Candy Slain

by Chelsea Thomas

  Cookie looked up and made eye contact with Miss May. “There’s nothing, really. All I can think of is, you said this man worked as an elf?”

  Miss May nodded.

  Cookie continued. “All I can think of is if he worked as an elf, maybe he wanted part of this Pine Grove job? Pine Grove pays very well. I suppose it’s possible... Maybe Orville promised he’d hire this Lincoln guy as an elf and then Orville backed out because the money wasn’t good? Now the elf is on a rampage?”

  “That’s a stretch,” I said.

  “That’s all I’ve got,” said Cookie. “Like I said, the Claus business can be cutthroat.”

  Miss May turned and started walking back toward the farmhouse. Cookie and I followed. “I think you should bring that note to the police,” said Miss May.

  Cookie quickened her pace to walk beside Miss May. “You think? I planned to bring the note to the police but then I started reading online about Pine Grove’s rash of recent crimes. The cops here seem so…inept. Then I read about you and Chelsea and your reputation as local sleuths. So when I saw your note on my camera... I thought you could make use of this evidence better than anyone.”

  Miss May nodded. “You said you received the note yesterday?”

  “It was in my mailbox this morning.”

  Miss May looked over at me. “That means the elf is likely still in town.” Miss May took Cookie’s hand. “Cookie. This note might be more than a threat. It might be a promise.”

  “So what do I do?” Cookie’s voice got high and frightened. “I don’t have any family. I don’t know where to go.”

  “It doesn’t matter where you go,” said Miss May. “Just be careful. Lay low until we solve this crime.”

  Cookie hugged Miss May. “Do you really think you can solve it?”

  Miss May pulled away from the hug and looked Cookie in the eye. “I know we can.”

  27

  The Naughty List

  As soon as Cookie disappeared down the driveway, Miss May turned to me. “Looks like we have a new thread to pull.”

  “Lincoln,” I said. “But you seemed so sure it wasn’t him.”

  Miss May unlocked the bakeshop and I followed her inside. We tidied up and prepared for business the next day as we talked.

  “That was before he left a death threat for Orville’s wife,” Miss May said. “That new evidence changes things a bit.”

  “But you were right earlier,” I said. “If Lincoln killed Orville, why would the elf have made such a scene the next day at the diner? Plus, there’s the height differential…”

  Miss May straightened knickknacks on the counter. “Maybe Lincoln wanted to throw us off the scent. Pretend he was looking for Orville so we wouldn’t suspect the truth. Or maybe Lincoln was just desperate and spiraling out of control.”

  I headed toward the other side of the counter and did some straightening of my own. “Desperate for what?”

  “Money? A job? I’m not sure. But he’s established an erratic pattern of behavior. First, showing up at the diner like a maniac. Next, threatening the widow of the deceased.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “Threatening Cookie like that doesn’t make any sense.”

  Miss May looked up and made eye contact. “Not yet, it doesn’t. But we don’t have all the facts.”

  “You think Orville got into trouble?” I asked. “Do you think he implicated both of them in something he did? Do you think Lincoln knows something bad about Cookie?”

  “Well we know Orville has a sketchy past,” Miss May said. “Maybe Cookie didn’t know about Orville’s past lives.”

  I gasped. “Maybe Orville was a drug dealer and Santa was his cover. He filled his sack with all sorts of illicit goods and trudged through the night making dangerous deliveries. Then something went wrong and he got offed by a bad man.”

  Miss May scoffed. “Now you sound like Teeny. There’s no use speculating on crazy theories like that. It’s a waste of time. We need to find Lincoln and talk to him. Nothing will be as helpful as a conversation.”

  I held up my hands in an apology. “OK. You’re right. I got out of hand with my Santa-is-a-drug- dealer theory. But where are we going to find Lincoln?”

  Miss May reset the cash register for business the next day. “Easy. He’s still in town. And we’ve only got one hotel in the area.”

  I smirked. “The Dragonfly Inn. Of course.”

  “We’ll head over there first thing in the morning will get more information.”

  Miss May pulled out her phone and started sending a rapid-fire text.

  “Who are you texting?”

  “Teeny. She’s going to want to come and see what happens next.”

  28

  Inn And Out

  The Dragonfly Inn was a local bed-and-breakfast owned by Teeny’s sister, Peach. The inn was a three-story colonial a few minutes outside of town. There was a small pond out front and a cobblestone drive and an undeniable charm that translated year-round.

  The place was truly special around the holidays. Peach covered every square foot of the lawn in a decorative holiday ornament. She wrapped each column in sparkling lights. And she wrapped every tree on the property with soft, twinkling yellow and white Christmas lights.

  Teeny led us inside and we found Peach sitting on her stool behind the front desk. I had never seen her sitting in any other chair when we entered and I suspected I never would.

  Peach spoke with a guttural growl that she’d developed from years of anger and smoking but she had a playful, mischievous twinkle in her eye that delighted me.

  “Sister. May. Tiny little Chelsea. What brings you gals to my lovely establishment?”

  Teeny placed an elbow on the counter. “We’re here because we’d like to make an offer to buy the place, knock it down and turn it into a massive Shoe Palace. Best prices on shoes, guaranteed. And if you sell today, we guarantee you free shoes for your entire life. As long as they’re under $100 a pair. If they’re over a hundred bucks, you pay every penny.”

  “That’s a weird offer, Teeny,” Peach said with a low chuckle. “How did you get so strange? Is it because mom only fed you sugar cubes and sandwich cookies?”

  We all laughed. Miss May stepped forward. “Hey, Peach. I’ll tell you why we’re really here. We’re looking for a little guy who we saw in town. Kind of gruff, maybe a little rude. Is he staying here?”

  Peach rubbed her chin. “Real short? Long beard? Looks like an elf?”

  Miss May pointed at Peach. “That’s the guy.”

  “Yeah, he’s here. Up in his room.” Peach said.

  Miss May took a step forward. “Oh great. So he is staying here?”

  “Already said that, May. Quit wasting my time. This is the stool-sitting portion of my day.”

  Teeny rolled her eyes. “Every portion of the day is your stool-sitting portion of the day.”

  “This is my favorite portion of all the portions where I sit on my stool.” Sometimes Peach and Teeny had a tendency to lovingly spar. At least, I think it was lovingly.

  Miss May held up her hands. “I’m sorry. I asked a silly question. How about this… How many days has Lincoln been staying here? Can you answer that?”

  Peach flipped through her old-fashioned ledger on the desk. “Few days. Here it is. Checked in four days ago. But I’ve only seen him once or twice. Mostly stays up in his room.”

  I counted on my fingers. “Four days. That’s means he got to town the day before the tree- lighting ceremony was supposed to happen.”

  Peach took a big gulp of what I was sure was gross black coffee. “How do you know this guy? He a friend of yours or something?”

  Teeny crossed her arms. “Do we usually come here to visit friends?”

  Peach grunted. “You usually come here to visit suspected murderers.”

  Teeny, Miss May, and I looked at each with wide eyes. Peach took a second, then she got it.

  “Oh. Creepy little guy is a killer. Great. Always good for bu
siness.”

  “You say he’s creepy,” Miss May said. “Creepy how?”

  “Creepy, gross. Dirty. Depressed-seeming,” Peach said.

  I looked at Miss May. “Maybe that’s because he lost a friend.”

  “Maybe that’s because he killed an enemy.” Teeny shuddered.

  “We need to talk to him,” I said.

  “You can try,” Peach said. “But he’s had his ‘do not disturb’ sign up for days. And like I said, I haven’t seen hide nor tail of him.”

  Miss May. “I suppose we could knock. But it doesn’t sound like that’s going to help.”

  Teeny shot her pointer finger in the air. “I have an idea. What room is he in?”

  “Eh, lemme see…” Peach squinted at a piece of paper. “Room 401.”

  “Got it.” Teeny reached over the desk and dialed room 401. It rang and rang and rang. After about thirty rings, someone answered.

  I could hear a grouchy male voice on the other end of the line but Teeny was perky and happy-sounding.

  “So sorry. Just wanted to inform you that you won a free massage. That’s right. Sadly, it’s only good right now. See you in the spa in 10 minutes. Bye!”

  Teeny hung up. Miss May and I looked at her, dumbfounded again. She was really stepping up her game for this investigation.

  Teeny shrugged. “What? No one ever turns down a free massage.”

  29

  Masseuse Mischief

  Teeny turned and smiled at me. “All right, Chelsea. This one is up to you.”

  I narrowed my eyes and look from Teeny to Miss May. Peach let out a loud laugh that sounded like a car starting.

  “What do you mean, it’s up to me? I can’t massage this guy. You or Miss May should do it.”

  Teeny smiled. “You have to. Our hands are old and scratchy. He’ll know it’s a lie.”

  “Old people give massages,” I argued. “That’s not a good reason.”

  Peach let out another coarse laugh. That one sounded like a plane crashing. Crunchy and distorted.

  “Teeny has a point,” said Miss May. “This is a job best suited for young, supple hands. Sure, old people give massages. But no one wants to pay for that.”

  “It’s a free massage!” I said, but Miss May talked right over me.

  “As soon as we touch his hairy back he’s going to get up and run,” she said. “And you need to keep him there to answer questions.”

  I groaned. “Isn’t Zenith working today? You have a spa person on staff.”

  “What good would Zenith do?” Teeny asked. “The massage has to be given by a sleuth. That’s the whole point of the ploy.”

  I protested. “But—”

  “Anyway,” Peach said. “Zenith is off today. She’s been off for a couple months, actually. Ever since I fired her.”

  Teeny threw up her hands. “Peach. You fired another spa girl?”

  “I did. She was unreliable. And she always smelled like tea tree oil.” Peach crinkled her face into a look of disgust.

  “That’s because she was the massage girl,” said Teeny.

  “What do you want me to do? I’m not perfect. I have a firing problem. Is Chelsea massaging this creep or not?”

  I shook my head. “I really don’t want to. This guy might be a killer. And even if he’s just a grumpy elf, I don’t wanna touch his naked back.”

  “Hard to kill you if he’s lying facedown,” Miss May said. “Plus, remember that you know karate.”

  I sighed. “I’m beginning to regret my black belt,” I said. “You keep using it against me in arguments.”

  “Don’t regret it. It matches your bag and your top,” said Teeny.

  “She means her black belt in karate, Teeny,” said Miss May.

  Peach shook her head. “Mom should have never fed you all those sugar cubes and sandwich crackers. You’ve got sugar between your ears.”

  “Hey. Don’t talk bad about sugar. Sugar is delicious and it never hurt anyone.” Teeny crossed her arms.

  The phone rang at the front desk and Peach picked it up. “Hello? Yes. That should be fine. OK.”

  Peach hung up and smiled at me. “That was the little weirdo. He wanted to know what he should wear to the massage. I said he’s good with just a towel.” Miss May, Teeny, and Peach cracked up with laughter. I hung my head. I wasn’t looking forward to giving my first ever massage to a nude murder suspect.

  Five minutes later, I found myself alone in Peach’s massage room. The place was quiet and serene. There were dim, Japanese-style lamps in the corners and a large massage table sat in the middle of the room. Quiet, soothing music drifted in from the speakers and the place still held the odor of Zenith’s tea tree oil.

  I shook out my hands and tried to ground myself. Usually, that meant talking to myself like a total weirdo. “OK, Chelsea. This is going to be fine. No big deal. Just a little massage. Think of a happy place. Like the beach. Or a mountain. Or anywhere else where you don’t have to give someone a massage.”

  There was a soft knock on the door and Lincoln entered. He had a white towel wrapped around his waist. His torso and back were ridiculously hairy. And his beard stretched halfway down his chest.

  “Hello, sir.” I spoke in a high-pitched, gentle whisper, surprising myself. I suppose I was getting into character?

  Lincoln grunted and gestured at the table. “Facedown?”

  “That’s right. Place your head into the hole and you will receive a therapeutic, authentic Swedish massage.”

  “Terrific. I’m an expert on Swedish massages. Lived in Sweden for eight years in my 20’s.”

  I cringed. “I’m from a nontraditional school of Swedish massage. So it probably won’t be like that.”

  “I’m sure it’s going to be perfect. Exactly what I need.”

  Moments later, Lincoln was face down on the table and my hands hovered a centimeter above his furry little elf back. I took a deep breath, closed my fists and began massaging him with my knuckles. “Wow. You have a large knot in your back. Stress?”

  Lincoln did not respond. He wriggled to get a little more comfortable on the table. I continued, trying to remember my role as a detective in the massage room.

  “What are you stressed about?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it. Can we have some quiet?”

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  I continued massaging Lincoln with my knuckles. Unsure what to do next, I punched him a few times in the back. He groaned. I wasn’t sure if it was a good groan, but I didn’t know what else to do, so I punched him three more times. Then I resumed with the weird knuckle thing.

  “So how has your week been going?” I asked.

  Lincoln groaned. That was definitely not a good groan. “Fine.”

  “And what brings you to the Dragonfly today? Business or pleasure?”

  “I’m a Christmas elf, by trade. You heard about the dead Santa?”

  “So sad. All the masseuses in the region were talking about it.”

  “I worked as his elf. I was supposed to, at least. I’m staying in town for his funeral. He was a friend.”

  “Sorry for your loss. So sad. All the masseuses were talking about it.”

  “You mentioned.”

  “Oh. Well I’m very involved in the masseuse community. We have message boards. We get drinks. So you say you knew the victim?”

  “I’m sorry. Can we go back to the peace and quiet? I’m not a talker.”

  I nodded. “Sure. Of course. We don’t need to talk about your dead coworker and friend and how maybe sometimes you were happy in that relationship and other times I’m sure it was frustrating because the Claus circuit is a competitive and ruthless marketplace.”

  Lincoln twisted back and looked at me. OK, it was more of a glare than a look. That afternoon wasn’t my most graceful example of questioning a suspect. “Right. Sorry. Quiet relaxation,” I said. “I’m in. Please excuse me for a moment as I fetch my heated...oil...rag thing. For massages.”


  Lincoln shoved his head back into the hole in the table. My eyes darted around the room. I spotted his clothes in a rumpled pile by the door. I crossed over, grabbed his pants and felt around for his wallet. After a few seconds, I found the wallet and pocketed it. Lincoln turned back to me. “What are you doing over there?”

  “Oh nothing. I thought those were my heated rags.”

  “Those are my pants. My pants aren’t rags.”

  “Of course not. My rags must be in the other room. You relax for a few minutes. I’ll be back shortly with rags and relaxing scented therapy candles. I’ll also bring a cold foot bath. Those are so good for therapeutic reasons from Sweden. Don’t move for fifteen minutes. Bye.”

  I headed out of the room, then popped my head back in. “Seriously. Don’t move.”

  I hurried out of the room. I felt Lincoln’s wallet in my pocket. I wondered what I would find in the wallet and if it would help us discover the killer.

  30

  Identity Elf

  That night, Miss May and I headed over to Grandma’s for a late, late dinner. The place was closed when we arrived but Teeny opened up and cooked us a special meal. That’s right... It was her famous baked oatmeal.

  Teeny sat us down in our usual booth, and we promised not to discuss the case until she returned. She disappeared into the kitchen with a smile. Miss May pulled a book from her purse and read a few chapters as we waited. I put my feet up on the bench across from me and closed my eyes, trying to relax.

  Twenty minutes later, I began to smell caramelized apples and cinnamon in the air. Then I heard a clanging of pots and pans and I knew Teeny was almost finished preparing her famous dish.

  When she set the baked oatmeal down the first thing that struck me was that she had served it in a large casserole pan. The oatmeal on top had formed a crust like you might find on an apple crumble. Walnuts and raisins peeked out from the top of the crumble and the whole thing was dusted with the perfect amount of brown sugar.