Homicide for the Holidays
Page 1
HOMICIDE
for the
HOLIDAYS
Edited by
Diana Catt and Marianne Halbert
Homicide for the Holidays
Copyright © 2018 by Speed City Sisters in Crime
Published by Blue River Press
Indianapolis, Indiana
www.brpressbooks.com
Distributed by Cardinal Publishers Group
A Tom Doherty Company, Inc.
www.cardinalpub.com
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a database or other retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-68157-129-4
Cover Design: Nicole Lecht
Book Design: Rick Korab
Editors: Diana Catt, Marianne Halbert, Dani McCormick
Cover Photo: Shutterstock
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction
The Santa Cause | by Elizabeth Perona
Hot Chocolate Crinkle Sandwich Cookies with Cardamom Marshmallow Filling
Hacked for the Holidays | by Ross Carley
Carmen Rodriguez’s Christmas Cornbake
Santa Slayer | by T. C. Winters
Santa’s Eggnog
Qraven | by B. K. Hart
White Christmas Martini
Murder Most Merry | by Shari Held
Red Wine Wassail
The Mysterious Mincemeat Murder | by Joan Bruce
Mincemeat Tart
Killer Christmas | by Janet Williams
Bloody Good Christmas Cookies
The Reindeer Murder Case | by J. Paul Burroughs
Christmas Reindeer Roast
Claus, Santa: MIA | by C. L. Shore
Self-Frosting Anise Cookies
Into the Light Darkness Falls | by C. A. Paddock
St. Lucia Buns
Killing Santa Claus | by MB Dabney
Christmas Toffee Bars
Unexpected Gifts | by Stephen Terrell
Momma’s Gotta Pea Soup
Contributor Biographies
INTRODUCTION
The words “Hoosier holidays” bring to mind certain soft-focused, Normal Rockwell scenes: sitting at the family table groaning from favorites—with sugar cream pie for dessert, naturally—and bundling up to choose a pine from the local tree farm or to drive down to the Circle to see the World’s Largest Christmas Tree. (Shhh, we know it’s not a tree.) Perhaps you’ve continued treasured family traditions, baking cookies to leave for Saint Nick or taking the kids down to the source—Santa Claus, Indiana, for what might be one of the state’s best light displays.
You probably don’t hear “Hoosier holidays” and think murder.
And yet here we are.
There’s something infinitely cozy about a mystery story, isn’t there? The more chilling the story, the better to keep cold nights at bay. Consider the Scandinavian cultures, which have brought us both hygge, the Danish concept of spending time in comfort with friends, and The Killing, both Jolabokaflod, Iceland’s annual “Christmas Book Flood,” the cheerful tradition of book-gifting and reading as a holiday pastime—and some of the darkest crime fiction out there. In cold places, apparently, there is no separation between the enjoyment of nestling in and the enjoyment of crime stories.
The Nordic countries don’t own cold, or crime, as the stories within this collection will prove. It gets awfully cold in Indiana, too.
With the stories in this collection, the authors of Sisters in Crime Speed City Chapter might surprise you with the variety of ways the holidays can kill. This collection runs the gamut of ho-ho-homicide, from stories as sweet as a peppermint candy cane like Elizabeth Perona’s “The Santa Cause” and Joan Bruce’s “The Mysterious Mincemeat Murder,” to holiday-themed tales as darkly noir as anything you’ll find on Christmas Eve, like Ross Carley’s “Hacked for the Holidays” and C. A. Paddock’s “Into the Light Darkness Falls.” If you’re here for the crime, you’ll find a Santa-cide or two, like “Killing Santa Claus” by MB Dabney and “Santa Slayer” by T. C. Winters. “The Reindeer Murder Case” by J Paul Burroughs and “Claus Santa: MIA” by C. L. Shore take turns at mysteries during Christmases of yore, while stories like “Killer Christmas” by Janet Williams, “Qraven” by B. K. Hart, and “Murder Most Merry” by Shari Held stretch the Christmas tale beyond the limits of space, time, and the grave. There’s even a redemptive holiday theft, in “Unexpected Gifts” by Stephen Terrell.
The stories in this collection are gifts, homemade for you with love by Hoosier authors and wrapped, sparkling and ticking, little bombs placed under the tree. You’ll find secrets, lies, twists, and quite a few red Santa suits stained with blood, as well as the recipes for treats mentioned within the stories. (If any of the recipes call for arsenic, that ingredient is optional.) The Sisters and Misters of the Speed City Chapter of Sisters in Crime hope that you enjoy this little dish of Hoosier hospitality—and wish you happy reading all year long.
—Lori Rader-Day
July 2018
The Santa Cause
By Elizabeth Perona
Francine McNamara rushed into the house of her friend Mary Ruth Burrows, sweeping a dusting of snow into the front hall with her. She hadn’t knocked. Their friendship was long past the stage where they needed such formalities. The jingle of the sleigh bells attached to the front door wreath faded as she closed the door behind her. She breathed in the heavenly scent of freshly baked chocolate cookies wafting from the kitchen. It made her mouth water.
“I’m here!” she called. She unwound the scarf from her neck and slipped the down-filled coat from her five-foot ten-inch frame, stuffing the scarf into the sleeve.
“I’m in the kitchen. Get in here fast.”
Francine threw the coat onto a nearby chair and hustled into the commercial kitchen that had served her friend well through her years as a professional caterer and now as a celebrity chef. But Mary Ruth did not look as relaxed as normal in it. She stood in front of the bookcase where she kept her treasured cookbooks and recipe cards, running her hands through her auburn hair as though she didn’t know what to do next. Adjacent to the bookcase was the double wall oven with a coat hanger protruding from the bottom of the upper oven. On the tile floor in front of it, a still body lay next to Mary Ruth’s feet. Francine was sure there would be a rational explanation for all this, but at the moment it eluded her.
She looked up at her friend in alarm. “Is he dead?”
Mary Ruth shook her head. “Passed out. I took his pulse. It’s fast. One twenty. I knew you’d ask.”
Francine bent down to confirm. He was very much alive. He was breathing and had a pulse, rapid as Mary Ruth had said. The face was youthful, though it was difficult to say how old he might be. Early twenties to late thirties, maybe. Very short in stature. She almost wondered if he were faking unconsciousness, which was causing his heart to race. “Who is he and what is he doing here?”
“Repair technician from Kris’s Kitchen Repair, here to fix my oven. Said his name was Gar, but I noticed on the badge it was short for ‘Garland.’ Must take a lot of abuse during the holiday season.”
“Have you called 911?”
“No. I wanted you to get here first.”
“Whatever for?”
Mary Ruth grimaced, panic clearly visible in her hazel-colored eyes. “When he told me it was a
n electrical problem and he wasn’t sure he could fix it, I threatened to kill him.”
Francine stooped down and patted the technician’s cheek, watching for signs he was faking it. He twitched but didn’t open his eyes. Still, she wasn’t buying it. “Anyone would surely understand you were exaggerating to make a point.” She stood and noticed again the aroma of chocolate just pulled from the oven. She saw dozens of cookies cooling on trays. “What’s he repairing? Smells like you’re in business.”
“It’s the top wall oven. The bottom one and the stove are still operating.” Mary Ruth got an exasperated look on her face. “Did your electricity go out late last night for a few minutes? I had that wall unit on self-cleaning mode, and this morning the door was locked tight. I can’t afford to have an oven down, not at this time of year! So, I got online and watched a YouTube video on how to repair it.” She pushed on the bent coat hanger. “It didn’t work, and now this is jammed underneath.”
Whole novels could be written of Mary Ruth’s attempts at home repair, Francine thought. “And how did he get here?”
Straightening her flour-dusted apron, Mary Ruth avoided eye contact. “I called the repair service. The number I usually call rang to this company. I guess they must have bought them out. Anyway, Gar showed up. He said it was related to the electrical outage.”
The jangling of the bells on the wreath could be heard once more from the entryway, followed by the door slamming shut. Charlotte Reinhardt hurried in, unzipping her bright orange down-filled coat. “It’s colder out there than being on reindeer manure duty at the North Pole,” she said. She pulled up short when she spotted the body on the floor. Nonplussed, she unwrapped the plaid scarf from her neck as though the body were an everyday occurrence. “This must be the reason you called me over. Who is he?”
“Repair technician,” Mary Ruth answered.
“He’s not dead,” Francine added.
“Well, that’s a surprise,” Charlotte said. She pulled her arms out of the orange coat and laid it on an empty stool at the bar. It immediately slid to the floor. “When we find them this way, they’re usually dead.” She made a half-circle around the body, appraising the situation. “His ears look kind of pointy. Don’t you think his ears look pointy?”
Francine nodded, but Mary Ruth threw her hands up. “I don’t care how short he is or how weird he looks, as long as he can repair my oven.”
“He doesn’t look weird,” Francine said, “but he does look like that short guy who played Santa’s elf at the party you catered at Alice’s house yesterday for the Make-A-Wish Foundation.”
“Now that you mention it, he does kind of look like that guy!” Mary Ruth said. “He was so pushy. We had all those kids there, but he pulled me out of the kitchen and made me go sit on Santa’s lap.”
“All of us had to sit on Santa’s lap, not just you,” Charlotte said. Then she snickered. “It was funny when Santa said you could have anything you wished for if you gave him the secret recipe to the Hot Chocolate Crinkle Sandwich Cookies you served.”
Hands on her hips, Mary Ruth sputtered. “The truth is, it is a secret recipe, and I’m not going to give it out. It was handed down to me by my Great-Aunt Jenny. Well, verbally, at least. There’s something not quite right about the way I remember it, though.”
“You keep saying that, but everybody loved those cookies.”
She shook her head. “They’re too pedestrian to win the state Christmas Cookie Contest. There’s something missing. I’ve spent the last three days experimenting, trying to figure it out. But I missed the deadline. The cookies were due today at noon.”
Francine knew Mary Ruth had wanted to win the contest. Certain “celebrity chefs” in Indiana had been invited to participate, and as someone who occasionally appeared on Food Network, she qualified. The winner got $10,000 to donate to a worthy cause, and Mary Ruth had been angling for the Make-a-Wish Foundation.
“You should have asked to win the contest, then,” Charlotte said, “instead of asking him to bring you some surprises.” She rolled her eyes. “That was pretty lame.”
“I was in the middle of a catering event! He caught me off-guard and my mind went blank. I couldn’t think of anything else.”
Francine jumped to her defense. “We can always use a few good surprises in our lives.”
Charlotte indicated the technician lying on the floor. “He never said good surprises, did he?” She checked her watch. “I would have thought the paramedics would be here by now. When did you call 911?”
Mary Ruth started pacing. “I know I should have called them, but I was waiting for you to get here. I was just explaining to Francine that Gar—that’s his name—told me I needed a union electrician to get the oven door unstuck because he wasn’t licensed to do anything electrical. But he said all we needed to do was turn off the circuit breaker while the other unlocked the oven door. So, I volunteered. I was out in the garage by the electrical box probably more than five minutes. He kept calling, “Once more!” Finally, I got tired of this game and said I was coming back in. He was on the floor like this when I returned, but I heard some scrambling before then.”
Charlotte rubbed her chin in thought. “So what was he doing all that time when you were out in the garage?” She scouted the immediate area. “Where’re his tools?”
The other two looked around. Mary Ruth shrugged. “Now that you mentioned it, I don’t think he ever brought them in. They must still be in the truck.”
Tilting her head to the right, Charlotte sent her wig of curly white hair slightly off center. “I can’t imagine a repair person trying to work on something without their tools.” She nudged Gar with her snow boot. He didn’t move. “You should call 911 now.”
The technician groaned.
The women all stared at him. Francine waited a beat, but he didn’t move.
“Hello?” Francine patted his cheek again. No response. “Gar,” she said, prodding him.
Gar’s eyelids fluttered, and then he opened his eyes. He blinked a couple of times. Francine was surprised by how bright green his irises were. She wondered if he wore special contacts.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in my kitchen,” Mary Ruth answered. “You’re here to repair my oven. And now that you’re okay, you’d better get moving. I’ve still got dozens upon dozens of cookies to bake for my customers, not to mention all the pies that have to be done before Christmas Eve!”
Gar fanned himself with his hand. “I don’t feel so good.” He had a high squeaky voice. “Maybe I need a cookie, get a little sugar in me.” He took in the surroundings. “By the way, who are you people?”
Mary Ruth huffed. “Don’t give me that amnesia ploy. If you can’t fix my oven, just say so. I’ll need to get another repairperson in right away.”
“Your name is Gar, and you’re with Kris’s Kitchen Repair,” Francine said, trying to be kinder. She took his now outstretched hand and helped him to his feet.
“Or maybe,” Charlotte said suspiciously, tapping one foot on the floor, “maybe you’re not a repairman. Maybe you’re the guy who played Santa’s elf yesterday at the benefit for the kids.”
“What about that cookie?” he asked. His face flushed a guilty red.
Mary Ruth took a few steps and snagged a Hot Chocolate Crinkle Sandwich Cookie off a cooling tray. She held it out to him. “Here, have one of these. You and Santa ate about a dozen each yesterday. We know it was you playing the elf.”
“Yeah,” he said, snarfing down the cookie. “I get hired to play those roles at Christmas time. It’s one of the only benefits of being short.” He licked the marshmallow filling off his fingers. “Needs something.”
Mary Ruth turned to Francine. “See! Even he knows.”
“But I really am a repairman,” he added. “Let me go out and get my tools and I’ll do what I can to fix this.”
Charlotte closed in on him like a spider on prey. “Get your tools? What were you doing when you had Mary Ruth in the
garage flipping the circuit breaker?”
“Uh, trying a simple fix that didn’t seem to work.” He made a bee-line for the door.
She grabbed him by the arm and swung him around. A folded blue note card fell from his coveralls and fluttered to the floor. “Wait a minute!” She snatched it up. “What’s this?”
Gar tried to grab it back, but Charlotte whisked it out of his reach.
She unfolded it. “It’s your crinkle cookie recipe, Mary Ruth.” She handed it over to her.
“Huh,” Mary Ruth grunted. “He must’ve searched hard for it. I had it stuffed in one of my cookbooks. I’ve made so many experimental versions I have the basic version memorized.” She placed it on the counter and marched up to Gar. Though she was only a few inches taller, she glared down at him. “Is this what you’ve come to do, steal from me?”
Gar’s eyes darted away. “I don’t know how that got in my pocket.”
“Is it just a coincidence then,” Charlotte said, taking charge, “that you admit to playing the elf at yesterday’s benefit, that you knew about Mary Ruth’s Hot Chocolate Crinkle Sandwich Cookies, and that you showed up to repair an oven you don’t even know how to repair?”
“That’s not true,” Gar sputtered. “Give me a chance and I’ll repair it. Think about this—how could I have made your oven stop working? And how could I have known what repair service you would call?”
Francine leaned against the wall oven. “He has a point.”
Charlotte pulled out a bar stool. “Have a seat, sweetie. We’re going to do a little old fashioned cross examination.”
He didn’t sit, so Charlotte gave him a push. He sat, his hands fidgeting.
“I’ll need to see some identification. Your wallet, please.”
Gar patted his pockets. “I don’t know where it is. I don’t think I brought it in.”
Francine was already headed into the front room. “I’ll check the repair van,” she called back to them. She put on her coat and zipped out the front door. “The repair van looks legit,” she thought. The van was a giant advertisement for Kris’s Kitchen Repair with a custom-made fancy vehicle wrap in red, green, and white. To her surprise, the van was still running.