Yuletide Homicide

by Jennifer David Hesse

  “Open up, Keli! It’s freezing out here!”

  It was Mrs. St. John. I opened the door, and she rushed in, cheeks flushed and hair flying. Chompy ran inside after her, yipping at her heels. If Drishti hadn’t already darted from the room, she’d surely bolt for cover now.

  “Mrs. St. John! Are you okay?”

  “There was somebody out here in your yard! Chompy chased ’em off.”

  “Are you sure? Did you see somebody? Could it have been an animal?” Chompy had been known to go crazy over just about anything that crossed his path, from cats, squirrels and other dogs to plastic bags blowing in the wind.

  “I didn’t see him, but I heard a noise. Then Chompy flew out of his doggy door and came straight over here to chase away the trespasser. He’s a good little watchdog.” She patted her thighs to call her dog. “Aren’t you, baby? Aren’t you a tough little watchdog?”

  Wes flipped on the back-porch light and stepped outside. I grabbed a flashlight from the pantry and joined him. From my deck, we peered out at the backyard. The snow was trampled, all right. Besides Mrs. St. John’s prints from her patio to mine, and the doggy tracks crisscrossing the yard, there were human footprints from the gate to the patio and back again.

  I hurried down to the yard to examine the prints, while Wes ran to the back gate. He was back in no time. “Whoever it was, they’re gone now.”

  “Look at this, Wes,” I said, shining my flashlight on a footprint in the snow. “See the zigzags from the treads? Do you think we could figure out what kind of shoe made this pattern?”

  Wes took a close look. “Actually, I’ve seen boot soles like that before. I used to have a pair of combat boots I picked up at an Army surplus store.”

  “Army boots, huh? How about the size?” I asked.

  “Hard to say since the prints aren’t perfect. Could be a man’s nine or ten. I guess it could also be a woman’s.”

  “Hmm. I guess combat boots are too common to prove anything.” I looked up and noticed my snow shovel lying on the ground. I had propped it against the deck after shoveling my patio that morning. The intruder must have knocked it over. I shuddered at the thought of some creep standing in my backyard.

  “Can I borrow your flashlight?” asked Wes. “I want to take another look and make sure the gate is latched tight.”

  I gave Wes the flashlight and went back inside to talk to Mrs. St. John. She stood in my kitchen holding a wet Chompy in her arms. I handed her a towel and thanked her for coming over. That’s when she noticed what I was wearing.

  “Oh!” she said. “Don’t you look lovely? Are you going to a costume party?”

  I looked down at my dress. “Um.”

  Wes came back in, shaking his head. “I couldn’t tell which way the person went.”

  “And what are you going as?” Mrs. St. John looked at Wes with questioning eyes. “Antony? Or—no, I know. Ramses? You would make a fine Egyptian pharaoh.”

  “Sorry?” Wes looked at me for help.

  I thought fast. “That’s right. We’re going to a party. Wes is going to change there. We should probably be going so we won’t be late. Are you sure you’re okay, Mrs. St. John?”

  “Who me? I’m fine. I won’t keep you.” Mrs. St. John backed out of the door. “You kids have fun. Take lots of pictures.”

  When she was gone, Wes gave me a bewildered look. Then he took in my outfit. “Ah,” he said with a smile. “Costume party?”

  “I had to say something.”

  “Of course.”

  “She’ll be watching for us to leave now.”

  “What would you like to do?” asked Wes, stepping closer to me.

  “Maybe we could go for a drive?”

  He took both my hands in his. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

  For a split second, I thought he was going to kneel down on one knee, and my heart skipped a beat. Instead, he lifted one of my hands to his lips. “You look gorgeous, by the way.”

  I exhaled. “I hadn’t intended to keep this on.”

  “Too bad,” said Wes, his lips twitching. “Looks like you’re going to keep it on a while longer.”

  Wes retrieved my dress coat and helped me on with it. Feeling kind of silly, I slipped on my faux-fur boots and grabbed my purse. We left through the front door and headed to Wes’s car along the curb. Without looking, I knew Mrs. St. John would be watching through her blinds.

  “Your chariot awaits, my lady,” Wes said. He held open the car door.

  I sighed. “I wish you really did have a costume. I wouldn’t mind seeing you in a toga. Or better yet, a loincloth.”

  Wes threw his head back and laughed. “It’s a little cold for that,” he said. He got in on the driver’s side and started the car. “So, where to?”

  “Wanna look at holiday lights? We can start at Fieldstone Park, then check out some of the neighborhoods.”

  “Sure,” he said. He cranked the heat and tuned the radio to the twenty-four-hour holiday music station. When we reached the park, we coasted slowly through Candy Cane Lane, admiring the light displays sponsored by the Edindale Chamber of Commerce. The displays featured scenes from The Nutcracker Suite, The Night Before Christmas, Charlie Brown’s Christmas, and other holiday classics. It warmed my heart every year. After giving our donation at the end of the lane, we cruised through town looking for homes with the biggest and brightest decorations.

  As we drove, I thought about bringing up the subject of our relationship. But when I opened my mouth, I spoke of Edgar instead.

  “Don’t you think the police were awfully quick to rule his death an accident?” I asked.

  “I thought it was obvious,” he said. “Sheana interviewed the police chief, and he told her no one heard or saw anything to suggest anyone was with Edgar when he fell. I guess the forensics unit hasn’t formally issued its findings yet, but it seemed apparent to the responding officers that there was no evidence of a struggle.”

  “Yeah, I read the article. Still, the whole thing seems fishy to me.”

  Wes glanced over and gave me a suspicious look. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  My, he is perceptive. I was impressed. “Actually, yes. I spoke with Edgar’s chauffeur earlier today.” I told Wes what Bob had revealed about Edgar’s returning to the hotel. Then I told him about the note I had found on the floor in the hotel. To me, this strongly suggested Edgar wasn’t alone on the fourth floor.

  Wes pulled over next to a front yard with a full-sized sleigh and eight LED-lit reindeer. He turned to look at me. “Should I be worried?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Last time you decided to play detective, you almost got yourself killed. Even if Edgar’s death was an accident, you could still piss somebody off if you go poking around into other people’s business. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  I reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Don’t worry. I’d much rather leave the investigating to the police. I’ll go see them tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  We looked at each other for a long moment. I had the sense Wes wanted to say more, but I wasn’t sure what. I glanced out the window as another car drove around us, and then I noticed where we were.

  “Hey, this is Lerner Hill. Beverly lives in this neighborhood. Do you mind if we drive by her house?”

  Lerner Hill was an upscale neighborhood with large front lawns and elegant brick and stone mansions. Most of the homes were well lit with tasteful, white icicle lights, but not Beverly’s house. Her pillared colonial was completely dark.

  “Wes, let’s stop here. I want to check on Beverly.” I didn’t often see my boss outside of work, but I found it significant that we had ended up on her block. Besides, she could probably use a friend. She had divorced her husband years ago and didn’t have children. I had heard her mention going on dates occasionally, and there was at least one special man with whom she sometimes vacationed. But she often joked that she was married to he
r job, which probably wasn’t much of a stretch.

  Wes parked near the curb in front of Beverly’s house and turned off the car. I couldn’t tell if her Audi was in the garage, but there did seem to be a light on in the house. It shone dimly from behind the closed curtains of a side window. Watching our step, we picked our way up the unshoveled sidewalk and rang the doorbell. After a few seconds, I rang it again.

  “Maybe she isn’t home,” said Wes. “Lots of people leave a light on when they’re not home.”

  “Maybe,” I said. But my gut said otherwise. With a twinge of worry, I rang the bell again, then banged on the door. “Beverly! Are you home?”

  After a moment, I heard a shuffling sound on the other side of the door. “It’s Keli!” I hollered, even though Beverly was probably peering through the peephole. Finally, the porch light came on and the door opened a crack.

  “Keli? What’s going on? Who’s with you?”

  “Hi, Beverly. Sorry to disturb you. This is my boyfriend, Wes. We were just out for a drive, and I realized we were in your neighborhood. I thought we’d drop by and see how you’re doing.”

  She squinted in the porchlight and opened the door another inch. “I’m doing fine, but I’m not exactly dressed for company.” She held a long, terrycloth bathrobe closed at the chest. Her silver-streaked auburn hair hung limply at her shoulders.

  “Oh, we don’t mind!” I said lightly. “And we won’t stay long. But there is something important I need to talk to you about.”

  With obvious reluctance, Beverly stepped back and let us inside. We followed her through the dark foyer and into a well-appointed parlor. The only lights shone from a single Tiffany lamp and the flashing blue glow of a wide-screen TV. Beverly grabbed a remote to turn off the TV and waved us toward a sleek modern sofa. She dropped herself on the adjacent recliner, which was surrounded by dog-eared books, magazines, and crumpled tissues. A bottle of whiskey and a single glass tumbler sat on the end table next to her chair.

  “Beverly,” I began. “I am so sorry—”

  She held up a hand to stop me. “Please. I can’t take any more sympathy right now. Just tell me what’s going on at the office. Is everything under control? Kris and Randall have been handling my clients, I believe.”

  I nodded. “Everything’s fine. I met with a new client this week, and—” I stopped myself. I didn’t come here to discuss work. At least, not our usual work. Switching gears, I opened the zipper on my purse. “I went by Edgar’s office on Monday and found a piece of mail I wanted you to see. I thought it might be relevant to our assignment. That is, assuming we’re still on the case.”

  Beverly narrowed her eyes, but sat up straighter. I withdrew the white envelope from my purse and handed it to her.

  Wes leaned forward. “Where did you say you got that?”

  “Edgar’s office at Harrison Properties. I didn’t open it, but—”

  Before I could finish my sentence, Beverly grabbed a letter opener from a nearby desk and slit the envelope open in one swift motion.

  “Wait!” I cried. Beverly and Wes both looked at me, startled. “There could be fingerprints,” I said. “We should try to preserve them.”

  Beverly hesitated a moment, then set the envelope on the coffee table. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  As soon as she left the room, Wes turned to me. “Are you gonna tell me what this is all about?”

  I touched his arm. “Edgar hired us to look into a personal matter for him shortly before he died. It’s somewhat sensitive. I promise I’ll tell you at some point, but could you just bear with me for now? Please?”

  Wes’s mouth twitched in a half smile and he squeezed my hand. “Of course.” Then he looked up with wide eyes as Beverly reentered the room. She had pulled her hair into a bun at the back of her neck and put on kitten-heeled, feather-topped house slippers. On her hands were a pair of long, white satin opera gloves. Even in a bathrobe and without makeup, Beverly managed to look impressively regal. At least she didn’t seem quite so depressed anymore.

  “I couldn’t find my Isotoners,” she said. “And I don’t have disposable gloves.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. I might’ve giggled, but for the seriousness of the situation. I was dying to know what was in the envelope.

  Beverly sat down and reached for the envelope once more. This time, she moved carefully as she extracted the contents: a single sheet of folded white paper. She unfolded it and read to herself. From the way her jaw clenched, I knew I had been right to take the letter.

  Without a word, Beverly held out the sheet of paper. Quickly I pulled my winter gloves from my coat pocket, slipped them on, and took the letter. With Wes reading over my shoulder, I read the typewritten words:

  TIME’S UP. LEAVE 60K IN A STAPLED BROWN BAG IN THE NW TRASH BIN AT RYKER’S POND. 5 AM SHARP ON 12/21. ONE FALSE MOVE AND THE WORLD WILL KNOW THE TRUTH ABOUT CORNERSTONE.

  P.S. DON’T BOTHER WATCHING THE BIN. I’LL BE WATCHING YOU.

  I blew out my breath and looked up at Beverly. I expected her to be waiting for my reaction, but she was staring at her unlit Christmas tree.

  I scanned the note again, then folded it and returned it to the envelope. I handed it back to Beverly. “What’s Cornerstone?” I asked.

  “It was going to be a luxury housing development and golf course not far from here. Financing fell through with the crash of the real estate market a few years ago. The project was scrapped.” Beverly met my eyes. “A lot of new construction halted back then. There was nothing unusual about Cornerstone. As I told you, this . . . blackmailer was trying to make something of nothing.” She laughed without humor. “Their game’s up now. I’m glad Edgar never paid them a penny.”

  Beverly stood up and walked over to her fireplace. She set the envelope on the mantel, then fussed with the logs and sticks in the fireplace. Wes and I watched as she struck a match and lit the kindling. The room was instantly cheerier when the flames leapt up and the logs crackled. Beverly stood again and grabbed the envelope. It took me a second to realize what was happening.

  “Stop!” I cried, jumping up from my seat. “What are you doing?”

  She turned and gave me a pained look. It was obvious what she was doing.

  “Beverly,” I said gently. “That letter is evidence of a crime. We have a duty to report it to the police.”

  “Do we? What’s the point? It won’t bring Edgar back. If anything, it will only tarnish his name.”

  Oh, boy. What could I say to make my boss see reason? “Beverly, listen to me. This could be connected to Edgar’s death.”

  Beverly stared at me for a moment, then her expression changed as if a curtain had been lifted behind her eyes. “What are you saying? You don’t think his death was an accident?”

  I bit my lip. What did I think? Was I seriously about to suggest that Edgar had been murdered? I took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But I have a lot of questions. First off, how does a person just fall off a balcony, especially if that person is all by himself ?”

  “You think he was pushed?” Beverly had raised her voice, and I noticed Wes seemed to be biting his inner cheek.

  “I—I think it’s possible. And there’s something else I wanted to tell you. I found out Edgar never went home after the ball. After pretending to leave, he returned to the hotel through a back entrance.” I told Beverly about my conversation with Bob, the driver. For now, I decided not to mention the note I’d found on the floor of the hotel reading room. Given her reluctance to involve the police, I was afraid she might try to take the note from me. “I suspect Edgar was going to meet someone,” I continued. “If we can find out who he was meeting, we’ll be one step closer in figuring out what really happened that night.”

  Beverly turned pale and reached for her glass on the side table. Seeing that it was empty, she fumbled for the bottle and dropped her glass. It bounced on the carpeted floor. Wes picked it up and poured her a drink.

  “Are
you okay?” I asked.

  “Yes, sorry.” She took the drink and downed it. “It’s just . . . that hadn’t even occurred to me. I didn’t hear—” She shook her head and looked at me, her old stern expression back. “I didn’t hear anything about foul play being suspected. Now that you mention it, I can think of a few people who would have liked Edgar out of the picture.”

  “That’s what I was thinking! Maybe someone who didn’t want him to become mayor?”

  Beverly narrowed her eyes. “One person in particular. And she’s so crazy, I wouldn’t put murder past her.”

  She? Was Beverly referring to Allison Mandrake? Perhaps Allison didn’t really want Edgar to become mayor after she found out his daughter would take over the family business. Maybe that’s why she had asked Wes to take pictures of Edgar at the end of the night when he didn’t look his best. Was she trying to sabotage the election? Could Edgar have caught on and confronted her about it?

  Or was I just being ridiculous?

  “She’s always hated Edgar,” Beverly continued. “And she could have easily entered the hotel that night. She used to work there.”

  “Wait, what? Who are you talking about?”

  “You know. That crazy eco-nut who lives ‘off the grid’ outside of town. Fern Lopez.”

  The name clicked in my memory. Fern Lopez was the woman who had known my aunt Josephine, back when they lived at the Happy Hills commune decades ago. Fern was nice enough when I reached out to her, but I remembered thinking there was something a little bit off about her. I wondered if perhaps she wasn’t being entirely truthful when she told me she didn’t know what had happened to Josie.

  “What did Fern have against Edgar?” I asked.

  “She opposes all land development on principle,” said Beverly, with a flippant wave. “She used to appear at every zoning hearing to speak out against Harrison projects. She even filed a lawsuit against Edgar personally, but it was dismissed. After that she became even more aggressive, trying to dig up dirt on Edgar. She got a job as a hotel maid and was caught trying to plant a bug in Edgar’s office. She was fired, of course.”