Yuletide Homicide

by Jennifer David Hesse

“I’m sure she doesn’t think that,” said Wes. He held the wine bottle in front of me and gave it a little shake. “Want any more?”

  I waved away the bottle, then changed my mind. “Yeah. Just a little more. I’m going to call Crenshaw.”

  It was hard to say where Crenshaw would be at eight p.m. on the evening before Christmas Eve. Probably working. I tried his cell phone first.

  “Ms. Milanni,” he said, by way of greeting.

  “Always so formal,” I muttered. “Hey. So, is the party over? I was wondering if Beverly ever made it back.”

  Crenshaw hesitated. “Yes, and yes.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “How was she? Is everything okay?”

  Another pause. Then I detected another voice in the background. A female voice.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Am I interrupting something?”

  The background voice got louder. “Is that her? Is that Jessica Fletcher? Always poking her nose into other people’s business. Well, you tell Miss Marple she can stick—”

  I recognized the voice. It was Beverly, and she sounded three sheets to the wind.

  “Keli,” said Crenshaw, his deep voice cutting into my thoughts. “Now is not a good time.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’re with her?” I demanded. “Where are you?”

  “We’re at the office. Everyone else just left.” He dropped his voice. “At the moment, Beverly is in the ladies’ room. I’ve been trying to sober her up a bit before taking her home.”

  Yikes. “Did it go that badly at the police station?”

  “I’m not really sure. From what I gather, Beverly harbors more worry about gossip and innuendo than any concern over being arrested.”

  “Did she say anything about Edgar? Or about her . . . relationship with him?”

  “Wait a minute. Are you telling me you already knew? Did Beverly entrust you with a secret that you failed to keep? Is that why she’s so upset with you?”

  “No! She didn’t tell me anything. I just put two and two together.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “Does everyone know now?”

  “I don’t think so. But the more she drank, the more she talked. I encouraged everyone to leave when she started using rather intimate terms of endearment for Edgar.”

  “Poor Beverly,” I said. “She must have really loved Edgar. No wonder his death hit her so hard.”

  “Evidently so. Even now, she’s more concerned about protecting his posthumous reputation than her own.”

  “Really? What exactly did she say?”

  Crenshaw scoffed. “She said a great many things. I couldn’t begin to repeat it all.”

  “Come on.”

  “Well . . . you know I don’t normally deign to partake in petty gossip.”

  “Yes, yes, I know.”

  “But she did make one surprising revelation.”

  “She did?”

  “Now, I’m sure she wouldn’t want this repeated. She probably didn’t even realize what she was saying.”

  “Crenshaw! Just tell me.”

  “Fine. She said that Edgar’s marriage was a sham. She said Edgar and Gretta considered divorcing years ago, but decided to stay together for their children. As the children grew up, they found it was important to keep up appearances for political reasons. They were a powerhouse couple with a carefully crafted public image. Behind closed doors it was another story.”

  “Oh.” I couldn’t help thinking those sounded like typical words for “the other woman” to say.

  “According to Beverly,” Crenshaw went on, “Edgar and his wife led separate private lives. And Edgar wasn’t the only one to indulge in extramarital relations. It would seem that Gretta had someone else, too.”

  I suddenly recalled my conversation with Bob the driver. He had mentioned Gretta’s gardener and handyman, Ricardo. Bob had made it clear that Gretta wouldn’t be alone at the ranch. Now it seemed that was even truer than I’d understood at the time.

  “So, does this mean Gretta knew about Beverly?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Crenshaw. “It’s possible.”

  “Hmm.” I was still a little thrown by the thought of my boss having an affair with a married man. But if Edgar’s was an open marriage, I supposed that made it somewhat better. I wondered if any part of this soap opera could have anything to do with Edgar’s death. If Gretta had her own secret lover, she could hardly be a jealous wife, could she? Besides, considering she was confined to a wheelchair, there was no way she could have pushed Edgar over the balcony.

  These thoughts brought me back to my overriding question: What really happened that night?

  “Crenshaw, I’d like to talk to Beverly. Could you put her on the phone?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. I need to ask her something. Please.”

  “Keli, I’m afraid you’re not her favorite person right now.”

  “I know. I just . . . Oh, never mind. I’ll call her tomorrow.”

  “Good night, Keli.”

  “Crenshaw?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you for being there for Beverly. You’re a good friend.”

  “Right. Good-bye.”

  I hung up and rubbed my forehead. What a mess.

  “Everything okay, babe?” Wes called from his living room couch. “Come and sit with me. It’s a Wonderful Life is about to come on.”

  I flopped down next to him. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  Wes muted the TV and looked at me with concern. “What is it?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. My boss is falling apart, and I seem to have made it worse.”

  “No way,” said Wes. “You didn’t do anything. You’ve only been trying to help her.”

  “I told the police Edgar was meeting someone at the hotel the night he died. They looked into it and found out he was meeting Beverly.”

  “Do you think she knows something about the accident?”

  “No. We saw her that night, remember? She was as stunned and broken up as everyone else.” I shook my head again. “Edgar met someone else that night. I’m sure of it.”

  Wes squeezed my hand and spoke gently. “Kel, why don’t you leave the investigating to the police this time? This is not your problem to solve.”

  I looked into his worried eyes and softened my tense muscles. I leaned over and kissed him. “You’re right. Let’s watch the movie.”

  I pushed unmute on the remote and snuggled up next to Wes on the couch. Almost immediately, I started playing with my crescent moon necklace. As I did, my mind traveled back to my moon goddess ritual. As the memory returned, so did my earlier feeling of perfect clarity.

  This is all tied to the blackmail scheme. And the blackmailer had mentioned the Cornerstone development. But what about Cornerstone could lead to extortion? The project had failed. It never happened. It wasn’t like Edgar got away with anything. He couldn’t have cut any corners with the siting or construction or anything. What secret about the project could be worth $60,000? That was a lot of money.

  Money. That was the key. People lost money on the deal. Follow the money.

  The movie went to a commercial, and Wes stood up to close his window shades.

  “Hey, can I borrow your laptop?” I asked. “I want to look up something.”

  “Have at it,” he said.

  With Wes’s laptop on my knees, I spent the rest of the movie scouring the Internet. I reread everything I had already found out about Cornerstone. Then I remembered the investment company Beverly had mentioned the other night at dinner. It was a firm neither Crenshaw nor I had ever heard of: American Castle Fund. I searched all publicly available information about the fund—which, as it turned out, wasn’t much.

  As I learned, American Castle Fund, LLC, was a subsidiary of another company called AC Investmore, LLC. And AC Investmore was registered in Delaware as an anonymous corporation. The only contact information was a third-part
y registered agent service company.

  Even stranger was the absence of any information about either company’s past activities. It appeared that the only function of AC Investmore was to serve as the parent company for American Castle Fund. But what about the child company? Although American Castle Fund was now dissolved, it had been around for a number of years before its involvement with Cornerstone. However, when I tried to find information about the fund’s past performance, I kept coming up empty-handed.

  This is odd, I thought. The company had a long history of corporate filings, but no actual business activity. I also couldn’t find any information about the company’s officers, personnel, or investment portfolio. I kept digging, determined to get some answers. At last, my persistence paid off.

  “Aha,” I said.

  Wes muted the TV again. “Found what you were looking for?”

  “Sort of. I found the precursor to American Castle Fund. Its name was changed from ABC Value Co., which I found on an old list of aged shelf corporations for sale.”

  Wes stared at me. “Am I supposed to understand what that means?”

  “Sorry. A shelf company is a preestablished corporate entity that’s set up as a sort of holding place. It’s a company ‘on the shelf,’ so to speak. A person who wants to start a business can buy a ready-made, pre-filed corporation so it looks like they’ve been in business for a long time.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Yeah. It sounds a little shady, but it’s not illegal. It saves time for new business owners and supposedly enhances their credibility. They can change the name of the shelf company to suit their new business, and it will still look like they’ve had years of filing history.”

  “Is this related to Edgar somehow?”

  “In a way. Part of the financing for the Cornerstone project was supposed to come from this fund that went belly-up. It seems really strange to me that a smart businessman like Edgar would have relied on an unproven investor like this.” I yawned. “I don’t know what it all means. Maybe nothing. I’ll look into it more tomorrow.”

  We turned back to the TV in time to see the final bell ring, indicating that the angel got his wings. I had to laugh. “I really do love this movie, in spite of being on the computer through the whole thing. That was really rude of me. I’m sorry.”

  Wes made a face. “Please. No apologies necessary. I’ve seen this movie a million times. I’m just happy being with you.” He pushed up from the couch and went into the kitchen. I set the laptop aside and followed him. I leaned against the counter and watched as he unloaded the dishwasher.

  “I know what I’ll do,” I said. “I’ll ask Crenshaw to speak with his contact who specializes in business law. Maybe he can help me ‘pierce the corporate veil’ and find out who was responsible for American Castle Fund.”

  Wes dried his hands on a towel and looked at me in the dim light of the kitchen. “You never cease to amaze me,” he said.

  “In a good way?”

  He grinned and took me in his arms.

  “In a very good way. I still don’t know how I managed to land such a smart, beautiful woman. You’re way out of my league, you know.”

  I could tell he was teasing by the glint in his eyes, but I still felt a warm flush. The truth was, I always felt like I was the lucky one. Biting back a smile, I matched his light tone. “‘Landed,’ huh? That has such a ring of finality to it.”

  “You know what I mean. ‘Landed,’ ‘caught,’ ‘scored.’” He grimaced. “Ooh, those all sound bad.”

  I laughed, and he pulled me in closer.

  “Actually, it’s really the other way around,” he said. “You’re the one who captured my heart.”

  Aww. I pecked him on the lips and felt my heart speed up. This is it. It was the perfect time to bring up our future together.

  A loud buzzing from the dining room interrupted the moment. It was coming from my phone, which I had left on the table.

  Wes smirked good-naturedly. “Smart, beautiful, and popular. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “It’s probably just Farrah,” I said. “But I should probably—”

  “Go ahead,” he said, releasing me from his hold.

  “Don’t go away,” I said, heading for the table. “This will just take a second.”

  I opened the text message, and then dropped into the nearest chair when I read it. It was from Mick:

  Hey Princess. Are you gonna be home soon?

  I’m at your house waiting for you.

  Chapter 20

  “What’s wrong, Keli?”

  Wes joined me in the dining room and put his hand on my shoulder. I just shook my head. There was so much wrong, I didn’t know where to begin. I handed him my cell phone.

  “‘Princess’? Are your parents in town? Whose number is this?”

  I swallowed hard. “It’s from Mick. I have no idea why he thinks it’s okay to call me that. I didn’t like it when we dated in college, and I certainly don’t like it now.”

  “Mick? That guy from the hotel bar? He’s at your house?” Wes’s voice escalated with every word.

  “This is so weird. I didn’t even know he was in town.” It had been two days since I’d called Mick and heard his phone ring behind the door of his hotel room. Maybe he had just come back to town to retrieve his phone. That had to be it.

  “Why would he just show up at your house? Especially at this hour? It’s after ten o’clock.”

  “He’s kind of an impulsive guy. At least, he used to be. I really don’t know him anymore.”

  “Let me call him. I’ll tell him to bug off and leave you alone.”

  “No, don’t do that. I mean, I do want him to leave me alone. Just not yet. I have a couple questions for him.” I stared at my phone, my fingers hovering over the keypad. The problem was, I didn’t know how to answer his question. I wasn’t going home tonight, but I wasn’t sure I wanted him to know that. My home had already been broken into once. Not that I thought that Mick was the housebreaker. Not really.

  “Why do you want to talk to him?” asked Wes. “He might get the wrong idea. False hope, you know?”

  I mustered up a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he doesn’t get the wrong idea. I’ll keep it brief.”

  I decided a short text was the way to go, so I dashed off my reply: Tonight isn’t good.Tomorrow?

  Two seconds later, my phone rang.

  “Oh, come on!” said Wes. “Let me talk to him.”

  I stood up and moved toward the small foyer. “It’s okay,” I said to Wes. “Trust me.”

  “Hello, Mick,” I said into the phone. “This is unexpected. When did you get back to town?”

  “Surprise!” he said. “It’s a long story. I’m staying out at Stag Creek Lodge. If I can’t see you tonight, you’ll have to go out there to see me tomorrow.”

  “The other day you mentioned you have something of mine. Did you happen to bring it?”

  “Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”

  I took a deep breath. He’s just trying to be cute, I told myself. He has no idea he’s grating on my last nerve. “Come on, Mick. At least tell me what it is.”

  “All right. That’s fair. It’s a book. Now, will you come by tomorrow evening? And wear something pretty. Tucker Brinkley is throwing a holiday bash for all his guests.”

  A book. Aunt Josephine’s book.

  “How about tomorrow morning?” I said.

  “No can do. I have meetings all morning. Wanna do lunch?”

  “I can meet you after lunch. One o’clock?”

  “Fine. It’s a date.”

  I closed my eyes. It’s not a date, you nincompoop. Out loud, I simply said, “See you tomorrow, Mick.”

  “Looking forward to it, princess.”

  I hung up and turned around to find Wes standing in the doorway to the living room. His fists were clenched. “You’re really going to meet this turkey?” he asked. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
>
  “Wes, I think he has my aunt Josephine’s book. It would mean so much for me to have it back.”

  “I know. I just wish I could go with you. I have to cover the Christmas parade and Santa house tomorrow.”

  “I’ll get Farrah to go with me. Don’t worry. It will be fine.”

  As I dialed Farrah’s number, I sincerely hoped my words would prove true.

  * * *

  The next morning, I kissed Wes good-bye and returned to my house. It was going to be a busy day. I had to pack for my trip to Nebraska, make a dish to bring to Wes’s parents’ house, and meet up with Farrah for our trek out to Stag Creek Lodge. As I walked up the sidewalk to my front porch, I glanced at the overcast sky and felt a twinge of apprehension. The gray clouds appeared awfully heavy. I hoped my flight wouldn’t be delayed that night. The last thing I wanted to do was spend the night before Christmas at the airport.

  Up in my bedroom, I pulled out my suitcase and took a quick inventory of my closet. It didn’t take long to discover that my favorite jeans were at the bottom of the dirty clothes pile. It figures. I filled a basket and started a load of laundry, then went to the kitchen and cleared off a work space. For the next twenty minutes, I washed, peeled, and chopped. Finally, I tossed the colorful medley in a big bowl with a drizzle of olive oil and dried herbs, and stuck it in the fridge. I would roast the veggies in Darlene’s oven later.

  Now to take care of myself. I hopped in the shower, idly wondering what I should wear for my non-date with Mick. Oh, it so doesn’t matter, I told myself as I rinsed and shut off the water. As I reached for a towel, I became aware of a ringing sound. I froze and listened carefully. There it was again. My doorbell. Crap.

  With one towel around my body and one around my hair, I slipped into my bedroom to check my phone. No missed messages. I was supposed to pick up Farrah at her house, so it wouldn’t be her on my doorstep. And Wes was at work. Who else would just drop by without calling first?

  Mrs. St. John. Mick MacIntyre. A burglar/blackmailer/ murderer.

  I had half a mind to ignore the uninvited caller when the bell rang again—rapidly, three times in a row.

  Ugh. I pulled on a robe and hurried downstairs.

  “Who is it?” I yelled.