“What is this manslaughter?” Natasha looked confused. “Marlee did not kill man.”
“And I did not intentionally kill the squirrel. But the cookies had something toxic in them. These were the same cookies Everett Hostetter ate before he died. So there’s a high probability he was poisoned.”
Janelle turned her full attention to Hitchcock. “What is she talking about? Why does she have Everett Hostetter’s cookies?”
“Gillian and I found the body,” I said. “While waiting for EMS to arrive, I picked up pieces of gingerbread cookies on the floor beneath the bench he sat on. There wasn’t a trash can around, so I stuck them in my jacket pocket. I totally forgot they were in there until this morning, when I fed the cookie to the squirrel.”
Natasha sighed. “Now squirrel is dead.”
I stood up and carefully removed my quilted jacket. “I haven’t touched what’s left in my pocket. I didn’t want to contaminate the evidence further.”
Turning out the pocket, I gently shook the remaining cookie pieces and crumbs over the police chief’s desk blotter.
“Sticking them in a plastic bag would have been preferable,” Hitchcock grumbled. “And how do you know the cookies found beneath the bench were the same ones Hostetter had eaten? Assuming he ate any at all.”
“The cookie crumbs around his mouth. And there was a bag on the floor with gingerbread cookies inside. He probably dropped one onto the floor when he lost consciousness.”
“Where is this bag of cookies?” Janelle smirked. “Did you abscond with that, too?”
“I tried to hand it to Anthony, but he didn’t want it. So Diane Cleverly took the bag. She said she was going to throw it away.” I gasped. “I’d better make sure she did. What if she or someone else still had the bag and eats the cookies?”
Natasha frowned. “Maybe you did kill squirrel.”
“Diane Cleverly is alive and well. At least she was a half hour ago. She and a friend arrived at the Sourdough Café as I was leaving.” The police chief rummaged in a drawer, pulling out a plastic evidence bag. “But I will let her know there may be a problem with those cookies. And that she needs to bring them here if she hasn’t already tossed them in the garbage.”
Janelle straightened. “She’s probably still there having breakfast. I’ll run down to the café and talk with her.”
“Don’t bother. Give the café a call and have them send Diane over.” Hitchcock carefully placed the cookie crumbs in the bag.
Janelle stepped out of the office, cell phone in hand.
“Then you believe me?” I asked.
“Why wouldn’t I believe you? You have cookies in your possession the deceased may or may not have been eating. We’ll look into it. But it’s likely the squirrel died from natural causes. As the elderly Everett Hostetter did.”
“We don’t know that,” I protested. “No autopsy was performed.”
“There wasn’t any reason for one, given his age and the circumstances.”
“He was rich,” I stated. “Hostetter might have been killed for his money.”
“Happens all the time in Russia,” Natasha added.
“I wasn’t aware you were well acquainted with Everett. Sorry his death has upset you.”
“I didn’t know him at all. And I’m sorry he died. But I accidentally killed a squirrel!”
Natasha patted my shoulder. “Do not talk about squirrel. It make Marlee cry.”
Janelle came back into the office. “I spoke to the hostess at the café. She told Diane to come to the station as soon as she’s done with breakfast.”
“Good,” I said. “And you will run tests on the cookies?”
The chief nodded. “Yes. But as you probably heard from Kit, the county has a triple homicide on our hands. Every law enforcement branch has been called in. And the bad weather has caused havoc on the roads. Every state trooper and sheriff’s car is out there helping motorists.”
Natasha sighed. “No one here know how to drive in snow. In Russia, we drive through blizzard all the time. We do not even notice.”
“Maybe you should go back to Russia,” Janelle said in a sharp voice.
“Nyet. I am American now.”
Although I knew Natasha was proud of her American citizenship, she looked like a character from Doctor Zhivago. She wore yet another fur Cossack hat and had exchanged my parka for her favorite brown sable coat. She was lucky no one from PETA had gotten close to her yet.
“And there’s the Hollyberry Festival this weekend,” Hitchcock continued. “At least two officers are needed to keep an eye on things. Also that stupid tree fell over again.”
Mention of the Hollyberry Festival reminded me of all I had to do today. “Time for me to get to The Berry Basket. But I thought the police should know about the cookie and the squirrel.”
Janelle snickered.
Anger flared up in me. “What’s so funny? I’m worried Everett Hostetter may have been poisoned. Why aren’t you? After all, he was your father.”
She jumped back as if I had given her a vicious pinch. “That’s none of your business.”
“Officer Davenport is right,” Hitchcock said in a reproving tone.
“Old dead man is father of policewoman?” Natasha got to her feet, pulling her plush fur about her. “I think you are worse than what Marlee tell me.”
“And what is Marlee telling you?” Janelle barked.
“Please let me know what the test results are, Chief Hitchcock. Thank you.” I grabbed Natasha by her furry arm and hauled her out of the office.
Natasha threw a scornful glance over her shoulder. “She is cold like moroz. Like frost. You are more unhappy about squirrel than she is about dead father.”
I shushed Natasha as we made our way through the outer office, now bustling with law enforcement people, including the state police. That triple homicide had put everyone on alert.
Suzanne caught sight of me from her reception desk. “Are you here about the play?”
I stopped. “No. I had something possibly criminal I wanted to report.”
She raised an eyebrow at that. “I don’t wish to hurt your feelings, Marlee, but what’s criminal is your acting ability.”
Chapter Twelve
For the second time that morning, a conversation touched on poisoned cookies.
“Do we have enough Christmas desserts for the weekend?” Theo asked as we finished glazing strawberry donut holes in the shop kitchen.
I glanced at the trays of pastries wrapped in plastic: blueberry-pie bars, lingonberry thumb prints, and white-chocolate cranberry cookies. “We have more than enough to see us through today and tomorrow.”
“But it’s called the Hollyberry Festival. We didn’t bake any hollyberry cookies.”
“We can’t.” I dunked another donut hole in strawberry glaze. “The berries are poisonous.”
His large gray eyes grew wider. “There are holly bushes in my yard. I thought about using the berries to make cookie batter. Only I couldn’t find any recipes for it.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness.”
“What if I had put the berries in cookies?” He looked alarmed at the prospect. “I make up my own recipes sometimes. If I had, I could have killed someone!”
I gave him a reassuring smile. “The berries from a holly bush don’t taste good. After one bite, a sensible person would spit it out. If anyone did eat the berries, they’d suffer from nausea, vomiting, diarrhea. The same with holly leaves.”
“The leaves, too?”
I nodded toward the door leading into the shop. “Before I decorated the store with fresh boughs of holly, I removed the berries. If any had fallen off, I worried a child might pick one up and eat it. I did bring holly boughs into my house, but I placed them on a floating shelf. Somewhere Dasha and Panther can’t reach. Holly leaves and berries can poison a small animal.”
That dead squirrel flashed into my mind.
“I don’t want to kill anything!” Theo cried.
&n
bsp; He had suffered a head injury as a toddler, which led to developmental problems. And the thirty-seven-year-old seemed younger than his years. Despite that, Theo had made a successful, independent life for himself. He was also the best baker in the county.
“Don’t worry. We won’t bake any cookies with berries from a holly bush.”
But he still looked worried. “Marlee, I see the birds eat them. Especially cedar waxwings and robins.” Like me, Theo fed birds in his backyard. “Do they all die?”
“No. The digestive tract of a bird can handle hollyberries. In fact, the berries provide sustenance for fruit-eating birds who remain over the winter.” I placed the last donut hole on a cookie sheet lined with wax paper.
Theo counted donut holes while I rinsed the bowl of strawberry glaze. “How about the squirrels? Will hollyberries poison them?”
His comment brought me up short. The black squirrel who met his demise this morning sat beneath a holly bush. Had he eaten berries from the holly bush before I tossed the cookie his way? Maybe the cookie wasn’t poisoned. Maybe the poor squirrel died from toxic berries.
Still, I couldn’t dismiss the fact that both Everett Hostetter and a squirrel passed away after sampling the gingerbread cookies. I wished I knew where those cookies had come from. But no clues had been on the white paper bag.
Theo stifled a yawn.
“Go home,” I told him. “You’ve been here for hours.”
“But I want to stay for the Christmas parade.”
“That’s not until two o’clock. Relax. Feed the birds. Take a nap. Then come back later.”
“Are you sure?”
I smiled. “I’m sure. You’ve earned a break.”
The door leading to the back parking lot opened. “It smells like Christmas in here,” Andrew said.
I agreed. The combined aroma of sugar, butter, and white chocolate was nearly intoxicating.
“You’re cutting it close,” I said to Andrew, who shrugged out of his coat and scarf. “We open in five minutes.”
“Blame Oscar. He went into Iron Chef mode and whipped up a four-course breakfast.” Andrew burped. “I couldn’t leave until the whole culinary performance was complete.”
I tossed him a Berry Basket chef apron. “I’ve already counted the money in the till. After we fill the pastry case, we’ll open.”
Andrew looked at the donut holes. “When do these go out?”
“Not until Gareth Holmes arrives this afternoon to play Santa. I’m giving away donut holes instead of candy canes.”
“Love it. Get the kiddies hooked on deep fry at an early age.”
“We didn’t fry them,” Theo said as he wiped the kitchen counter. “Marlee found a healthy donut recipe on Pinterest.”
“Healthier,” I corrected. “We baked the donut holes in mini-muffin pans. But they’re still donuts. Not a kale salad.”
Andrew popped one into his mouth.
“Let the glaze harden first,” I told him.
“Delayed gratification is overrated.” He reached for another one, but I pulled him away.
“Since you’re working more hours at the florist shop than here, I don’t need you eating the treats set aside for the children. Now grab some cookie trays.”
“I have no choice.” He picked up a tray of cookies. “Oscar has floral orders for two winter-themed weddings this week and three office parties. It’s sent him into a poinsettia panic.”
Because Andrew’s boyfriend, Oscar Lucas, owned a florist shop in neighboring Saugatuck, Andrew split his work time between there and The Berry Basket. I was resigned to the fact that Oscar’s flowers took precedence over my berries.
“Besides, Oscar gets stressed out when too many orders come in,” Andrew added. “I provide a calming presence at the shop.”
“Right now it would be helpful if you took your calm butt into my shop to unlock the door. It’s officially Hollyberry Festival. Time to go into festival mode.”
As Andrew walked past, he left behind the scent of roses.
“You smell like a float at the Rose Bowl parade.” I sniffed again.
“I delivered two big floral arrangements before I came here. They’re for a memorial service this evening.”
Picking up two cookie trays, I walked behind him. “Who died?”
“You found his body.”
“They’re for Everett Hostetter?”
“Yeah. Oscar got a rush order for the flowers right before closing yesterday.”
“But Diane Cleverly told me there wasn’t going to be a memorial or a funeral. She was really upset about it.”
“I guess she decided to take matters into her own hands.” Andrew arranged the cookie trays in the case. “Diane ordered the flowers. White roses. Lots of them. I delivered them to the historical museum.”
“The memorial service is being held at the museum?”
“Apparently.”
“Why haven’t I heard anything about it?”
He chuckled. “I’m guessing because you aren’t a friend or relative of the deceased.”
“True. Only I wonder who will show up for this thing, besides Diane.”
“Who cares? If I were you, I wouldn’t waste any time over the dearly departed Everett Hostetter. Not with all those lines you have to learn.” Andrew gave me a stern look. “And don’t come unprepared to the next rehearsal. Otherwise, my mom will make certain the next memorial service is yours.”
* * *
The Hollyberry Festival weather gods smiled upon us. Or maybe they feared Piper’s wrath if things didn’t go perfectly. By eleven the snow came to a stop again. That made it easier for drivers en route to our downtown. And for pedestrians once they got here.
Piper had seen to it that their efforts would be rewarded. In addition to our usual holiday street decor and the giant tree in the village square, food trucks offering everything from elephant ears to nachos were parked along River Park. Our local pet photographer set up a tent on Iroquois Street where people could have Christmas photos taken with their animal companions. And Piper’s carolers strolled up and down Lyall Street.
Thanks to Piper’s ruthless guilt-inducing measures, everyone at The Berry Basket, including Theo, had volunteered to carol. Gillian and Andrew were on the list today. Theo, Dean, and I would be caroling tomorrow. Dean wasn’t happy; he recorded his podcast on Sundays.
To encourage visitors to stay past the two o’clock parade, Piper also convinced every downtown shop to run special holiday sales. Piper had even rented a horse and carriage from a local stable. Along with a coach driver dressed as Santa.
Every so often I caught a glimpse of the horse-drawn white carriage, festooned with garlands, as it went past my shop window. No doubt visitors enjoyed the carriage tour of downtown. Although given how much snow had fallen, Piper should have substituted a sleigh.
I didn’t have a lot of time to watch horse-drawn carriages though. From the moment Andrew hung our OPEN flag, he and I were kept busy wrapping purchases, while serving hot tea, coffee, and pastries. Despite the cold temps, a number of customers wanted berry ice cream sundaes and cones, too.
One customer did remark about our lack of cookies decorated with holly leaves or berries. So Theo had been right to worry about not having holly-themed pastries. During a rare free moment, I googled hollyberry cookies and came up with a recipe perfect for the festival. Naturally, it didn’t call for hollyberries, or even baking. But it required a trip to the grocery store for cornflakes. Maybe I could whip up a few dozen cookies tonight after we closed. Except, when would I have time to learn my lines?
While I wrapped bottles of berry syrup in red and green tissue paper, my shopkeeper neighbor, Denise Redfern, opened the door. “Marlee, I wanted to remind you about your lanterns out front. I know you planned to keep them lit during the festival, even during the day.”
I’d been so busy painting berries on the lanterns, I forgot to light them. “Thanks. I’ll do that now.”
She grinned. “Yo
u’ll need to put candles in them first.”
I turned to Andrew. “I forgot to buy votive candles.”
“First, you forgot the lines in the play. Now the candles. What next?”
“Next, I’m sending you to the grocery store to pick up a package of candles.” I placed the bottles of syrup in a handled bag. “I also want you to buy cornflakes.”
“Would you like a dozen eggs, too?” Andrew gestured at the eight customers in the shop. “You might want to finish your grocery shopping after the festival.”
I handed the bag to the customer with a wide smile and a “Happy holidays.”
When she left, I replied, “I found a recipe for cookies shaped and molded to look like holly leaves. I might be able to make a batch after we close tonight. But I need cornflakes. And green food coloring.”
“Have Theo do it. He is the baker, after all.”
“He’s worked overtime this past week because of the holidays. And Sunday is his day off. So I’ll take charge of the cookies.” I threw Andrew a sly smile. “Unless you volunteer while I study my lines.”
At that moment, Diane Cleverly entered the shop. Given how she marched straight toward me with a serious expression, I doubted she came to purchase berry jam.
“Marlee, I’m glad you’re here.” She nodded at Andrew, who went to assist a customer by our berry-themed greeting cards.
“And I’m happy to see you. Did Chief Hitchcock tell you not to eat anything from that bag of gingerbread cookies? The one I handed to you at the museum.”
“I threw the bag away about ten minutes after you gave it to me. Not that I would have eaten from it.” She shivered at the thought.
“That’s a relief. I fed a squirrel one of those cookies today and it died. Chief Hitchcock has promised to have what’s left of the cookies tested.” I frowned. “Of course Officer Davenport thinks I’m crazy.”
“The woman is insufferable. I’d prefer to have no contact with Janelle at all, but I had to speak with her today. To extend an invitation.”
“About the memorial service at the museum?”
She looked surprised. “How did you know? Oh, Andrew told you. I forgot he delivered my flowers this morning. Yes, I wanted to inform Janelle about the service. I hoped if I did it in person, it might shame her into coming. Which it did. But she’s not happy about it.”
Hollyberry Homicide Page 11
