Chapter Thirteen
Liv’s head swiveled so fast—checking to see if anybody had overheard them—she felt like Linda Blair in The Exorcist.
“Shh,” Edna said, and she and Ida and BeBe leaned closer.
Liv moved closer, too. “Don’t you think you should go to the sheriff with any information you have?”
“We jumped the gun last time,” Roscoe said. “So we wanted to come to you first. Then if you think—”
“No.” Frank shook his head so violently that his glasses nearly flew off his face. He wrenched his arm loose from Roscoe and pushed them back up the bridge of his nose. “I told Roscoe and Rufus I wouldn’t rat on a friend.”
Oh Lord, thought Liv. Please don’t let it be Hank.
“And you better not tell Bill, either.”
This was not the first time Liv had run into people determined to protect their own. It was one of the good and bad things of small-town life. Frank wanted to do what was right, but he was torn between loyalty and honesty.
Liv knew how he felt. “I really think—”
“Ida, Edna, yoo-hoo. So good to see you.” Ruth Benedict, a holier-than-thou busybody whom no one liked, waved. The sisters waved back. Liv and BeBe just smiled.
Frank Salvatini took advantage of the interruption to try to ease away, but Roscoe and Rufus held him tight.
“See you this afternoon,” Edna called out.
The woman nodded and waved and looked like she was dying to join the conversation, but Edna turned her back on her. “Insufferable old gossip.” She herded the little group farther into the hallway. “Now, keep your voices down.”
Roscoe, Rufus, and Frank nodded dutifully.
Liv marveled at how easily Edna had managed that sleight of hand.
“Now, tell us what you saw.”
Frank glanced over his shoulder. Grimaced. Shifted from one foot to the other, like a guilty man.
“Frank,” Miss Ida said.
“I can’t be sure. I only saw the suit.”
Everybody by now knew Hank had been taken in for questioning. It was written all over Frank’s face. He thought Hank was the killer and he didn’t want to be the one who sealed his fate.
Liv felt for him. She’d lived here only a few months, hardly knew Hank at all, and she wouldn’t want to be the one to accuse him. “The sheriff needs to know. It might help clear, um, any suspects, just as well as convict him—them.”
“Well, I’m not sure if it really was—”
Rufus jabbed him in the arm. “Aw, just go on and tell her.”
“It was his suit.”
“Which suit?” Liv asked, wondering if she was going to have to drag every half statement from him. And would it be worth it.
“The Santa suit. He was wearing a Santa suit.”
“And what time was this?”
“I don’t know exactly. It was getting toward the tree lighting. About five thirty, maybe? My kitchen staff was busy, and I wanted to see the tree lighting. I decided I might as well take out a trash bag on my way to the square. So I did and that’s when I saw him.”
Here it comes, thought Liv.
“And you’re sure it was a Santa suit, not just a red coat or parka?” Edna interjected. “It was dark, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, but the alley was pretty lit up.”
“What did he do?” Liv asked.
“Well, like I said, I was putting out the trash. He had his back to me, walking toward the Trim a Tree store. I didn’t think anything of it, just dumped the bag in the Dumpster and headed for the square.”
Liv’s mouth felt suddenly dry. “Did you see who was wearing the suit?”
“I only saw his back. And I wasn’t really paying attention. Figured it was just that fella over at TAT, going back after a break. He was always out by the Dumpster talking on his phone and smoking. But then I heard he wasn’t wearing it when they found him—you know—dead. Now I’m thinking maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was the killer.”
Liv’s mind was racing ahead, making contingency plans in case they arrested Hank for good. She should insist he go to the sheriff. And yet . . .
Ida beat her to the punch. “It had to be whoever stole Hank’s suit, doesn’t it?”
Or Hank himself, thought Liv. It was not her job to ferret out the truth, thank God. “You should tell the sheriff. It might be helpful.”
“I don’t know.”
“You do what Liv told you to do,” Ida said.
Frank hung his head. “I really don’t like having to do this.” He slumped off like a chastised schoolboy.
“Happy holidays,” Roscoe said.
Rufus nodded, clearly relieved that their duty was done.
They hurried away.
“Well,” Edna said, “we’d best get home and get ready for the first house tour. There’re two today.”
Liv climbed in the back seat of the Zimmermans’ old Buick, wondering if Frank Salvatini’s testimony could do any good at all. Or if it would be the thing that nailed the Closed sign on Santa Village.
*
Whiskey shot out of the carriage house as soon as Liv opened the front door. He sped around her feet, then took off toward the sisters’ back porch, where he looked back at her, his tail beating an arc in the air.
“Sorry, buddy. You’re banned from inside today. They’re getting ready for the holiday house tour. Come on. Treat,” she called.
Whiskey hesitated. Looked back at the Zimmermans’ door, then back to Liv.
Probably sensing a trick, thought Liv. “Really, treat.”
Whiskey raced back and into the house.
Liv adjusted her new wreath, compliments of her landladies, and followed him inside.
She found Whiskey in the kitchen, sitting expectantly at the counter right beneath the red-ribboned jar of Dolly’s Doggie Treats.
Liv looked in the fridge. A carton of past-its-prime yogurt. Some limp celery and a container of something Liv was afraid to open. She tossed it, container and all, into the trash and gave Whiskey a dog biscuit in the shape of a candy cane.
She got out peanut butter and a spoon for herself and carried them into the living room. She sat on the couch, and Whiskey climbed up beside her. There were a little over two hours before she had to meet BeBe. She had a list of things to do a mile long. She could get some work done or . . . she could do them tomorrow. She reached for the remote, ran through the channels, found a music channel playing Christmas carols.
“Be right back.” She eased Whiskey over and went to get her laptop. When she sat down again, Whiskey snuggled closer. She opened her laptop, balanced it on her knees, and logged on to the Internet.
As “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” played in the background, Liv typed in “Phillip Cosgrove, private investigator.”
And there he was: Cosgrove Investigations. A photo of him on the bio page. Why would a private investigator have a photo of himself? Wasn’t he afraid of being recognized? Maybe the Santa suit was his disguise. Which was stupid because he’d had his beard pulled under his chin the first day she saw him.
She read down the page: Domestic Investigation, Surveillance, Pre-litigation.
Had Clarence hired him to inform on Grace? Was he planning a divorce?
Background Checks, Missing Persons, People Finder, Asset Searches.
None of those made any sense. You didn’t have to play Santa Claus to do a background check or search for missing persons.
Asset searches? Maybe Clarence thought Grace was dipping into the till. Maybe that’s why he’d come to town yesterday, to make sure the receipts got to the bank. Or maybe they were both dipping into the till.
But if Phil wasn’t hired by Clarence, who else would need him to play Santa? Or could Phillip Cosgrove really have been moonlighting as Santa just for the extra money? A.K. Pierce had said that he wasn’t all that great at investigating.
She bookmarked him and started a separate e-file for TAT.
Her next search was for Cl
arence Thornsby. He owned four boat dealerships between Plattsburgh and Saratoga Springs. The man owned a lot of boats. His website called him “the Boat King.” So why did he decide to go into Christmas ornaments? Grace seemed to hate the job, so it couldn’t be to please her. Actually, she didn’t seem to like her husband very much. But it was hard to tell about couples. Sometimes the ones who fought the most were the happiest. Go figure.
Liv wouldn’t know, since the only long-term relationship she’d had was with event planning. There just wasn’t enough time to build a lasting partnership while planning other people’s fun and games. Her longest “serious” relationship had lasted nearly eight months, probably a record in her profession and in his, financial planning.
Thank God she hadn’t let him plan hers. He bit it big time in the Madoff scam. Close call. “Anyway,” she said out loud, pulling Whiskey’s ear, “you’re the only man I love.”
Whiskey cocked his head.
“Really.” Sort of. For now, anyway. But thinking about her ex sent her mind in a new direction. Probably because of some of her former clients. Ones who opened all sorts of businesses for one purpose. Laundering money. But really how much money could you launder with Christmas decorations?
Grace Thornsby had a Facebook profile. Her information was available only to her friends. All thirty-seven of them. Not that Liv really wanted to know all about her. But she was mildly curious. Did they have kids? Liv couldn’t imagine it, but that wasn’t being fair.
Maybe Grace loved children. Then Liv remembered her attitude toward Bobby Newland when her cat scratched him. Okay, not kids. Maybe Grace was an animal lover. Except she’d tossed her lost cat into the shop without so much as a “kitty, kitty.”
She loaded up another spoonful of peanut butter and stared at the screen. Gave up and pulled up solitaire, but that didn’t hold her interest. It was hard to concentrate on anything with murder hanging like a black cloud over her town. A cloud that had come to Celebration Bay with Trim a Tree.
She just hoped the storm had passed with the murder of Phillip Cosgrove.
This was not helping her Christmas spirit at all. She turned up the television. “Jingle Bells,” blared into the room.
Whiskey sat up. “Ar-roo-roo-roooo.”
*
BeBe was waiting for her at the trolley stand. She was standing near the front of a line of people waiting for the house tour to begin.
“I already got the tickets,” BeBe said. “My treat.”
“Thanks. I’ll buy you dinner if you’re free tonight.”
“It’s a deal.” A knit cloche of blue heather was pulled down over one of BeBe’s ears. She was wearing a matching scarf and mittens.
“Let me guess. You bought those at the Yarn Barn.”
“Of course. Support local businesses.” BeBe laughed. “I just wanted the scarf, but those knitters can be very persuasive. And I do feel rather française in the hat, but I put my foot down at the matching sweater.”
“Well, it’s very pretty.”
“I suppose you bought yours at Bloomingdale’s.”
“Actually, I never wore a hat when I lived in Manhattan. Hat hair is a definite no-no in event planning. And I didn’t need one just to step out of a building and yell ‘Taxi!’ I ordered this from an online catalogue when I decided to take this job. Though I guess I’d better get over to the Yarn Barn and make amends.”
The trolley doors opened and the driver climbed down to the street. He was dressed in a navy blue uniform with brass buttons and gold braid. His conductor’s hat had a sprig of holly tucked in the band.
“Welcome to the Annual Celebration Bay Holiday Tour of Homes.” He took their tickets, and Liv and BeBe climbed inside.
Most of the passengers were tourists, but there were a few locals that Liv recognized. Ruth Benedict was sitting a few rows back. Two ladies from the Garden Club, whom Liv suspected of taking the tour to get ideas for the spring Tour of Gardens, sat across the aisle from Ruth. Liv pulled BeBe down into a seat near the front; she had no intention of getting within earshot of the town’s worst gossip.
The doors closed and the conductor slid behind the wheel. “Welcome. The trolley will take you to your first stop where our hostess, Maeve Kingston, will guide you through some of Celebration Bay’s loveliest homes. The trolley will pick you up at the last stop and return here or continue to the inn for those of you with tickets to the Dickens Dinner.” He chuckled. “And you won’t want to miss the inn’s roast beef and Yorkshire pudding or their Christmas trifle or flaming plum pudding.
“Now I’ll turn the show over to Maeve.”
Maeve waved from her seat at the front. The conductor clanged the bell and the trolley pulled into the street.
“Our first stop is the historic Chapman House. Built in 1874, it has been accurately and lovingly restored by the Charles Chapman family.”
The trolley came to a stop in front of a white clapboard cottage decorated with a multitude of white lights. The façade was trisected by three pitched roofs of varying sizes. Icicles hung from the eaves and wreaths hung in every window; a lit candle, which for safety’s sake were actually electric, sat on every sill.
They all descended from the trolley.
“This was a good idea,” Liv said. “I can get an idea of how it comes together.”
“And if you can make it more efficient and bring more people in, and keep things moving, and—”
“Stop, stop. I’m not always working.”
BeBe raised her eyebrows.
“Am I?”
Her eyebrows disappeared into the blue yarn of her hat.
They walked beneath a swag of pine and twinkling lights onto a wide porch surrounded by a wrought-iron rail, festooned with pine swags that were tied up with bows and decorated with red-and-silver ornaments.
It was charming. The foyer table was country antique, and held a huge glass bowl of oranges and cinnamon sticks. The smell was heavenly. A fat white pine tree sat in the corner of the living room.
That was when Liv realized she didn’t have a Christmas tree in her little house. But it wasn’t too late. She’d go buy one . . . soon. In the meantime, she’d enjoy the ones on the tour.
They spent several minutes all crowded into the living room while Maeve pointed out several family quilts, a display of vintage Christmas cards, and the row of wooden nutcrackers across the mantel of the stone fireplace. A needlepoint fire screen depicted an image of Thomas Nast’s Santa. There was a lot of Christmas stuffed into that room.
People oohed and aahed and remarked on the cute fabric dolls that sat in a wicker chair beneath the tree. And in a few minutes they were walking down the sidewalk to the next house.
The whole street was decorated; each house seemed more festive and beautiful than the last. There were Craftsman cottages, Cape Cods, a carriage house three times the size of Liv’s, all cheerful, welcoming, and joyous. And by the time they reached the next-to-the-last stop, a larger white colonial with pine-wrapped columns, Liv was totally in the Christmas spirit. Here, everything was on a grander, yet simple scale, which Maeve explained was the Federal style.
Liv and BeBe went inside on the heels of Ruth Benedict and her two friends, who had spent most of the tour commenting and gossiping instead of actually listening to the tour guide.
A decorative Yule log filled the white marble fireplace. Two topiary trees sat at opposite ends of the mantle, flanking a dark wooden mantel clock. The Christmas tree was decorated in real candles, which were unlit but haloed by white lights hidden among the branches.
Liv took a quick look into the dining room where a long rectangular table was covered by a white damask tablecloth topped with a red-and-green table runner and set with gold-rimmed china.
“I’m thinking a cup of good cheer would do nicely right now,” BeBe said after another half hour. “Miss Ida and Miss Edna’s house is next.”
“And they invited us for mulled wine. We’ll just lag behind when the tour ends.�
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Liv hardly recognized her landladies’ Victorian, even though she passed it every morning and every night when she came home. But mornings she was in a hurry and walking away from the house, and by the time she got home it was always too late to stop inside.
Two weeks before, men had come to do the outside lights, and it had taken them several days. Now Liv saw why. The eaves, the porch rail, the turret, and even the attic gables were lit in white. Not with the strips of icicles that were so popular but with lights intertwined in pine boughs—real pine boughs. Liv caught wafts of scent as she walked up the steps to the porch.
There were two spruce, cedar, and holly wreaths encircled with oranges, lemons, and kumquats, on the front door. Miss Edna and Miss Ida, looking every bit the ladies of the manor, greeted them at the door before discreetly withdrawing.
Maeve gathered them into the dark wainscoted foyer to show them a festooned tree that was at least ten feet high. Stairs, swagged with pine and red ribbon, curved to the second floor.
In the parlor, another tall tree stood in the window and an antique train ran on a track beneath it. Little houses, people, and cars dotted the white felt tree skirt. There was a fur teddy bear with movable arms and legs, a porcelain doll in an elaborate ball gown. There was a little table with a child’s puzzle in progress. A Victorian feather tree on the bookshelf. A row of needlepoint stockings hung on the mantel from painted cast-iron figures of Santa and his reindeer.
“Wow,” BeBe said. “This is beautiful. Did they do all this themselves?”
Liv shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve been so busy. . . .” It was a lame excuse. And she resolved not to let her job make her neglect her friends. She’d had enough of that in Manhattan.
They moved from the fireplace to the piano in the far corner where old sepia photographs were interspersed with an old wooden top, a game of jacks, and a cylinder of pickup sticks.
Christmas was for children. It seemed natural that two retired schoolteachers would have children in their minds when they decorated. But it might also be in the minds and hearts of two spinster sisters, who had lost their fiancés to war and who had never married or had the families that they had once dreamed of.
Silent Knife (A Celebration Bay Mystery) Page 15
