Homicide for the Holidays

by Speed City Indiana Sisters in Crime

  Jonathan stepped forward and put his hand on Richard’s clammy forehead. Richard jerked, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell, hitting his head on the corner of the desk. Blood flowed over Richard’s Persian carpet.

  “Merry Christmas, little brother. Rest in peace.”

  Red Wine Wassail

  3 cups apple cider

  ½ cup honey

  2 quarts inexpensive (but not cheap!) red wine, preferably a Cabernet Sauvignon

  1 orange—the zest and juice

  2 cinnamon sticks 24 whole cloves

  Garnish

  Orange slices

  In a crockpot combine the apple juice, honey, orange juice, and orange zest. Slowly stir in red wine.

  Take a large piece of cheesecloth and place the cinnamon sticks and cloves on it. With string, tie it up to make a small bundle and drop it into the red wine mixture.

  Heat on high in the crockpot for about three hours. Do not let it boil.

  Discard the spice bag and pour the heated Wassail into a large punch bowl (or crock pot on low heat). Then add the orange slices. Your home will smell lovely!

  Makes 12 to 16 servings

  The Mysterious Mincemeat Murder

  By Joan Bruce

  “Where should we eat dinner on Christmas Eve?” my best friend, Mandy Malone, asked after I picked up my phone.

  “You didn’t win another Caribbean cruise?” I asked.

  “Nope, my stores finished third in this year’s Goodyear winter tire sales promotion. No cruise for me. Just a form letter from the company’s president.”

  Too bad. I was hoping to go with you this year.

  “So, what’s it going to be? Steak or seafood?” Mandy asked.

  “Let’s do something different this year,” I said.

  “Like what?”

  “Martha Rae Folger told me about an opportunity the other day when she stopped by the salon.”

  “What?” Mandy asked.

  “The administrator at the new assisted living facility is giving her staff the night off on Christmas Eve, so they can spend time with their families before they return to work on Christmas Day. She’s inviting local folks to treat her residents to a potluck dinner on Christmas Eve and a musical program.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mandy said. “You want me to spend Christmas Eve spoon feeding some toothless old woman instead of eating dinner at an upscale restaurant in Indianapolis? No way.”

  “Mandy, don’t be such a Scrooge,” I said. “It’ll be fun. Helping the less fortunate is what Christmas is all about. Besides, we shouldn’t be filling our faces with food that isn’t on our diets. And, we’ll get to sing Christmas carols to the residents. I love to sing.”

  “The only singing I do is in my shower.”

  “Martha Rae plans to interview the volunteers on her radio show all week.”

  “She does?” Mandy asked.

  “Yeah, and whoever donates the turkey and ham for the dinner will be mentioned several times on her show.”

  “Maybe volunteering at the Springs isn’t such a bad idea,” Mandy said. “After all, if Martha Rae is behind it, everyone in town will know about it, right?”

  “Right,” I said. “So, you’re willing to help?”

  “Why not. People need to know my business supports the less fortunate.”

  “Great. There’s just one more thing,” I said. “I want Emma Lou Pettijohn to join us.”

  “Who?”

  “Emma Lou,” I said. “Remember, she’s the older woman I ate Christmas Eve dinner with last year when you were on your cruise.”

  “Is she the one who kept stealing the naked baby Jesus from the manger at First United Methodist Church because she thought he’d catch pneumonia?”

  “Yes. I’ve already talked to her about that. She’s promised to leave him alone this year if the church ladies wrap him in a warm blanket.”

  It was nearing six o’clock when Mandy and I picked up Emma Lou in front of her gigantic, two-story Victorian house on East Washington Street and drove her to the Springs of Bartonsville. Margaret Sullivan, the facility’s administrator, greeted us at the main entrance.

  “Good evening, ladies,” she said with a big smile. “What have you brought us?”

  “A pre-cooked turkey breast and a spiral ham,” Mandy said, pointing to the heavy bags in my arms. “You’ll need to warm them in an oven for a few minutes.”

  “And, what did you bring?” Ms. Sullivan said, turning to Emma Lou.

  “A tray of mincemeat tarts,” she proudly replied. “I made them myself, using my mother’s old English recipe.”

  “How interesting,” Ms. Sullivan said. “I’ve never eaten one before. Let’s put them on the dessert table in the dining room.”

  As we followed behind Ms. Sullivan and Emma Lou, I turned to Mandy and whispered, “What a beautiful place. I’d love to live here when I get older.”

  “Save the tips from your manicures, and who knows,” Mandy replied. “Someday, this could be all yours.”

  The potluck dinner went off without too many problems. For a bunch of frail-looking old people, the residents had some hearty appetites with many requesting seconds. It was as if they hadn’t eaten in a week.

  Mandy spent her time asking folks how they enjoyed the turkey and ham that she brought for the dinner. It was like she’d been transported back in time to when she would schmooze her diners as the hostess at the Barton County Country Club.

  Martha Rae remained in the kitchen, helping Ms. Sullivan prepare bowls of vegetables and mashed potatoes and slicing the meat.

  I ran between the kitchen and dining room delivering platters of meat and bowls of food to each table. Emma Lou followed behind me like a little puppy dog.

  “Is everyone finished with their dinners?” Martha Rae asked after I’d returned to the kitchen for what seemed like the umpteenth time.

  “I sure hope so,” I said. “My feet are killing me. I haven’t been a waitress for a few years. I’m out of shape.”

  Just then, we heard loud shrieks coming from the dining room. We ran out of the kitchen and noticed a white-haired gentleman dressed in a tweed jacket, white shirt and wearing an ugly Christmas tie, lying on the floor. He had been sitting at a table full of women and apparently had fallen out of his chair. I knelt beside him and felt for a pulse.

  “He’s dead,” I said as I stood up a few seconds later.

  “What?” Ms. Sullivan shouted. “That’s impossible! Mr. Worthington can’t be dead. He’s one of my healthiest residents.”

  The ladies at the table suddenly began screeching all at once. It took a few minutes for me to quiet them down.

  “Mandy, call the cops and let them know what’s happened,” I said. “Ms. Sullivan, send your residents back to their apartments except the ones sitting with Mr. Worthington.”

  “What should I do?” Martha Rae asked.

  “You’re a radio host,” I replied. “Take Emma Lou and these ladies to the far corner of the dining room and ask them what made Mr. Worthington keel over.”

  “The cops are on their way,” Mandy said as we watched Martha Rae and the ladies walk away. “Think the old guy had a heart attack or a stroke?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “But if he was as healthy as Ms. Sullivan said, something’s definitely not right here.”

  Nate Sloan and Frank Turner of the Bartonsville Police Department arrived at the assisted-living facility within five minutes of Mandy’s call.

  “What are you two doing here?” Nate asked when he spotted us.

  “We served the residents dinner until this guy on the floor keeled over and died,” I said.

  “Who is he?” Frank asked.

  “All I know is that his name is Geoffrey Worthington and he was eating dinner with a bunch of ladies,” I replied. “Where’s Chief Cobb?”

  “Dan drove to Indianapolis for the holidays, but we’ll call and get him back here right away,” Nate said. “I’ll also call the coro
ner.”

  “Where are the women who were sitting with this guy?” Frank asked.

  “Talking to Martha Rae,” I said, pointing to the far corner of the dining room.

  “Oh, great, that’s all we need is her nosing around in the middle of everything,” Frank replied. “It’s liable to end up on her radio show.”

  Frank and Nate walked over to Martha Rae, said something briefly to her and Emma Lou, before they began interviewing the women themselves.

  “What did Nate and Frank say?” I asked when Martha Rae and Emma Lou returned to where we were standing.

  “They told us to mind our own business and stay out of their investigation,” Martha Rae said.

  “And, those nasty women said Geoffrey died after eating one of my mincemeat tarts,” Emma Lou said.

  It took me, Mandy, and Martha Rae at least a half hour to calm down Emma Lou and persuade her that her mincemeat tarts couldn’t possibly have killed Mr. Worthington even though someone kept yelling that the tarts were poisoned. The breakthrough came when I agreed to eat one of them myself.

  I know. What was I thinking?

  “Are you crazy?” Mandy said as she followed me to the dessert table. “You could drop dead just like that old guy. Who knows what your friend put in her tarts.”

  “Listen, I trust that she followed her Mom’s recipe,” I said, placing a tart on a small plate and returning to the dinner table. Once there, I took a tiny bite of the tart. The pastry was very flaky. The ingredients thick and fruity.

  “What’s in this tart?” I asked Emma Lou, taking a second bite.

  “Raisins, currants, lemon zest, shredded suet, chopped mixed peel, brown sugar and a touch of nutmeg,” she replied.

  “Is that all?”

  “My mother’s recipe calls for brandy, but the jar of mincemeat I bought at the store was non-alcoholic, so I added my own alcohol.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mandy said. “That tart is laced with alcohol? Let me taste it.”

  “But, a minute ago you were afraid for me to try it,” I said. “What changed your mind?”

  “It contains alcohol?” Mandy said, grabbing the tart out of my hand and taking a big bite.

  “Emma Lou, this is delicious,” Mandy said. “I need a tart of my own.” She stood up and headed for the dessert table.

  As I looked up, I noticed Dr. William Armstrong enter the dining room. He’s been a general practice physician in Bartonsville and the county’s coroner for a hundred years. My mom took me to him when I was a kid.

  Nate and Frank spoke briefly to him before steering the doctor to the dead guy. I waited a few minutes before I wandered over to where Dr. Armstrong was examining the body.

  “What did he die of?” I asked.

  “Who are you?”

  “Candi DeCarlo,” I replied. “I was a patient of yours when I was a kid. And, I’m the one who checked his pulse after he fell over.”

  “That was very brave of you, Ms. DeCarlo,” Dr. Armstrong said. “Most people won’t go anywhere near a dead person. I won’t know what caused his death until I get him back to the morgue and can perform a more thorough exam.”

  “Well?” Mandy asked when I returned to the table.

  “Doc doesn’t know what caused Mr. Worthington’s death,” I said. “Maybe he was allergic to an ingredient in the tart. Like kids who get sick from eating peanut butter. Or, maybe he was allergic to the brandy.”

  “That’s a horrible thought,” Mandy said.

  Dr. Armstrong spent another half hour examining Mr. Worthington before he released his body to the paramedics. After they had all left, Nate and Frank approached our table.

  “Got anything more to say about what happened tonight?” Nate asked.

  “No,” I replied. “We were in the kitchen when Mr. Worthington keeled over. We didn’t see anything.”

  “Are you done interviewing the residents?” Martha Rae asked.

  “For now,” Frank said. “We’ll return tomorrow if Dr. Armstrong’s autopsy raises any new questions. Chief Cobb also should be back in town by then.”

  As Nate and Frank left, Margaret Sullivan walked up to our table.

  “Get your residents calmed down?” I asked.

  “I hope so,” Ms. Sullivan replied. “I’m actually more concerned about their children once word gets out about Mr. Worthington’s death. They’ll want to move their parents to a safer facility.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said. “So, what should we do now?”

  “Let’s help Margaret clean the kitchen, so her staff doesn’t have a mess when they return to work tomorrow,” Martha Rae said.

  “Excellent idea,” Mandy said, biting into another mincemeat tart. “Candi and Emma Lou can straighten the dining room while the rest of us work in the kitchen.”

  “Did you know any of the women sitting with Mr. Worthington?” I asked Emma Lou as we wiped down the tables in the dining room.

  “Mildred McDonald,” Emma Lou replied. “Our husbands were once business partners. The four of us would get together regularly to play bridge, but after our husbands passed away, Mildred and I drifted apart.”

  “What was her theory about Mr. Worthington dying?” I asked.

  “She thinks it was my mincemeat tart,” Emma Lou replied. “He either choked on it or it poisoned him.”

  “She said that to your face?” I said. “I thought you’d been friends for years.”

  “Her comment really wasn’t aimed at me,” Emma Lou said. “It was more a statement of disappointment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Geoffrey Worthington was considered a prized catch.”

  “Huh?”

  “Not many men live here,” Emma Lou said. “Geoffrey was a recent widower. He was handsome and appeared to be in good health. My guess is several women had their eyes on him.”

  “They wanted to marry him?”

  “No, silly, just looking for a roll in the hay.”

  “Oh,” I said, my face suddenly turning red. “Think Mildred killed Mr. Worthington?”

  “Doubt it, she loved her husband, Edgar, too much,” Emma Lou said. “Besides, he left her a fortune. Mildred wouldn’t be interested in squandering it on another man.”

  “Did she have any other suspects in mind besides you?”

  “If she did, Mildred wasn’t about to say anything in front of the others,” Emma Lou said. “These women wouldn’t let a man—even a dead one—get in the way of their friendships.”

  “Maybe we should talk to her privately,” I said. “Since Mandy and I didn’t die after eating your tarts, I doubt Mr. Worthington was poisoned, but who knows. Nate and Frank didn’t seem to have any clue about what happened to him or have a suspect in mind. Maybe, we can figure it out on our own.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Emma Lou said. “I’ve always wanted to be a detective likes the ones on TV.”

  We walked to the facility’s main entrance where Emma Lou and I found Mildred McDonald’s mailbox and the number of her apartment. It took us only a few minutes to locate her place. We gently knocked on her door.

  A minute went by before a short, white-haired woman in a pink satin housecoat opened her door.

  “What are you doing here, Emma Lou?” Mildred McDonald asked.

  “My friend, Candi, and I want to ask you a few questions about tonight,” Emma Lou said. “Can we come in?”

  “I guess so, but I don’t know what more I can tell you,” Mildred said, opening her door wider to let us inside. Her apartment was gorgeous. She’d obviously spent part of Edgar’s money buying some expensive furniture. It put my apartment to shame. Emma Lou and I sat on a large floral-patterned sofa in the living room. Mildred sat across from us in a straight-back chair.

  “Emma Lou says you think Mr. Worthington either choked to death on one of her mincemeat tarts, or he was poisoned,” I said. “Is that correct?”

  “That’s what I said,” Mildred replied.

  “Sorry, but I don’t t
hink he choked to death,” I said. “When I knelt beside him to check his pulse, his mouth was clear. No sign of the tart stuck in his mouth or throat. Ms. Sullivan says he was her healthiest resident, so while a heart attack is certainly possible, I’m guessing that didn’t cause his death. That leaves poisoning.”

  “Why do you think he was poisoned, Mildred?” Emma Lou asked. “Know something you’re not telling us?”

  “Of course not,” Mildred said. “I don’t know. It just popped into my head. I was watching a Law and Order rerun before dinner. A woman was accused of poisoning her husband for his insurance money. The episode must have stuck with me.”

  Emma Lou turned to me and rolled her eyes.

  “Mildred, what do you remember right before Mr. Worthington collapsed on the floor?” I asked.

  “Geoffrey was finishing the last bite of his dinner when I jumped up and headed to the dessert table. He was a very proper Englishman, so I figured he knew all about mincemeat tarts and would enjoy one for dessert. Betty Foster and Vivian Appleton apparently had the same idea. Suddenly the three of us were each grabbing a tart and a small plate and rushing back to the table.

  “Whose tart did Geoffrey eat?” Emma Lou asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mildred replied. “I slipped on the carpet underneath the dessert table on my way back. By the time I got to the dinner table, Geoffrey had bitten into a tart. I don’t know if it was Betty’s or Vivian’s.”

  “What can you tell us about Betty and Vivian?” I asked.

  “They’re gold diggers,” Mildred said with a straight face. “A single man doesn’t stand a chance around that pair. They’re all over the poor guy until they find out he either isn’t rich or can’t perform where it counts.”

  “What was Mr. Worthington’s situation?” Emma Lou asked.

  “Everyone figured he was wealthy, but Geoffrey hadn’t been here long enough for anyone to know if he was a player,” Mildred said.