary in the papers for Everett.”
To be honest, I hadn’t noticed. I didn’t make a practice of perusing the obits in the local papers. “So?”
“Anthony should have taken care of the death announcement. After all, the man died two days ago. I realize Everett had few friends.” She stopped herself. “Actually, I don’t think he had any friends. Only there are basic procedures that are to be followed after any death. Procedures his nephew should have seen to.”
She must have no idea that Everett had an even closer relative. His daughter, Janelle.
“I called Anthony to ask about the funeral.” Diane’s expression turned even more disapproving. “And he has no plans for a funeral or a memorial service. But as soon as I hung up, I placed obituaries for Everett in all the papers.”
Over her snow-dusted shoulders, I saw the door open again, letting in another customer. I didn’t have time to be concerned about Everett Hostetter, living or dead. “That’s his nephew’s choice, not ours. Besides, more families than you realize forgo funerals. They settle for a cremation and a memorial service. Maybe a little ceremony for the scattering of the ashes. Some families do online tributes.”
“That’s another thing. Anthony has arranged for Everett to be cremated tomorrow.” Her voice shook with anger. “Barely forty-eight hours after his death.”
“Is that unusual?”
“I find it unusual when the family member insists the body be cremated as soon as legally possible. Michigan law mandates a two-day waiting period. Anthony didn’t waste any time.”
I gave her a closer look. “Even though you claim he had no friends, you’re upset. Maybe he did have one friend. And I’m sure he was grateful for your friendship.”
“Everett viewed the world in a hostile manner. It wasn’t in his nature to let anyone become close.” Her voice shook. “But I do think we were friends.”
I hesitated, not wanting to upset her more. “I spoke with Gareth Holmes earlier. He mentioned that Everett proposed to you many years ago. And that you turned him down.”
Diane shut her eyes. “That man. He puts himself in the middle of everything.”
“I’m sorry. This is none of my business.”
“It’s not your fault. Gareth is like the last guest at a party who won’t leave.” She sighed. “Yes, I turned down Everett’s proposal. But that was a lifetime ago. Since he moved here, we did spend time together, but always concerning museum business. As a major sponsor of the museum, Everett helped us to stay open all year. And he underwrote the toy train exhibit. The museum and I were extremely grateful for his help.”
“He seems to have thought a great deal of you. I don’t blame you for being upset.”
“It’s not right for Anthony to act as if his uncle never existed. Especially since he might inherit everything. If so, I doubt he will be as generous to the museum as Everett.”
I began to understand Diane’s turmoil. Without proper funding, the museum would cut back on hours, exhibits, and employees.
Diane suddenly realized the shop had filled up with people. “Sorry for bursting in on you like this. 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.
Great. Now I had to worry about the play. And the safety of Diane Cleverly.
Chapter Nine
My reception at the theater felt chillier than the winter air.
I hoped no one would notice I was late. But when I entered the auditorium, the entire company turned to look at me. Even the actors rehearsing onstage, one of whom was Andrew.
“You’re fifteen minutes late, Marlee!” Suzanne Cabot shouted from the stage.
I slunk into an aisle seat. “Please accept my apologies. I couldn’t find my script.”
Postmistress Jennifer Hamelin, who sat in the row in front of me, looked over her shoulder. “You need to be on time. It’s rude to keep the company waiting. I had the good manners to arrive early.”
Jennifer had been cast as Bob Cratchit’s wife. I hoped she came across warmer in the role than she was now.
“I honestly couldn’t find the script.”
“No excuses,” Suzanne shot back. “Cast members have been emailed rehearsal times and I expect everyone to comply. You’ve also interrupted the scene.”
“We’re working,” Jennifer hissed. “Respect that.”
I sank down farther in my seat. I felt as unwelcome as Jacob Marley’s ghost. At least our mayor winked at me from across the aisle. Although this wasn’t a dress rehearsal, Lionel wore a voluminous green velvet robe that could only belong to his Ghost of Christmas Present character.
All the actors were in partial costume. A mobcap sat atop Jennifer’s curls, with a plaid shawl pinned about her shoulders. Andrew wore a Victorian blue frock coat over his designer jeans. The fellow playing Scrooge sported a nightcap.
With a clap of her hands, Suzanne turned to the actors onstage. “Again, please. Take it from just after Scrooge says to his nephew, ‘What reason have you to be merry?’ ”
Local building contractor Ed Wolfson had been cast as Scrooge. A longtime member of the Green Willow Players, Ed always appeared in comic roles. Last year he’d enjoyed great success as Oscar in The Odd Couple. Ebenezer might prove challenging for him. I also hoped he’d be made to look older for the performance. In his late forties, Ed sported a muscular physique and appeared the picture of health.
As I pulled the script out of my bag, Ed/Ebenezer said in a cranky voice, “What right have you to be merry? You’re poor enough.”
Andrew replied, “What right have you to be dismal? You’re rich enough.”
Their exchange told me they were only at the beginning of the play. Therefore my late arrival had made no difference. And the blame for my tardiness lay with Gillian.
She’d made an attempt this afternoon to once more discourage me from taking part in A Christmas Carol. When I laughed her fears off, she said no more about it. But as we were closing the shop, she took my script when I wasn’t looking. After she left, I found it tucked between two of Theo’s cookie sheets.
While I studied my highlighted dialogue in the script, I heard Ed bark in his affected old-man’s voice, “Every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.”
Intent on learning my lines, I jumped when Suzanne yelled, “Marlee! Onstage please!”
I’d done my best to memorize the script during the scenes where Bob Cratchit asked for Christmas Day off, and Scrooge rebuffed the gentlemen asking for charitable donations. The set now switched from Scrooge’s office to his bedroom.
With a heavy heart, I climbed the three steps leading to the stage. I should have taken the afternoon off and stayed home to memorize.
As Ed adjusted his nightcap, Suzanne described how a video of Marley’s ghostly face would be projected on Scrooge’s front door during the performance.
“So you have to film me as Marley?” I asked.
“Don’t be silly. We’ll use the video of Everett as Marley, as we have for eight years.”
“No one will notice that I’m a completely different Jacob Marley?”
“We don’t have time for these questions. You’re here to act.” Suzanne steered me behind the new backdrop rolled onstage. “Stay here until your cue.”
“My cue?”
She pointed at the script clutched in my hand. “Wait until the bells in Scrooge’s house stop ringing. Kevin will then make loud sounds offstage to sound like Marley banging his way up the steps to Scrooge’s bedroom.”
I followed her gaze to Kevin Watts, who held a baseball bat. In real life, Kevin worked for the sanitation department.
“When Kevin is done banging, you appear.”
“Right after Scrooge says it’s humbug.” I remembered that much.
Local grocer Stan Lufts interrupted us. “Excuse me, Suzanne. But I have to run to the store. A shipment of Brussels sprouts arrived late. I’m the only one who can sign for it.”
She sighed. “As long as you’re back in time for your scene.”
“Don’t worry. Fezziwig doesn’t appear for another half hour.” He pointed at his cravat and waistcoat. “And I’m ready to go onstage as soon as I return.”
“Why is everyone in partial costume?” I asked as Stan disappeared backstage.
Hollyberry Homicide Page 8
