The Mistletoe Murders

by Laurinda Wallace

  “Hi, this is Brian Damon. I’m Josh’s foster dad.”

  “Hi. What can I do for you?” Jim had a feeling that all was not well at the Damons.

  “I’m wondering if Josh tried to contact you. He took off this morning in my old truck. We’re pretty worried about him.”

  “He did, but I screwed up, and he hung up on me. I’ve tried calling him back a few times, but there’s no answer.”

  “Did he say where he was or where he was headed?”

  “No,” Jim said regretfully. “I didn’t get that far. Would he go to a family member, a close friend maybe, or is there a place he likes to hang out?”

  “Josh is pretty much of a loner. Our other foster son hasn’t connected too well with him. Josh was pretty torn up over the accusation one of the men made against him from the church.”

  “What was it? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “From what I understand, they had Josh and another kid working off some community service there. Money disappeared from the church office while the boys were working. Both were in and out of the church for water, and they ate lunch in the church.”

  “Were both accused?” Jim wondered if the other boy had something against Josh.

  “No. The other boy told the guy in charge that he saw Josh go into the office at some point. Cash was gone, and when they searched Josh’s backpack, there was nothing. They apologized, but the damage was done. And they told Josh he’d have to find another place to finish his community service.”

  “Sounds fishy to me. Do you have any idea who the other kid was?”

  Jim shook his head when he heard the name.

  A whirring of the furnace starting up heralded the return of power to the B & B. There was applause from those still huddled near the fire in the library, but almost immediately the fan quit. Disappointed groans erupted around the room. Chef Flambeau was stirring, and his eyes flickered open as Gracie and Marci stood by. Stephanie came over and took his hand, grasping it firmly.

  “Carl, come on, wake up,” she said softly.

  He groaned, and his eyes opened again, looking around at the group hovering near the couch.

  “What’s—oh, my head.” His eyes closed again.

  “Come on, you can do it, Carl,” Stephanie encouraged.

  Marci went to get some water as Carl opened his eyes again and struggled to sit up.

  The parlor was cozy and warm from the roaring fire that Marc had tended. Kristin sat forlornly on a wingback chair, her nose and eyes still red from crying.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized, sniffling and blowing her nose into a damp tissue.

  “Sorry you’re so upset,” Marc commiserated. “This weekend hasn’t turned out the way any of us thought it would.”

  “It’s m-m-my fault,” Kristin stammered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I should’ve been in the kitchen earlier, then they wouldn’t have gotten into a fight.”

  “I’m not sure you could break up an altercation between those two.”

  “At least I could’ve tried. Carl usually listens to me when he loses his temper.”

  “You two have a relationship?”

  Kristin’s face sobered. “Professional. That’s the relationship we have. I’m sick of people insinuating there must be something going on between us. I have a partner in Manhattan. He’s a chef at an Italian restaurant there. ”

  “Did you hear any arguing last night, like after eleven?”

  She shook her head. “I was exhausted. It was a long day yesterday.”

  Marc gained more insight into the grudge between the chef and the writer from the sous chef, but nothing more on what he and Gracie had heard in their room. It was mighty peculiar that everyone had immediately fallen into REM sleep. The voices they’d heard weren’t imaginary. He should’ve investigated further last night. It may have cost Cleaver his life.

  Stephanie Adams was his last interview. The cheerfulness she’d exuded the previous night was absent. She leaned her head against the back of the velveteen-upholstered chair and closed her eyes. Marc was tired himself.

  Stephanie confirmed that she’d heard an argument from their first-floor bedroom.

  “Oh yes, I heard it, but Ward wouldn’t have. He won’t admit it, but his hearing is terrible.”

  “Did you recognize the voices?” Marc had high hopes of identifying the men.

  “It was Carl and Rush.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. They were arguing over Rush’s invitation to this opening. I don’t know why he was invited.”

  “You mean you didn’t have Marci invite him?”

  Stephanie’s brown doe-like eyes widened with surprise. “Of course not. I’d never suggest that. Not with this group. Rush has had it in for Carl for ages. Rush ruined Ethan’s chances of a TV show just last year with a rumor about a drug habit. He saw Ethan inject himself with insulin at some event and spread a rumor that Ethan was a junkie. He has diabetes, not an addiction. Neema has lost more than a couple of clients because of his reviews about her agency. She had a big flop about three years ago, and he still writes about it on his blog.”

  Marc sat back against the sofa, listening to her continue to elaborate on the group’s contentious relationships.

  “What about you and your husband?”

  “He can’t stand us because we threw him out of the Association. His B & B was a disaster. Except for the food. Rooms were not as advertised, and the amenities listed were suddenly pulled after the first six months. He wasn’t managing the place well at all. We had a ton of complaints from his guests.” She twisted a stack of gold rings on her index finger and smiled. “However, if you’re thinking we killed Rush, we didn’t.”

  “Why should I believe you?” Marc scratched his chin, leaning forward for her answer.

  “We couldn’t kill anyone. Ward’s obviously not at his best physically, and I would not take on Rush Cleaver. I wouldn’t want to be that close to him.”

  Lunch was a simple affair in the dining room. Carl was dozing peacefully when Sheila and Marci placed a platter of chicken salad and ham sandwiches on the table. Kristin brought in a salad while Gracie set out plates and silverware.

  “Any chance we can go outside for a breath of fresh air?” Ethan asked before biting into a sandwich.

  “It’s all right with me.” Marc took a seat and helped himself to two sandwiches. Marci brought in a bowl of fruit, placing it in the center of the table. He grabbed an apple to add to the plate.

  “Good,” Ethan sighed. “I’m feeling a little claustrophobic in this room.” He cocked his head insolently toward Marc, eyes narrowed. “Any ideas on who murdered Rush yet?”

  Marc’s expression didn’t change at his sarcastic tone, but Gracie knew he had a great deal of self-control when it came to dealing with difficult suspects.

  “Early days yet. I’ll be examining the body right after I search everyone’s room.”

  Complaints began immediately.

  “The sooner you all cooperate, the sooner you can be cleared of suspicion.” Marc raised his voice over theirs. He bit into the apple and looked at Ethan.

  “I intend to fully cooperate,” Isabelle said, looking around at the rest of the group.

  “Good for you,” Ethan snapped. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  Devon shot a disgusted look at the man and left the room. Quentin was glued to his phone, and Gracie wondered if he was still doing research on the house.

  “Whatever you need to do, we’re on board,” Ward said, rising stiffly. “Let’s get this over with.” He shot a dark glance in Flambeau’s direction. “I think your murderer is sleeping on the couch though.”

  “Quite possible,” Marc replied, finishing the last of the second sandwich.

  The searches yielded nothing of interest, except for the Taser found in Neema’s suitcase. Gracie handed it carefully to Marc.

  “I wonder if she’s ever used it?”

/>   Marc examined it and handed it back. “Must be our vacation guide feels the need for protection.”

  Isabelle clung to the doorway of her room while Marc made a cursory search. Hers was the last room.

  “Do you really have to go through my stuff?” she asked petulantly.

  “Sorry, but I do. I can’t leave you out.” Marc closed the closet door and looked once more around the room.

  Gracie had excused herself from pawing through Isabelle’s belongings (knowing she’d never hear the end of it otherwise), and decided she could use some fresh air as well. Turning the collar up on her coat, she went out on the porch.

  The massive evergreens had shed needles and branches all over the front lawn. The blue sky had disappeared again, and murky snow clouds gathered in the west. She stepped carefully down the stairs to the walkway that Devon had managed to clear with the snow blower. Chunks of ice still clung to brick edges.

  A motor suddenly thrummed steadily from the rear of the house. Curious, she walked around toward the gardens and the back kitchen door. A large compressor-like unit was tucked in a corner of the kitchen garden. It must be that the generator was finally working. They’d have lights tonight and heat. She walked the symmetrical paths edged by the boxy yews, which eventually led out toward the stables. Ahead of her, Quentin walked toward the barn with Kristin, Ethan, and Neema. Maybe they were traipsing out to the creepy cemetery. That trek wasn’t for her today.

  The house was definitely warming up when she came inside. Marc was waiting for her.

  “I need to go down and examine Rush.”

  “I’m going too.”

  “Sure. If you think you’re up to it. It’s not going to be fun.”

  “I know. But you may need some help.”

  The cellar lights swallowed up gloom, and Marc took several pictures with his phone as they approached the alcove. Gracie carried a handful of plastic bags with zip tops. The smell assaulted them, and she gagged.

  “You can’t contaminate the crime scene,” Marc warned her. “Breathe through your mouth.”

  “I know. I’ll be okay. Give me a minute.” She turned and walked over to the laundry area in a far corner. She took a couple of deep breaths before returning. Marc checked the man’s pockets, which was no small task. The body was in full rigor. He dropped a handful of change, a pen, and small container of breath mints into a bag.

  He took a few more photos of the bruising around the neck with his phone. Pulling a spoon from his back pocket, he scooped some crusted vomit into another bag. Gracie closed her eyes, trying to picture a warm beach and digging her toes into the sand. It wasn’t working, and she swallowed hard to keep lunch down.

  “Why didn’t we do this before eating?”

  Marc chuckled glumly. “You should have spoken up.”

  He carefully examined the rest of the body, lifting the shirt to look for additional bruising. He took more photos. It looked like Rush had caught a right hook to the eye and then been choked at the very least.

  The men had exchanged blows, and Carl, being the much larger man, had placed strong hands around the slighter man’s neck with some force. The remaining questions of too much alcohol or poison, and if the man had truly been strangled would be up to the medical examiner. Unless Flambeau regained consciousness long enough to explain what happened.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Gracie and Isabelle stood on the porch ready to greet the cadre of sheriff’s cars and the ambulance—finally. Flambeau was whisked away within a few minutes.

  The investigative team from the sheriff’s department combed the house from top to bottom. The guests were once again relegated to the library, where the stern visage of Stephen Mistletoe stared out from over the fireplace, as if holding court.

  All were questioned again, this time by the sheriff’s department’s newest hire. Investigator Harris Newman, a short and pudgy man with extraordinary eyebrows and deep-set brown eyes, thumbed through Marc’s notes, eyebrows working like excited antennae. He motioned Gracie and Marc into the hallway away from the disgruntled guests.

  “What are your impressions of this group? And the chef for that matter.”

  “The chef has the strongest motive,” Marc answered, looking over at Gracie.

  “I agree. He had already threatened Mr. Cleaver before the rest arrived. They all have motives too. Cleaver wasn’t anyone you’d want as your enemy.”

  “Thanks. That’s the feeling I got from the out-of-town folks. I’m putting a rush on the analysis of the vomit. If the man was poisoned, we need to find out what it is. Also, I’d appreciate if you’d continue to assist with the investigation. There are a lot of cases piling up mainly because of the storm.”

  “Sure. I’m glad to lend a hand,” Marc said. “I’m invested in this investigation now.”

  Isabelle stalked out of the library, joining them before the investigator could respond. She looked a little peaky and peeved.

  “I’d like to go home, sir. I really don’t want to spend any more time here. Is that a problem?”

  The investigator gave her a reassuring smile. “Sure. There’s no need for you to stay. This has been quite an ordeal, I imagine.”

  Relief washed over Isabelle’s face. “Thank you. It’s been horrible, and I don’t want to stay in this house another night. It’s haunted, you know.”

  The magnificent eyebrows of the investigator rose. “Is that right?” Newman looked over at Marc.

  “It’s a long story,” Marc groaned.

  Jim drove into Leon Kaczmarek’s driveway, stopping near the back door. Broken branches were strewn about the small yard. Thawing ice dripped from the eaves and nearby trees.

  A surprised Leon opened the door for him.

  “Jim. What can I do for you?”

  Jim had thought through the conversation multiple times on his drive over. None of his imaginary openings had been as diplomatic as he intended. But after talking with Pastor Minders, he had to confront the man. He drew a deep breath and tried to look pleasant.

  “I was wondering if we could talk for a few minutes about your son. Privately, that is.”

  Leon frowned and looked over his shoulder. “Now is not a good time. We’ve got some family issues we’re dealing with at the moment.”

  “Well, there might be some other ones you don’t know about. I’d just take a few minutes. Could we talk out here?”

  Leon hesitated, but told Jim to wait on the steps. He returned with a coat and came outside.

  “Okay, what’s the problem?”

  The man’s face hardened as Jim recounted the church incident and Leon, Jr.’s accusation.

  “That boy Josh is a thief. The money was gone. My boy only told me what he saw, and he had no reason to lie.”

  “There’s another side to this, Leon. I hope you’ll at least listen to me.”

  Leon nodded, his mouth set firmly.

  Gracie was relieved to be home, sinking onto the couch. Haley and Max pressed against her, tails waving and cold noses sniffing their clothing. She’d hated to leave Marci with a houseful of murder suspects, but with the possibility of another storm coming in, she didn’t want to be far from the kennel. However, none of the remaining guests had as much motive as Carl Flambeau. Marci should be safe enough.

  Jim plowed through the kitchen door just as Marc disappeared to take a shower.

  “Wow! What’s the burr under your saddle?” Gracie eyed her business partner with concern.

  “Listen to this,” Jim practically snarled. “Leon Kaczmarek’s son, that darling Leon, Jr., who’s been in trouble since he was five, set up a foster kid as a thief at church.”

  “What? What’s going on?”

  Jim’s blue eyes glinted with anger, his fists clenched.

  “Come on, Jim, tell me what happened. Let me get you some coffee. I know I need some after the murder at the B & B.”

  “What? Murder?”

  With mugs of dark caffeine in h
and, the conversation flowed quickly with Gracie giving a summary of the sordid crime that threatened Marci’s future.

  “That’s horrible.” Jim’s strong jaw tightened.

  “I know and maybe we should have stayed another night, but if we get a second storm, I didn’t want to be stuck there. I’ll go back up in the morning if the weather isn’t worse.”

  “She could probably use some moral support,” Jim agreed.

  “Now, your turn.” Gracie looked expectantly at Jim.

  “Leon, Jr. was working off some community service at the church along with Josh. Leon is a bully, and he’s been known to take things that don’t belong to him. I believe that Leon, Jr. took the cash out of the church office that day and blamed Josh when it was discovered. His father just happened to stop by on his lunch hour to check on the kid, and Junior was quick to tell him that he saw Josh slip into the church office while the secretary was out.”

  “Sounds like Leon, Jr. He’s always been a troublemaker.”

  “So poor Josh takes the fall and then acts out at his foster home, gets moved to another one, and the nativity disappears. Josh has also disappeared from his foster home. He took their old truck.”

  Gracie set her empty mug on the coffee table. Some kids seemed destined for trouble no matter what their home life was like.

  “Does anyone know where Josh might be? And what about the church’s money? Was that found?”

  “Slow down, Chief. I can’t answer everything at once. First, the Damons, his new foster parents, are still looking for him. As for the money, Leon, Sr. is grilling his son as we speak. Since you’re here, I’m going out to help the Damons. Josh has plenty of reasons to get back at the church for falsely accusing him.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, maybe Leon, Jr. took the money, but Josh could’ve too. It hasn’t been found, right? Plus, he’s stolen a vehicle.”

  “Yeah. I guess. My gut tells me that it’s Leon, Jr. though. As soon as Pastor Minders told me who was working with Josh that day, I knew it had to be Junior.”