“I just can’t believe my own daughter is standing in that line,” Molly hissed through gritted teeth. She seemed more concerned with her daughter than with the fact that Rooster was eyeing her suspiciously from his position next to the picketers. I didn’t want to mention it, though.
“She’ll get past it.”
“Let’s hope she figures it out before it’s too late,” Molly said as Bessie Mae put down the hat and smiled up at her. “First Brittany gets hung up on this church boy, and now Krystal . . . it’s not shaping up to be a great Christmas.” Molly sighed and looked at Bessie Mae. “Ready to move on?” she asked.
The older woman nodded, blue eyes merry. It was good to see Bessie Mae; I missed seeing her at her usual post watching the trains go by at the old depot. She’d been living at a nursing home in La Grange for the last few months; I hoped the market would raise enough money to make her house accessible enough for her to move back in. I was more worried about Molly, though.
“Are you coming for dinner tomorrow night?” Molly asked me as she wheeled Bessie Mae toward the candied-nut stall. I walked beside her.
“Are you sure it wouldn’t be too much?”
“To be honest, I’m hoping you can talk to Brittany. Ask Tobias, too; maybe talking to a veterinarian will re-inspire her.”
“I’ll check with Tobias, although you may be stuck with just me; he’s covering for another vet over the holidays, so I hardly ever see him.” I thought of Mindy, but didn’t bring it up; Molly had enough to worry about without listening to me.
“Let’s shoot for tomorrow night,” she said. “If Tobias can’t come, then come by yourself. I need help!”
“Tell me what to bring and I’ll be there,” I said, and gave her a hug. She wheeled Bessie Mae off as I turned and headed toward the Blue Onion’s holiday booth, savoring the festive scent of mulled wine and candied almonds as I made my way through the crowd.
Despite the news about Krystal, Quinn was smiling as she sold another loaf of her famous Czech Christmas bread, vánočka, from the Blue Onion’s stall, her cheeks pink under her bright-red wool hat, a few red curls framing her face. The white tent was adorned with a lit garland and red bows, and the rows of baked goods with their red ribbons and glistening packaging looked irresistible.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“I’ve sold thirty loaves of vánočka, and I’m going to have to restock the Christmas cakes.” She nodded toward the display of candles near the register. “Your candles are a big hit, too. Putting raffia and a sprig of holly on the jars was a great idea!”
“I’m glad they’re selling,” I said. “Not much mistletoe left, either!” I noted. Since Thanksgiving, I’d been harvesting bunches from the oaks at Dewberry Farm and tying the sprigs with red ribbon. Quinn had hung them from a cord stretched across the front of the stall, and a good number had sold. I set the box I’d brought on top of the skirted table at the front of the stall and busied myself hanging fresh bunches.
“It’s a romantic time of year,” Quinn grinned, but then the smile faded. “Except for Krystal. I keep thinking about her.”
“Me too,” I said. “And I’m worried about Molly.”
“The whole town heard them arguing,” she said, grimacing.
I told Quinn what Molly had said about her daughter and Bryce.
“Love is blind,” Quinn said grimly. “I know that better than anyone. Look at the jerk I married.”
“We all make mistakes when we’re young. I spent three years with a starving drummer from a band called The Cream Pies.”
“The Cream Pies?”
“Should have hit him with one at the first show and skipped the next three years,” I said. My drummer boyfriend had been a big fan of one of the band’s groupies, as it turned out. Unfortunately, I had been the last to know. “You made a good choice this time, though,” I said. “Peter is amazing.”
“I know.” A dreamy smile drifted across her face for a moment. “But I still regret getting together with Jed. I just hope Brittany doesn’t make a mistake like I did.”
“Hopefully it’ll pass soon,” I told her as I attached another bunch of mistletoe to the cord. “Good thing I’ve got a lot of oak trees out at the farm. If this mistletoe keeps selling so well, maybe I’ll be able to afford a Christmas bone for Chuck!”
“Don’t tell Tobias,” Quinn warned me, grinning.
“One bone won’t kill him,” I said.
“Speaking of Tobias, have you talked to him?”
“Not really,” I said. “I saw him, but we were worried about the puppy. Are you and Peter spending Christmas together?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.
She blushed. “We’ve only been going out for a little while,” she reminded me.
“It’s quality, not quantity.”
“Yes, but it makes Christmas kind of weird. You don’t want to do too little, but also not too much.” As she rearranged a stack of vánočka, Fannie Pfeffer of Fannie’s Antiques came by.
“I heard you found Krystal Jenkins,” she said, looking at me.
“I did,” I said.
“Any word on what happened to her?” she asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “Why?”
“It’s funny . . . I haven’t heard anything about the Jenkins family in months, and now they’ve come up twice in one week.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her uncle called the other day and said he wanted to get a couple of coins looked at,” she said.
“Has he brought them in for you to look at?”
“Not yet,” she said.
“When did he call?” I asked, thinking of the digger in my backyard from the night before.
“Two days ago,” she said. “Why?”
“There were holes all around Krystal’s house. Plus, someone was out digging behind my house last night,” I said. “Hit me over the head with something I’m guessing was a shovel.”
She winced as I showed her the goose egg on my temple. “Could be Buster,” she said. “Or Clyde Swartz,” she said, scanning the crowd and pointing out a short, thin man with nervous eyes. “He and Buster have been competing to find Confederate gold for years.” She shrugged. “He probably got lucky and turned two coins up while he was cleaning the junk pile in his backyard.” She shrugged. “It takes all kinds,” she said. “At any rate, I just wanted to stop by and say hello. Hope to see you in the shop!”
“I’m sure you will,” I said. “I’m behind on my shopping.”
Quinn looked at me as Fannie drifted away. “What are you giving Tobias for Christmas, anyway?”
“I still haven’t decided,” I said. “I considered knitting him a scarf, but I’d like to get him something he can use for more than a month a year. Plus, I should have started in July.”
“So no plans?”
“None that we’ve talked about. It looks like Chuck and I will be on our own.”
Quinn gave me a sympathetic look. “I’m sure things will be fine with Tobias. I know you’re worried about Mindy, but there’s a reason they divorced, Lucy.”
“I hope so,” I said, not feeling convinced. I popped a sample of bread into my mouth and turned my thoughts to my mental Christmas list.
Money was tight since I’d moved to the farm, so I’d been making gifts by hand for the last month. I’d finished knitting a soft green tea cozy for Quinn just last week, and had been making special candles and batches of fudge for my friends and neighbors. I was hoping to get a small package out to my parents tomorrow; I just had to put the finishing touches on the scarf I’d made for my mother. One thing I loved about Buttercup was that people were more likely to gift others with things they’d made than things they’d bought. Molly had promised me a loaf of friendship bread and some starter, and there were a lot of talented people in town making all kinds of wonderful crafts—many of which were on display at the market, and very tempting. Local artist Martin Shaw had made an enormous robin’s-egg-blue bowl I’d had my
eye on—it would make a wonderful pasta bowl—and although it was expensive, I would have bought it if my truck hadn’t started making strange thumping noises. It wasn’t time to treat myself, though, unfortunately. And speaking of treats . . . “Want some Glühwein?” I asked Quinn.
Quinn’s eyes widened. “I’d love a cup,” she said.
“I’ll go get us some,” I said, tucking the box of mistletoe under the table. As Quinn sold another loaf of vánočka to a family from Austin, I headed over to Bubba Allen’s delicious-smelling stall, watching as he ladled out cups of hot liquid.
“What can I do for you?” Bubba said, smiling at me. He usually made the best barbecue in Buttercup, but he’d traded in the smoker for a big pot of mulled wine—known as “Glühwein”—for the holiday season.
“Two Glühweins, please,” I said.
“For you and Quinn?”
I smiled. “You guessed it.”
“With that rabble over there, you’ll need it,” he said, nodding toward the picket line. He looked back at me and peered at my temple. “That’s a nasty lump. What happened?”
“Someone was digging down by the creek at my place last night. I interrupted them, and they knocked me over the head.”
“They attacked you on your own property?” he asked. “They’re lucky you weren’t carrying.”
“Quinn told me the Kramers and the Bacas have had trouble, too,” I said. I’d forgotten to ask Molly about that, I realized. “I heard you know all about the treasure legends here—and who might be looking for it.”
“Probably Buster Jenkins or Clyde Swartz.”
“That’s what Fannie said,” I told him. “Buster called about a couple of coins the other day.”
“He finally found something? I never thought I’d see the day.”
“I’ve heard they’re looking for Confederate gold, but is there a story they’re working off of?”
“There is,” he said, stirring the pot of mulled wine. “Apparently when the South was losing the war, General Beauregard gave a chest of gold to a trusted friend, Lieutenant Morgan, to hide away until the Confederacy rose again. Morgan was heading to Mexico with it when he was ambushed by Indians. The story is, he escaped long enough to bury the gold before he was captured.”
“And this was in Buttercup?”
“That’s what the story says. He buried it by Dewberry Creek and marked a tree so he could find it again.”
“Then what happened?” I asked.
“He was taken captive, and escaped about six months later. But when he came back, he never could find the gold.” Bubba shrugged. “Maybe someone dug it up while he was gone—or maybe it’s just a story.”
“Either that, or he took the cash and hightailed it to Mexico,” I said.
“It was a long time ago,” he said, “and as far as I know, nobody’s ever found anything. But it doesn’t stop them from looking.”
“Maybe Buster found something after all,” I mused. At least it wasn’t in my backyard—or not that I knew of. Just because I’d found someone digging the night before didn’t mean they hadn’t been there already; I hadn’t been down to the creek in a week or two. Whoever it was might have found something—without me knowing—and was now looking for more.
“Buster’s my guess,” he said. “A shame about his niece, Krystal. I heard you found her.”
“I did,” I said. “There were holes all around her house, too, like someone had been digging.”
“Maybe her uncle gave her gold fever,” he said.
Or maybe her uncle found something—and knocked Krystal off so he wouldn’t have to share, I thought.
The Brethren Church’s choir launched into “Holly Jolly Christmas” just then. As they did, the chanting from the Word of the Lord contingent grew louder.
“Look at that,” Bubba said with chagrin. “And that Houston hobby rancher is smack-dab in the middle of them.”
“Ben O’Neill?” I asked.
He nodded. “That O’Neill ordered so many campaign buttons you could pave the square with them. I’m wondering what’s in it for him,” he said. “I’ve seen him huddled with Faith Zapalac a few times, and that can’t be good.”
I felt a twinge of misgiving. Faith Zapalac was Buttercup’s rather crooked real estate agent. I’d blown up a shady deal she’d been trying to make last year. Were she and O’Neill trying to put together something else?
“I have seen a lot of buttons,” I said. Mostly in trash cans, but there was no denying he’d spent heavily. “Have you heard why he wants to win so badly?”
“He wants to leave his mark, I heard him say the other day.”
“What kind of mark?”
“Wants to make Buttercup a tourist destination or something, I’m guessing. Probably change the name to O’Neillville while he’s at it.”
“Any idea what property he was thinking of buying?”
“No, and Faith ain’t sayin’. I’ve got a bad feeling about it.”
I looked over at the picketers, picking out Ben O’Neill’s ruddy face. “He sounds a little like Nettie Kocurek.” Before her untimely demise, Nettie had considered herself the town’s aristocracy, and had treated everyone accordingly.
“At least Nettie was from here. He never set foot in this town before last year.”
I wasn’t strictly from here, either—then again, I wasn’t running for mayor. “He seems to be popular with the church members.”
“Give enough money, and anyone is popular in that church,” Bubba grumbled. “They’re starting a big-bucks TV show, and they’ve got the nerve to come call the Christmas Market too commercial.”
“I know. Kind of ironic.”
He shook his head in disgust as he handed me two warm, full cups. “Gonna be broadcasting all over the country, and raking in the cash, I’m sure. I’m sorry to gripe at you; I didn’t mean to go on. It just chaps me, is all.”
“I get it,” I said.
“Speaking of cheerful topics, I feel real bad about that young lady you found. That must have been terrible for you.”
I shuddered, trying not to think of her pale, waxy face. “It was.”
“Talk around town is, someone did her in and then burned the place down.”
“She was definitely gone when the fire started,” I said, “but I think the jury’s still out on what happened.”
He cut a glance at the portly sheriff. “I saw Opal a few minutes ago; she told me Rooster got an anonymous tip.”
Opal womanned the front desk at the sheriff’s office. “What kind of tip?”
“The caller said Molly poisoned Krystal with friendship bread, and then torched the place to cover her tracks.”
I felt my blood turn to ice. “Poisoned her with friendship bread? The autopsy isn’t even done!”
“I don’t think Rooster cares much about that,” he said darkly. “If something did happen to that girl, I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts Molly Kramer’s on the hook for it.”
“I’m getting that impression, too . . . but why would she kill Krystal?”
“Bad influence on her daughter, to hear Rooster talk,” he said.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said.
“I’m just telling you what’s going around town.” He shrugged. “Hopefully nothing will come of it. Now, not to change the subject, but how’s farm life treating you?”
“We’re still in business,” I said, but my thoughts were on Krystal—and Molly, who was still wheeling Bessie Mae around the market.
“I’m glad,” Bubba said. “It’s good to see a Vogel back on Dewberry Farm.”
“It’s good to be back, even if it hasn’t been the best week.” I set the cups down and pulled out a ten, but he waved it away.
“Nah. This is on me; I know what it’s like just getting started.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course,” he said. “Tell Quinn to save me one of those vánočka breads!”
“Thanks, Bubba,” I said. “Need some mistl
etoe?”
He grinned. “My wife might like it!”
“Come get a sprig at the Blue Onion stall and surprise her!”
“I just might do that,” he said with a twinkle in his eye as I headed back to the booth with two warm cups of the spicy-smelling wine and a feeling of foreboding.
Yum,” Quinn said, sipping the hot wine. “Just what I needed; it’s kind of cold out here!”
“I got more than wine from Bubba’s booth,” I said, and relayed what he’d told me. “I have a feeling if someone doesn’t come up with an alternate suspect, it’s going to be tough sledding for the Kramers soon.”
“Maybe her uncle did find treasure and killed her so he could keep it,” she said.
“At least it’s something to go on.”
“And then there’s her mystery boyfriend . . .”
I sighed. “We’re looking for murder suspects, and we’re not even sure she was murdered.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Quinn said. “Unless you want to count on Buttercup’s finest.”
I glanced over at Rooster. “You’re right,” I said.
“I’ll ask around,” she said.
“I’m supposed to have dinner at the Kramers’ tomorrow,” I said. “Maybe Brittany will know something.”
“And I’ll keep an ear out at the cafe,” she said with a sigh. “I just hate all this.”
“Me too,” I said. We paused for a moment as another group of shoppers eddied up to the booth. By the time they’d drifted away, we’d sold a Christmas cake and three candles.
“On another note, how are the goats?” Quinn asked.
“I’ve barely seen them, to be honest,” I told her, taking a sip of the mulled wine. The flavor was complex: fruity, spicy, and a little bit citrusy. It warmed me from the inside out. “Ooh. This is delicious.”
“Have a bite of bread to go with it,” Quinn said, offering me a piece from the sample basket.
“Don’t mind if I do.” I bit into the vánočka. The dried fruit was a wonderful counterpart to the sweet, moist bread, and went beautifully with the Glühwein. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I moaned.
Fatal Frost (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 2) Page 4
