Hollyberry Homicide

by Sharon Farrow

  Because a part-time clerk worked at Oriole Glass Studio today, Tess returned with me to The Berry Basket. Both of us wanted to see if Gareth Holmes made as good a Santa as we expected. Meanwhile David continued to parade about town as Santa Chipmunk.

  Tess laughed as a family crowded around Chip for a group photo. “Next year I bet he convinces Piper to give him his own Chip ’n’ Dale float.”

  “He’ll need someone to play Dale. You two would make a cute chipmunk couple.”

  “Don’t give him any ideas. Who knew a glassmaker with spiked blond hair and a diamond stud in one ear could be transformed by a visit to Disney World.”

  “Look on the bright side,” I said as we entered my shop. “If he’d gone to the Universal theme park, he might have become obsessed with Harry Potter.”

  “True. And I’d be living with Sirius Black.”

  “Merry Christmas! Ho, ho, ho!” greeted us.

  Santa Claus sat on a chair by my corner Christmas tree. He was the spitting image of the classic 1881 Thomas Nast illustration: rotund, rosy-cheeked, white-bearded. His blue eyes even appeared to twinkle.

  Andrew stood beside him. “Our bistro chairs seemed too small. So I took the desk chair from your office for Gareth to sit on. But I did cover it with the red felt blanket we had in the front window.”

  “It’s comfortable, too.” Gareth grinned.

  “Looks good.” I nodded with approval. “What do you think, Tess?”

  “I like it. Only you’re running out of space for customers to move about.” She scanned the crowded shop. “Take a few snowmen off the floor, at least while Santa’s here.”

  I loved the three-foot-tall stuffed snowmen—and women—placed about the shop. They all wore white scarves decorated with hollyberries. “People can walk around them.”

  “Save your breath,” Andrew told Tess. “She won’t remove a single Christmas decoration. Be glad she can’t find the life-size wooden reindeer we had in here last year. I tripped and was almost impaled on his antlers.”

  “Somehow the deer vanished after I put him in storage.” I shot Andrew a suspicious glance.

  “It’s a holiday mystery.” Andrew avoided my gaze as he placed a tray of strawberry donut holes on the table beside Santa.

  Behind me I heard children come into the shop, no doubt to see Santa. A sandwich board out front advertised his appearance.

  “Merry Christmas, children.” Santa waved at them. “Come say hi to Santa.”

  The children ran over to Gareth, who opened his arms wide. Their dad pulled out his phone for a photo.

  I took four of the donut holes as Tess and I walked past. We munched on them behind the counter, both of us agreeing they were delicious. In the next hour, more families with children came in. As I hoped, the kids spoke with Santa and their parents shopped.

  While Tess helped me wrap purchases, she observed, “Good idea to have Santa here during the festival.”

  “Even better with someone who looks like Gareth.”

  “I should get back to my own shop.” Tess glanced up at the clock. “Our glass-blowing session starts at six, and I need to set things up.”

  Every Hollyberry Festival, Oriole Glass Studio took requests from customers for blown-glass ornaments. And then blew the glass in front of their captivated audience. It was their most popular event all year and a great chance for visitors to see how talented Tess and David were.

  “You’ll have a big turnout. Piper did a good job drumming up interest in the festival. We should have the food trucks every year. And the carolers are a nice touch. Even if she did strong-arm every shopkeeper and their employees to volunteer.”

  Although I had Christmas music piped through the store speakers, in between songs I sometimes caught a snatch from the carolers as they strolled past the store. Just now I heard them launch into “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” one of my favorites.

  Before the first chorus of “partridge in a pear tree” ended, a grim Suzanne Cabot marched into the shop. Dean followed close behind; he looked resigned to his fate.

  “This is terrible,” she cried. “Jennifer Hamelin won’t be able to perform in the play!”

  “Mom, keep it down,” Dean said.

  “Don’t you realize the entire play is in jeopardy? All because of you, Marlee!” Suzanne pointed an accusing finger at me, a gesture used by the Ghost of Christmas Future when he pointed to Ebenezer’s grave.

  “Me?”

  “She fell because you upset her.”

  “I am not responsible for Jennifer’s emotional state.”

  “It was an accident,” Tess said. “Jennifer rushed to get out of the carriage and fell.”

  “That is not how she tells it,” Suzanne intoned in a dramatic voice.

  “Then our postmistress is lying,” I shot back. “Or she hit her head when she fell. She might have a concussion.”

  “Too bad it didn’t knock some sense into her,” Tess commented.

  Andrew nodded at the children. “Why doesn’t everyone discuss this somewhere else?”

  “Come on, Mom.” Dean steered his mother to the back of the shop and into our kitchen.

  I didn’t blame Andrew for not joining us.

  Once we reassembled in the kitchen, I tried to take control of this meeting. “Tess and I were minding our own business when Jennifer called for us to come over to her. She and Ron were in that horse-drawn carriage Piper hired for visitors.”

  “I know where she was.” Suzanne made a beeline for a plastic-wrapped tray of extra pastries on the counter. She removed a piece of cranberry white-chocolate pistachio bark. “I’m also aware she’s worried you don’t know your lines. We all are.”

  “Who is ‘we’?” I asked.

  “Everyone connected to the play.” She took a big bite of the bark, spraying crumbs over her coat’s faux-fur collar.

  “The theater group should chill out,” Tess said. “This isn’t a Broadway production.”

  “To us, it is. And Marlee has a crucial role in the play. She needs to know her lines. All of them.”

  “I know most of them.”

  Suzanne gave me a doubtful look. Since she favored heavy eyeliner, it had an unnerving effect. “Then let’s run through your scene. Right here. Right now.”

  “Okay. Maybe I don’t know most of them. But I will. I promise.”

  Tess, loyal as ever, announced, “I’ll run lines with Marlee tomorrow after work. She’ll be fine. After all, both of us were spelling bee champs when we were kids.”

  Tess and I met in fifth grade when we tied for first place in a regional spelling bee.

  “Why should I care if you can spell?” Suzanne reached for another piece of bark.

  “Because to do well in a spelling contest requires the memorization of a huge vocabulary list.” I winked at Tess. “We became philomaths.”

  “You might say we developed logolepsy.” Tess giggled.

  “Now they’re going to show off all the words they know,” Dean said to his mom.

  “Some of them better include the lines in A Christmas Carol.” Suzanne turned her attention to Tess. “So you have a good memory?”

  “David says it’s too good.”

  “How would you like to be in the play?”

  Tess and I both exclaimed, “What?”

  “Don’t waste your breath,” Tess said. “I refuse to take over the role of Jacob Marley.”

  “No.” Suzanne frowned. “At this late date, we’re stuck with Marlee in the role.”

  “I’m standing right here. If you want to insult me, wait until I leave the room.”

  Suzanne ignored me. “But we do need someone to step into the role of Mrs. Cratchit.”

  “Don’t count Jennifer out just yet,” I protested.

  “Oh, she’s out. I got a call from her husband. She broke her fibula.”

  “We weren’t sure where the fibula was,” Dean added. “I googled it. The fibula’s here.” He touched the front of his leg between the kn
ee and ankle.

  “Luckily, the fibula is not a weight-bearing bone,” Suzanne informed us.

  “Then what’s the problem?” Tess looked puzzled.

  “Because when she fell, the ligaments tore in her ankle.”

  That didn’t sound good.

  “She needs a pin surgically inserted,” Dean said. “And Mom needs a new Mrs. Cratchit.”

  Suzanne placed a hand on Tess’s shoulder. “You, my dear, would be perfect.”

  “I would not.”

  “A minute ago you bragged about your good memory.”

  “It’s not a photographic memory.” Tess looked at me for help.

  “Leave Tess alone. And it’s unfair to throw this at her so close to opening night.”

  Suzanne waved her hand. “Due to the circumstances, I’ll let her improvise lines. All she has to do is sound maternal.”

  My mouth fell open. “Why can’t I improvise?”

  “Because Jacob Marley is too important a character. You must recite the lines from Dickens exactly as written.”

  Tess must have seen how unhappy this whole situation made me. “All right. I’ll do it. Marlee may feel better if she’s not the only performer who’s unprepared. Only I reserve the right to say anything I like as Mrs. Cratchit.”

  Suzanne smiled in obvious relief. “Thank you. Just don’t go too off script.”

  Dean laughed. “She means, don’t ask Bob for a divorce. Or order pizza for the Cratchit Christmas dinner.”

  With that settled, Suzanne walked over to me. “As for you, I have one more rule. Do not clean your costume.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Jennifer’s husband,” Dean said. “He told Mom that Jennifer fell after she heard you planned to clean your costume. By the way, I don’t blame you, Marlee. I wouldn’t touch those costumes with a hazmat suit.”

  “Don’t exaggerate,” Suzanne said. “We clean the costumes every few years.”

  Her announcement made my skin crawl. “Years? That’s worse than I thought.”

  “I may wear David’s Chip costume,” Tess said.

  “This is not up for debate. The costumes are too delicate. No one cleans them until the board of the Green Willow Players all agree.” Suzanne looked at me. “By the way, Everett Hostetter had no problem with that rule. In fact, he insisted no one was to touch his costume. Ever. Not even the chains.”

  “He might have disagreed if someone else had worn it for years.” I confessed to being a neat freak, which included a phobia about cleanliness. No matter what Suzanne ordered, I planned to toss the costume into my washing machine.

  “Now I need to get to the hospital.” Suzanne grabbed another piece of bark. I guessed she needed a sugar boost to get her through the hospital visit with Jennifer. I didn’t blame her. “I’ll see both of you Monday night. And I’ll have one of my sons drop off a script tonight at your studio, Tess.”

  “You told me I could improvise.”

  “And you can.” She shot Tess a hopeful look. “But you might surprise yourself by picking up the lines quickly.”

  “Unlike me,” I said before anyone else could.

  “Exactly,” Suzanne agreed. “Also a friendly word of advice the next time you go looking for a Santa. Don’t ask Gareth Holmes.”

  Dean looked as puzzled as me. “What do you have against the duck decoy guy?”

  “He seems nice,” I said. “And a doppelgänger for Santa.”

  “All I know is what I hear at the police station.”

  Sometimes I wondered if Suzanne did more than answer phones there. I wouldn’t be surprised if she also listened in on calls.

  “What did you hear about Gareth?” Tess asked.

  “I heard he is not to be trusted. And that his career as an attorney was shady at best.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “Marlee, I don’t like to carry tales.”

  Her son snorted.

  “Let’s just say Officer Davenport has cautioned me about Gareth.”

  I rolled my eyes. “The last person whose opinion I value is Janelle.”

  “Chief Hitchcock and I do not agree. Let’s go, Dean.”

  “Why am I going?”

  “Because I am much too upset to drive to the hospital.” Suzanne put a hand over her chest. “This latest news about Jennifer may send me into another panic attack. I shouldn’t be alone.”

  Muttering under his breath, Dean led his mother away.

  I looked at Tess after they left. “Thanks for volunteering to be in the play. I need the moral support.”

  “My final payment to you for taking the blame about the dissection frogs in high school.”

  “I promise to never use those frogs as leverage again.” I sighed. “And let’s try not to screw up this year’s A Christmas Carol.”

  Tess grinned. “If we do, we can blame it on the curse. By the way, what do you think Janelle knows about Gareth Holmes? Do you think she’s making stuff up about him?”

  “Who knows? But for nine years, she never told anyone that Everett Hostetter was her father. I can’t help but wonder what else she’s hiding.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I decided to treat Santa to dinner. For three hours, Gareth held court in my shop as children recited their wish lists and tugged his beard. Even groups of giggling teens wanted to sit on Santa’s lap for Instagram moments. The presence of a jovial Santa did what I had hoped: attract even more customers than usual. The least I could do was feed him.

  At six o’clock Gillian arrived to relieve Andrew and me. Due to the festival activities, most downtown stores planned to stay open until nine tonight.

  With a grateful smile, I went over to where Gareth presided from his makeshift throne. “You were fantastic. Not even the actor in Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street made a better Saint Nick.”

  “My pleasure. Sorry to say, I neglected my own kids when they were growing up. Always chose work over family, even at Christmas. This was a real treat. It did my heart good.”

  “Please let me pay you. And take you to dinner.”

  “Santa does not accept payment, Marlee.” With a grunt, Gareth got to his feet. “But I will take you up on your offer of dinner.” His eyes did their customary twinkle. I wondered how he did that.

  “Anywhere you like. San Sebastian?”

  “Much too fancy for Santa. Let’s go to Sandy Shoals. That’s my favorite.”

  I rarely ate at the Sandy Shoals Saloon, a popular hangout for residents who worked at the marina. However, it had a reputation for great fish-and-chips. And two-fisted drinkers.

  “Sounds fine. Do you want to stop by your shop to change clothes?”

  “Nah. I’ll stay Santa awhile longer. In honor of the Hollyberry Festival.”

  “Then I’ll keep my antlers on.” I straightened my reindeer headpiece.

  Andrew hurried past in his coat and hat.

  “Hey, Andrew, how about joining Gareth and me for dinner?” I asked.

  “Thanks, but Oscar and I have a Christmas party to attend in South Haven.”

  Katrina May brushed by Andrew as he left. “Marlee, have you seen Natasha?” She came to an abrupt halt. “Gareth? What are you doing here?”

  Gareth held his arms out. “What does it look like?”

  “He played Santa in the store,” I explained. “Gareth was a big hit with the kids.”

  She lifted an eyebrow at that. “Seems out of character for him.”

  “Ho, ho, ho.” Gareth’s grin widened. “You only say that because you’re afraid you’ll find coal in your Christmas stocking this year.”

  Her expression grew hard. “You would know.”

  “Yes. I would.” Gareth’s smile vanished.

  “I think Natasha had a date with that Alexei fellow,” I said, trying to cut the tension. “The Russian architect. She mentioned they had a reservation at Bode’s in Saugatuck.”

  Katrina threw a last hostile look at Gareth before turning to me. “When you s
ee Natasha, tell her I have the estimated costs for the lobby decor.”

  She yanked open the shop door, but paused. “Are you coming to Everett’s memorial?”

  “Probably. Diane asked me to be there.”

  “Not you, Marlee.” She gestured at Gareth. “I was asking Santa.”

  He shrugged. “I might show up. Then again, I might not.”

  “Keeping everyone guessing. As always.” Katrina shook her head. “Next year, I’d find another Santa, Marlee. One who keeps his word.”

  “What was that all about?” I asked after she slammed the door behind her.

  “Ms. May thinks the world should always listen to her. That’s because she spends too much time talking to ghosts. Or pretends to.” He chuckled. “But I’m not pretending when I say I’m starving. Or have you reconsidered your dinner offer?”

  “A deal’s a deal. Let’s go.” Only I did hope I could get Gareth to reconsider his earlier refusal to spill any secrets about Everett.

  * * *

  From the rowdy reception Gareth received when we entered the Sandy Shoals Saloon, I gathered he was quite the regular. Chuck, the owner, gave him a shout-out, with several guys at the bar doing the same. It was like walking into the Cheers bar with Norm.

  Chuck still wore his Yukon Cornelius costume. The people in Oriole Point did love a costume. Sometimes it felt as if it were always Halloween here. Even at Christmastime.

  Gareth nodded at a booth in the back, filled with two boisterous couples. “That’s where I normally sit. Not tonight though.”

  I looked around the crowded, noisy bar. “The table by the front window is available.”

  “Perfect.” He led me over. “This gives us a ringside seat.”

  As soon as we sat down, Denise Redfern strolled by outside. She looked surprised to see me at the Sandy Shoals with Santa. Gareth and I waved. She gave a cautious wave back. Since Gareth wore his Santa costume, most pedestrians noticed us, or rather they noticed Santa. They either smiled or did a double take.

  After we gave our order, I sat back. “I never took you for a Sandy Shoals type of guy. It seems too blue-collar for an attorney. Especially one accustomed to working for CEOs.”

  He shrugged. “I wasn’t always a high-priced attorney. Both my parents worked the assembly line in Flint. And I can relax here. Be myself. No one wants anything from me.”