Hollyberry Homicide

by Sharon Farrow

  Now I understood. In a year, there would be far less money to inherit. The murderer had to act quickly. But which of the unholy trio had done it?

  Since seeing the white paper bags in the museum cupboard, I knew I should include the grieving Diane Cleverly among them. After all, the museum’s financial future might have been in jeopardy if its main benefactor had lived one more year. But I couldn’t imagine Diane murdering anyone. Least of all a man she regarded with friendship and pity.

  An even bigger question concerned the will. Gareth hinted that only he and Everett knew what was in it. And where the copies were. One copy lay in Gareth’s possession. Everett must have the other, except Gareth told me that Everett did not keep it at his house.

  It wasn’t yet eight o’clock. I knew the technical crew had been working late at the Calico Barn, getting the play ready for Tuesday’s opening. Why not stop by the theater barn on my way home? I could pick up my costume, which I planned to throw in the washing machine. While there, I’d search the dressing room Everett had kept locked for the past few years.

  Because I’d bet all the plum puddings in the world that Everett hid his will in there.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I found the drive to Calico Barn both scenic and daunting. The latest storm had dumped even more snow on the numerous evergreens lining Blue Star Highway. And snow was falling again. I felt as if I were traveling through a white tunnel of trees. A tunnel that lay on slippery roads.

  My headlights did reveal snowplows had been through earlier, spraying their mixture of salt and sand. Whenever my SUV fishtailed, I silently thanked the road crews. I was also thankful I made it to the grocery store before it closed. A quick stop and I now had all the ingredients for hollyberry cookies inside my canvas tote bag. Now to find the time to make them.

  When I made the turn onto Wolverine Lane, the brakes locked on the icy road. Although I had been driving slow, I needed to go even slower. As my windshield wipers swished back and forth, I finally spotted the big sign for Calico Barn through the falling snow. Given the hazardous conditions, I was glad there wasn’t much else around, except for the horse farm across the street.

  Fortunately, the white sign that trumpeted A CHRISTMAS CAROL shed more than enough light to show me the way. As did the strings of Christmas lights on the shrubs beneath it. The lights were on a timer, and I smiled to see they were still on. They also showed the parking lot had been plowed.

  I rolled to a stop by the wooden ramp that led to the front entrance. I saw only one other vehicle in the lot: a pickup truck. Given all the snow piled on top of it, the truck had been here awhile. I guessed it belonged to Clyde Fenwick, who owned an ancient Dodge truck notorious for breaking down. Clyde had volunteered to run the sound system for the play. When his truck died again, a friend must have given him a ride home.

  I noticed numerous footprints in the snow. Those crew members and volunteers who had worked here today probably left within the hour.

  Disappointed, I nonetheless made my way to the barn. Since a big double barn door served as the entrance, it had no windows to peek through. I yanked on the brass door handle several times, then knocked. A shame I had only been given the key to Everett’s dressing room, and not the theater barn, too.

  Why had I not snuck my costume out of the theater earlier? I’d also missed my chance to search through the dressing room for that will. Tomorrow’s schedule was packed with Hollyberry Festival activities, but maybe I could take a break and run back here while people were inside. And not only for the will. The idea of wearing clothes that hadn’t been cleaned in years made my skin itch. Maybe I should burn the costume, rather than just wash it.

  I suddenly recalled that the barn had side and back entrances. I once delivered berry pastries for a fund-raiser here. People in Oriole Point were notorious for leaving their homes and vehicles unlocked. Life in a small town gave one a false sense of security. I wouldn’t be surprised if a volunteer had been careless and left one of the doors unlocked. It was worth a try.

  Fortunately, someone had shoveled a path around the side of the barn. Which likely meant a path had also been cleared to the back entrance. Spotlights on the barn roof illuminated the shoveled path and white barn so well, I could see every plank of its wooden walls.

  I made my way to the side entrance door, but had no luck getting inside. Of all the times for my fellow Oriole Point residents to be practical and lock every door. I no longer held out much hope that I’d be able to get in the back way, but soldiered on regardless.

  The rear spotlights revealed the delivery door I had used in the past. When I pulled on the handle, I found it locked tight. The costume and the will would have to wait.

  Before setting back, I stamped my feet to keep warm. Tall boots had been a good choice tonight. I couldn’t say the same for my knee-length skirt. Cold air whipped about my bare legs. I made a note to add tights the next time I wore a skirt in freezing weather. A winter coat longer than a hip-length parka should be tacked onto my Christmas list, too.

  I’d also spent too much energy concerned about Everett and his possible heirs. Time to devote my attention to hollyberry cookies. And I needed something besides butterscotch candy to alleviate my sore throat. Maybe I’d stop at the Chinese carryout on the way home for a pint of wonton soup. I pulled out my cell phone to call in a take-out order.

  Just then, the exterior barn lights shut off. If not for the reflective snow on the ground, I’d be in pitch darkness.

  The theater timer must have turned the lights off, including the sign out front. Good thing my phone was in my hand. Its flashlight would illuminate the shoveled path to the parking lot.

  Before I could take a step, however, I heard a car drive up. On a silent winter night, the sound of wheels as they crunch on snow is unmistakable.

  Maybe a member of the Green Willow Players forgot something in the theater. Or a friend drove Clyde back here to retrieve his truck.

  I listened as the car crunched to a stop. A car door slammed shut.

  If the visitor was connected to the theater company, they would see my SUV and be curious. Or it might be the police, making their rounds. Then again, maybe it wasn’t.

  This was silly. I was scaring myself for no reason. Should I call out to let the person know I was out back? I decided not to. Instead, my instincts warned me to keep quiet and listen.

  But I didn’t hear anything. Just fat, wet snowflakes slapping the ground around me. Wolverine Lane saw little traffic even at midday. At nine o’clock at night, cars were rare.

  Only I couldn’t stay here forever.

  My head shot up as someone rattled the theater entrance door several times. This person didn’t have a key either.

  I crept along the barn wall and peeked around the corner. A figure now made its way along the same shoveled path I had come down. In the darkness, I could only make out a shape through the falling snow. I was no longer comfortable returning the way I had come. And I had no intention of staying here until this person found me.

  Of course, this could all be perfectly harmless. Or not.

  Trying to be as quiet as possible, I hurried to the other corner of the barn and began to plow my way through the snow. And plow was no exaggeration. No one had shoveled a path along this side of the barn.

  Each step forward meant battling through a snowdrift. Wet snow coated my legs and slipped inside my boots. My feet became soaked in minutes.

  As I pushed forward, I heard the side door of the barn rattle. Someone else wanted to get into the theater as much as I had.

  Whoever continued along the shoveled path would soon reach the back entrance. Finding that locked as well, this person was certain to see my fresh footprints in the otherwise untouched snow. Faster, faster, faster, I told myself.

  After stumbling twice in the deep snow, I reached the front parking lot. As I hurried past the snow-covered pickup, the unmistakable rattling of the back door reached me.

  I flung myself in my
SUV and locked the door. Turning on the motor would alert this latest visitor, who would probably return via the quicker, shoveled path. I had no plans to be here when that happened.

  Even worse, whoever it was knew I was on the property. To get to the side of the barn meant someone had walked right past my blue SUV, which had THE BERRY BASKEt emblazoned on both sides. My cover was blown.

  I gunned the motor and sped for the driveway leading to Wolverine Lane. When I glanced over my shoulder, I spotted a vehicle in the lot that hadn’t been here when I arrived. It was parked at the farthest side of the lot, where the snow-laden branches of evergreens helped conceal it.

  As much as I wanted to turn around and get a closer look, I thought caution the wiser move. If I didn’t leave immediately, I feared I might be the next person taken down by the curse of this year’s A Christmas Carol production. And I didn’t want to do that to Suzanne.

  Or myself.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Trouble’s headed our way,” Dean announced as he hung the OPEN flag the next morning.

  Busy counting the bills and coins in the cash drawer, I joked, “Did someone else drop out of the play?”

  “Actually, Mrs. Fezziwig quit an hour ago. Mom called while I was having breakfast.”

  “The cast has become a blur to me. Who’s playing Mrs. Fezziwig again?”

  “Alice Bazil, the lady who runs Christian Neighbors at St. Veronica’s.”

  Done with the money, I turned on the twinkling lights, then straightened my berry ornaments on the Christmas tree. “Maybe Suzanne should cut the character from the play. Have Mr. Fezziwig be a widower. I don’t think Dickens would mind.”

  “My mother would. That’s why she’s stepping into the role. Mrs. Fezziwig has no lines in this stage version. All the actress has to do is dance around for the Fezziwig Christmas bash. Mom will love that. She and my dad took ballroom dance lessons.” Dean gave a rueful chuckle. “I think that was one of the things that led to their divorce.”

  “Losing Mrs. Fezziwig hardly qualifies as trouble. Learning the rest of my lines does.”

  “That wasn’t the trouble I referred to. As for your lines, what have you been doing all weekend?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. Waiting on customers, baking cookies for the shop, going to Everett’s memorial service, prying information out of Gareth while he got drunk at dinner.”

  “That sounds promising.” Dean adjusted the volume on the streaming service, now playing “Carol of the Bells.” “Anything I can include in my blog?”

  “Not unless you want to be sued by Santa. Don’t forget he was a big-shot lawyer in his previous life. I only hope Gareth doesn’t remember how indiscreet he was last night.”

  “I need details.”

  “So do I. What kind of trouble are we heading for?”

  He jerked his thumb at the window, where snow continued to fall. “According to my phone app, west Michigan is in for a big bout of lake-effect snow. The Chicago area, too. If we get as much as predicted, we’ll be buried in the stuff by Christmas Eve.”

  I perked up. “Yes! Let it snow.”

  This wasn’t a normal reaction to lake-effect snow. Those of us raised along the Great Lakes were familiar with a phenomenon experienced early in winter before the surface of the lakes froze over. Cold air moved down from Canada and picked up moisture from the still-warm waters. This resulted in lots of snow, often more than three inches an hour for a long time. And by long time, I meant days—if not weeks.

  Dean took a bite from the cornflake hollyberry cookies I made last night. They were delicious. I planned to add them to our holiday cookie list every year. I couldn’t wait for Theo to taste them after he finished his caroling shift this morning.

  “I understand why you want the snow to put a crimp in the play, but it might be a problem for your parents. They’re supposed to drive up on Christmas Eve, aren’t they?”

  I frowned. “You’re right. I forgot. Dad has a big breakfast event at his hotel that morning. He can’t leave until noon. And Mom has a faculty Christmas dinner the night before.” My father managed a prestigious boutique hotel in downtown Chicago, and my mother was a professor at Northwestern.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Dean said. “Or you’ll celebrate your thirty-first birthday and Christmas without Mom and Dad.”

  “I’d hate that. Especially since Aunt Vicki is spending the holidays in Arizona with her boyfriend Joe’s family. The weather might play havoc for Kit’s parents, too. They fly into Detroit today to visit relatives. Then they plan to rent a car to come here.”

  Dean glanced at the picture-perfect snowfall outside our window. “You might want to pray for rain. I’d add a prayer to help you memorize your lines.”

  “I’m doing my best. I downloaded an audio version of A Christmas Carol. I can listen to it with my earbuds while working.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure that won’t be distracting.”

  “I don’t have much choice. Dress rehearsal is tomorrow night.”

  “Concentrate on the play, Marlee. Forget about Everett Hostetter and dead squirrels.”

  “Thanks for reminding me about the squirrel. I want to find out if the police sent the cookie fragments for testing.”

  Dean shook his head. “It’s Christmas week. Why bother?”

  “Aren’t you curious as to what happened to Everett Hostetter? And the squirrel?”

  “Why? I wasn’t close to either of them.”

  “I know this sounds bad, but I feel much worse about the squirrel than Everett.” I set up our coffee urn, choosing chocolate raspberry as our free selection for the day. “Since they both died after eating the cookies, I bet they were poisoned.”

  “If so, let the police handle it.”

  “I am. That’s why I gave them the gingerbread cookies.”

  “What does Kit think?” Dean asked.

  “I told him about the dead squirrel. But the whole thing sounds silly when you compare it to the triple homicide he’s working on.”

  “The local news said it’s connected to a ring of meth labs here in west Michigan.”

  “The sheriff’s department is working around the clock. The state police, too. The death of a very old man and an unlucky squirrel aren’t high on their list.” As I walked past the pastry case, I gave an approving look at the green hollyberry cookies.

  “You’ve done what you can, Marlee. Now give me a quick rundown on what you learned from Gareth. I’m in the mood for gossip.”

  I told him about my conversation with Gareth at the Sandy Shoals Saloon. Then added what transpired at the memorial service afterward and my aborted attempt to get into the theater. But we had no time to discuss anything further because a wave of customers were upon us.

  Despite the continuing snowfall, downtown was filled with people. Today’s Hollyberry Festival events had a snowman building contest added to the hot-chestnut stands set up on Lyall Street, the street carolers, food trucks, and Piper’s horse-drawn carriage rides. The most time-consuming activity promised to be the open-air Hollyberry Market at River Park. Over three dozen decorated booths had been set up, and Piper had arranged to have electric lines run out to those vendors who needed power. Since I was serving berry-flavored hot cocoa, I qualified.

  I expected to freeze, even though Dean and I agreed to alternate shifts running The Berry Basket booth. At least my throat felt better. I’d been sucking on those hard candies Odette gave me. I also picked up an order of wonton soup on my way home last night.

  “Looks like we inspired Garth to find his inner Santa,” Dean said. “On the way here, I saw him walking down Lyall Street in the Santa suit.”

  “I figured he’d be in bed nursing a hangover.”

  “He might be willing to play Santa again in the shop.”

  Not that we needed Santa today. Everyone seemed in a holiday mood, and sales passed a thousand dollars by one o’clock. So many gift packages of berry soaps and lotions flew out t
he door, I’d have to put together more baskets of bath products after we closed.

  Due to the high volume of business, I barely had time to eat my egg salad sandwich at lunch. But I did play my Dickens audiobook whenever there was a lull.

  Dean offered to man the outdoor booth for the first two hours. But eventually it was time for my turn. I had just zipped up my parka when Gillian came in.

  “Right on time,” I told her. “Did you have fun caroling?”

  “I sounded flat compared to the group they assigned me to. Three of the singers were members of the Oriole Point Chorus. They were show-offs. Holding all the notes at the end.”

  “I’m sure you were great.” I wound my scarf tight about my neck. “You only have to stay here for about five minutes. Long enough for me to get to River Park and send Dean back.”

  “No problem. I need to warm up before going out again. I’m meeting Mom for lunch at The Wiley Perch.” She craned her neck past the shop’s Christmas tree. “I see something new in the pastry case. And they look like holly leaves.”

  It seemed fitting that Theo arrived during Gillian’s mention of pastries. He carried the songbook used by the festival carolers.

  “How did the caroling go this morning?” I asked Theo.

  “I liked it.” he said with a solemn expression. “But they should have given us the songbook yesterday. Some of the carols I never heard before, like ‘The Holly and the Ivy.’ ”

  “That’s why we had songbooks.” Gillian made her way to the pastry case. “And you’re supposed to give the books back when your group is done singing.”

  He tightened his grip on the green hardcover volume. “I asked if I could keep it. To help me learn all the songs. Was that wrong?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “Piper’s committee has plenty of songbooks. Now that you’re here, try a new Pinterest recipe I made last night. Hollyberry cookies made with cornflakes. I’ve already sold half the batch.”

  Gillian grabbed one from the case and took a bite. “Yum. Do you mind if I take a few with me? Mom’s looking for new Christmas cookie recipes.”