Holly and Homicide

by Leslie Caine

  “They once weren’t, you mean?”

  “Oh, well, they grew up together, but were kept at a distance. Everyone says that’s because of Ben’s father. He worked as a master carpenter on this house over the years and was always very conscious of not being in the same social class as the Goodwins. So, from what I gather, Ben was told he couldn’t be friends with Henry. Which just seems so sad, don’t you think? I’m roughly their age, and back when we were all kids, Snowcap Village was so tiny! You had to find a way to be friends with your neighbors, because there just plain weren’t enough people around to be choosy.”

  Times must indeed have changed; Snowcap had been plenty “choosy” when it came to welcoming Steve and me. That thought darkened my mood, and I soon had to shake off an image of Angie’s body by the bridge. Forcing a smile, I said, “When you think about it, that’s always the case. None of us has the kind of time to foster animosity.”

  She held my gaze for a moment. “You’re absolutely right.” She paused. “In fact, I have to admit that you and Chiffon and this gathering tonight have altered my opinion. I hope the Snowcap Inn is a great success. I really do.”

  The sound system was now playing a recording of dogs barking the notes to “Jingle Bells,” and I told the woman honestly that her words were “music to my ears.” I decided to make it my goal to try to get to know each of the seventy or so guests at the party. I started purposefully mingling and joined two couples sitting in the den, but was distracted when Cameron—overdressed but killer handsome in his tuxedo—took a seat beside me. “Evening, Erin. I’m starting to get the impression that you’re avoiding me.”

  “Not at all. I’m simply trying to meet and greet all our guests.”

  “Ah, of course. You’re working the room. Good for you.” He grinned at me. “Now that you mention it, I think I’m going to make an effort to get to know your illustrious Mr. Sullivan.”

  I glanced at Steve, who was visible through the doorway, chatting with some people in the next room. Catching my eye, he started to smile, until he spotted Cameron sitting beside me. Sullivan promptly turned his back on us.

  Chapter 11

  Before I could give another thought to Steve’s reaction, a thirtyish woman spilled red wine on the Oriental rug a few feet away from me. I excused myself to grab the closest bottle of seltzer water, one of several that we’d strategically placed throughout the house for this very purpose. We chatted a little as I doused the would-be stain, and working together, we soaked up the wine with napkins. I assured her that she should get another glass for herself and let me finish dabbing up the last signs of the spill.

  Chiffon, meanwhile, flounced over to claim my vacated seat and said to Cameron, “Hi. You work for Wendell, don’t you?”

  “Yes, and you’re one of the co-owners of the Snowcap Inn.”

  “That’s right. I’m Chiffon Walters. You’ve probably seen some of my videos, or heard my recordings.”

  “I’m not up on pop music. Sorry. I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, though.”

  Much as I was enjoying eavesdropping on Cameron and Chiffon’s conversation, Wendell, looking a little soused, walked over to me and bent down a little. “My, my. You’re a designer and a cleaning woman. Do you do windows?”

  With difficulty, I mustered a smile. He held out his hand and helped me to my feet. “Great party, Erin. You should try the eggnog.”

  “Thanks. I will,” I replied.

  “You’re almost as tall as the Woolf sisters, aren’t you?” he asked, looking up at me. Although he’d taken a wide stance, he was weaving on his feet. “It feels like either you’re getting taller, or I’m getting shorter.”

  “I haven’t grown lately. But I am wearing heels.”

  “That’s a relief. I was starting to worry I was turning into one of Santa’s elves.” He laughed heartily, and I managed a small chuckle, to be polite.

  He wandered off, and I returned my attention to Chiffon and Cameron. “You don’t have a napkin,” Chiffon was telling him, practically sitting in his lap now. “Let me give you this one. It’s got my private cell phone number on it. You can call me anytime you want.”

  He looked at the napkin, but didn’t take it from her. “That’s not going to happen, Ms. Walters, but thank you.” He rose and said, “Excuse me.”

  She glared at him as he walked away. Although I tried to disguise the fact that I’d overheard their exchange, Chiffon immediately approached me. “Your ex is really hot. But I guess he thinks he’s too old for me. Can’t blame a girl for trying, as they say.”

  “Better luck next time, as they say.”

  “Oh, it’s hardly like I need any luck, Erin.” Suddenly, there wasn’t an ounce of the harmless bimbo in her voice or countenance; perhaps alcohol had dislodged her ditsy routine. “I simply enjoy flirting. My dance card’s pretty full, actually. Henry Goodwin and I are dating.”

  “He’s at least a dozen years older than Cameron is, you realize.”

  “I like mature men.”

  The implication was that my ex was immature. The remark rankled. In the corner of my vision, I could see Mikara and Henry chatting like the best of friends. “I wonder if your dating Henry bothers Mikara at all. The two of them used to be engaged.”

  Chiffon shrugged. “Everyone knows that.” Chiffon turned and gazed at Mikara and Henry. “She’s fine with it. We all know it’s nothing serious. And Mikara and I are hardly in the same league.”

  “Meaning what?”

  She hesitated. “Much as I hate to say this, she’s, you know, kind of old and tired.” She giggled, as if the airhead in her had returned. Her small mood swing made me wonder if she was cagier—and more formidable—than I’d considered her to be.

  “Were you friends with Angie at all?”

  She gave me a slight shrug. “We were acquaintances, really, but we were friendly enough. I can’t believe someone killed her.”

  “I know. It’s horrifying.”

  “I can’t believe anybody I know would be capable of murder. It had to be some pervert looking for a random victim. Some itinerant who wandered into town. And who’s probably long gone.”

  “I wish I believed that. But who would come up here, the outskirts of town, hide out till someone happened to walk by the property’s little bridge, and then kill the person? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Again, Chiffon shrugged, now looking around the room as if blatantly searching for better company than my own. “But it’s better than the alternative …than thinking one of us could have killed Angie Woolf.” She grinned at Henry. “Speaking of dearest Henry, I think I’ll go see how he’s doing.” She trotted toward him.

  Cameron, I noted, had made good on his word and was now talking one-on-one with Steve. Things didn’t appear to be going well, however, judging by body English; Steve’s arms were crossed and he was frowning at the floor. Regardless, my worrying about their conversation was keeping me from being a festive cohost. It was time for me to mingle with more neighbors. I saw a pair of couples I hadn’t met and started to head toward them. Audrey, however, intercepted me. She grabbed my elbow and pulled me into a conversation with some obviously wealthy friends of Wendell’s. Several minutes later, I began to realize that I was going to have to scale down my meet-everyone goal. When I finally excused myself and turned around, Steve was standing there, waiting to talk to me.

  “I have to tell you honestly, Erin,” he said into my ear, “Cameron’s a player …the type of guy who’ll step on anyone to get ahead. He’s like a young Wendell Barton, only worse. And he’s definitely more dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? Cameron?”

  Steve merely nodded.

  “Cameron’s driven, highly ambitious, and enjoys amassing power. But he’s not what I’d call a player, and he’s certainly not dangerous. He’s basically a nice guy.”

  He shook his head. “Your opinion of him is colored by your history.” He glanced around as if to ensure he couldn’t be overheard.
“I don’t trust him in the least, Erin. If I didn’t know that you were his alibi the night of the murder, he’d be my number-one suspect.”

  “You dislike him that much, from a ten-minute conversation? What on earth did he say to you?”

  “That he wants to make his fortune in the next five years, then return to New York City where he can ‘live large.’ The man doesn’t care about anything but making money and gaining power. Frankly, I can’t imagine the two of you ever having been a couple in the first place. He probably hit on you just because of your looks.”

  “And all this time I thought it was my personality and charm that captured his interest.”

  Steve shrugged. “No offense, Erin. I’m just saying … the guy’s really shallow.”

  “Your attitude is getting on my nerves, Sullivan. Why are you telling me this?”

  He seemed taken aback and ushered me to a deserted corner. “Isn’t that obvious?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Because I’m worried about you, and you have a blind spot where Cameron Baker is concerned! We have to be on the lookout. Angie Woolf was killed on this property a few days ago.”

  “But we know the killer wasn’t Cameron,” I replied in a harsh whisper. “I saw him drive up, and he was with me from that point on.”

  “Even if he’s innocent of the physical murder, he might have played a part in it.”

  “Oh, come on, Sullivan! You don’t honestly believe he hired a hit man! I just don’t get why you think you should be judging someone I knew ten years ago. And who, after a couple of weeks from now, I’ll most likely never see again!”

  “Because he’s here now, and I think Cameron’s bad news and should be avoided!”

  “You’ve made your point more than enough times, Sullivan,” I fired back at him. “There’s nothing like having your boyfriend lead you to a quiet, dimly lit nook of the room just to chastise you! You’ll have to excuse me. I’m going to go mingle with our other guests now.”

  I marched into the dining room, refreshed my eggnog, then continued past Sullivan and into the living room, where a couple of dozen people were milling around. I walked up to a small circle of women and introduced myself. They were more than pleasant, but very soon, I was distracted by a pair of unsupervised young boys—five or six years old—who were fidgeting with the drapes. I had visions of them trying to scale the walls with the curtains as climbing ropes and asked, “Do any of you know those boys?”

  “’Fraid so,” one woman replied. “We call them Dennis the Menace One and Two.”

  “Their parents probably snuck out the back door a long time ago,” another added. “They have a terrible habit of doing that.”

  “Don’t they, though?” the first woman agreed. “Remember when they did that at my Halloween party?”

  I set down my glass on the coffee table and headed toward the boys. In remarkable unison, both youngsters jumped up and grabbed hold of separate drape panels. I raced over and caught the drapery rod as it fell, barely preventing the heavy rod from clonking both boys on the head.

  “Hey, you two! These curtains are not climbing ropes! The curtain rods cannot support your weight! Where are your parents?”

  “I dunno,” they said in unison.

  “We’re going to go locate them right—”

  “What are you doing to my sons!” I whirled around to see Ms. Spokesperson shoving her way past a group of onlookers and marching toward the boys and me.

  “Your sons just pulled down the draperies and nearly injured themselves in the process.”

  “Mathew, Peter, apologize this instant.” Although the words themselves sounded stern, it was a rote delivery, and she was scanning the room for someone to chat with next.

  “Sorry,” one said, while the other said, “Star pee.” A truly heartfelt apology, if ever I’d heard one. Their mom, I was certain, heard the insincerity in their apology, but seemed to feel we were now even.

  “That’s all right,” I replied somewhat testily. “We can replaster the holes in the wall and rehang the supports for the curtain rod.”

  “It was just an accident!” Ms. Spokesperson proclaimed.

  “Which is why it’s fortunate that nothing happened that can’t be easily fixed.”

  She pursed her lips and shot me a hateful glare. “Come on, boys. Get your coats. It’s time to leave.”

  While that trio marched away, I returned to my eggnog, still on the coffee table where I’d abandoned it. A couple of the women I’d been talking with earlier were now grinning at me. Planning to rejoin them, I started to take a sip of my drink, then froze. The contents of my cup suddenly didn’t smell right; it now bore an acrid odor. I turned my back on the women and discreetly sniffed again. I got a distinct whiff this time.

  My eggnog smelled like bitter almonds! Cyanide!

  Chapter 12

  My heart started hammering in my chest. I’d helped make the first batch of this eggnog myself, and it hadn’t smelled even remotely like bitter almonds. Maybe Audrey had added almond flavoring to the second batch, though. I scanned the room, but she was not in the immediate vicinity.

  On second thought, could I have been drinking poison all along? My stomach felt queasy. I set my cup down on an end table. I felt dizzy. This must just be my imagination running wild. I couldn’t possibly have missed the aroma earlier.

  Maybe my sense of smell was playing tricks on me. I strode into the dining room. The bowl of cranberry nog was half full. I lifted the ladle and took a whiff. No almond scent.

  Cameron appeared through the kitchen door and headed toward me. “You look upset. Is something wrong?”

  “Maybe.” He was holding a cup of eggnog. “Let me try some of that.” I snatched the plastic cup from his hand and took a quick sip. “I knew it! This tastes fine. And the eggnog in the bowl smells normal, too.” Although part of me knew there was no cause for panic, my stomach was doing flip-flops.

  He stared at me as if my face had been turning colors. Maybe it was. “Why are you so—”

  I brushed past him. “I have to throw up.”

  “Erin?” Cameron called after me as I rushed toward the bathroom. “Are you okay?”

  That was what’s known as a stupid question. Suddenly it felt like the temperature had shot up twenty degrees and I was burning up.

  Two women were standing next to the door to the downstairs bathroom, waiting their turn. My distress must have been readily apparent because they both backed up. One said, “Go ahead. We can wait.”

  I pounded on the door, which was quickly pulled open. I brushed past the startled-looking man as he exited, and raced over to the toilet in the nick of time.

  After a minute or so, I pulled myself together and both my breathing and my stomach returned to normal. Linda, my police officer friend, had once told me that cyanide turned a person’s tongue cherry red. I examined my tongue. It was a dark pink and in no way bore a cherry red hue. After splashing water on my face and using toothpaste on my finger to brush my teeth (and tongue, just on principle), I emerged from the bathroom. Steve was waiting for me by the door, with nobody else around. His eyes were wide and his lips were set in a grim line.

  “Good Lord, Erin,” he said quietly. He reached out and caressed my cheek. I got the impression that the caress was meant, in part, to gauge if I had a fever. “What’s going on? I just now overheard some woman I’ve never seen before in my life telling someone else I’ve never met that you were in here throwing up. They were speculating that …” He held me at arm’s length and searched my eyes. He whispered, “Are you pregnant?”

  “No,” I answered in a harsh whisper, “although those women are undoubtedly still happily spreading rumors to that effect, even as we speak. I was nearly poisoned!”

  “What do you—”

  “Somebody slipped cyanide into my eggnog. I caught a strange whiff of bitter almonds before I took a sip. I didn’t drink any of it.”

  “Thank God,” Steve said, looking pale. “But you got sick to your
stomach anyway?”

  “Finding out I came so close to getting poisoned did quite a number on me. But there was nothing toxic in my glass when I was drinking from it earlier. For one thing, Linda Delgardio once told me that cyanide turns your tongue bright red.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Let me see your tongue.”

  A couple was passing by, and the woman gave me a long look. I gave her a friendly nod. “My tongue is fine,” I told Sullivan under my breath. “I checked.”

  “Then just let me verify.”

  I sighed, but then dutifully stuck my tongue out at him.

  He nodded. “It’s your normal magenta color.”

  “More of a dusty rose, really. Not that I’ve held color swatches against it. I’ve got to get my glass back before anyone else takes a sip.” Thank heavens those rambunctious boys already left; they were just the sort who’d view a deserted cup as a chance to have their first taste of alcohol.

  “We’ll take your drink to the sheriff’s station and insist that it be analyzed.”

  With Steve just a step behind me, I rushed back over to the table where I’d left my glass. I stamped my foot and looked back at Sullivan. “My glass is gone.”

  Chiffon was standing not far away. I dashed over to her. “Chiffon. I had a glass of eggnog on the table. Did you take it?”

  “No, Erin. Of course not! I’m a celebrity. I can’t risk being seen drinking at parties. Next thing you know, my image is splashed all over the front page of the society sections. And the paparazzi always intentionally take shots where I’m blinking or when—”

  “Did you see who did take it, then?” Sullivan interrupted.

  “It had to be one of the waiters or caterers. That’s their job, after all …to pick up deserted cups and things.”

  “It was nearly full,” I told Steve. “Maybe I can recognize the glass in the kitchen.”

  “There’s plenty of eggnog in the punch bowl, Erin,” Chiffon said, clicking her tongue. “It’s really okay to pour yourself some more, you know.”