We chatted about a few different series while moving on (at my prompting) to the next step of our cookie-swap contribution: carefully melting white chocolate for our peppermint icing.
Josh was ready to skip a step, though. He put the candy canes I’d brought into a sealable plastic bag, then tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned, he wielded a meat mallet overhead.
I took one look at his fiendish expression and yelped. He appeared ready to wallop me into dust, not the candy canes.
His expression cleared. “Oh, sorry! I was only kidding.”
And I was overreacting if I thought harmless Josh Levitt was planning to meat-mallet me to death. “I know.” I put my hand over my hopscotching heart, then grinned. “You wouldn’t dare attack me. At least not until all the cookies are finished.”
Josh laughed. “What kind of criminal mastermind would I be? You’re already reading my mind.” He sighed and squinted into his oven again, then turned to me. “Are they supposed to smoke?”
“What?” Panicked, I raced to the oven. I squinted, too.
“Gotcha!” His laughter rang out again, full of holiday merriness. “You’re right, Hayden. Baking can be pretty fun!”
“I’m glad you think so.” I shared his grin. “Let’s make that icing. After that, we’ll decorate and be done. Easy peasy.”
Easy peasy. I wished I could say the same thing about investigating Melissa’s death. After finding out what Josh knew, I was suddenly beset with doubts about my own sleuthing.
I had to admit, drowning did fit the evidence I’d seen.
More accurately, it fit the lack of evidence I’d seen.
Could I really be poking into an accidental death? Had I seen so much murder and mayhem recently that I was imagining things? Yesterday I hadn’t thought so. But tonight . . . maybe?
I glanced at Josh, who was gleefully bashing the candy canes into the sprinkles we’d later use on our cookies. I was reminded that none of us ever really know what goes on in someone else’s mind. Josh could have been a killer. Danny could have been wrong about him and set me up with a murderer.
Melissa could have been drugged before falling into that wassail punch bowl. She could have been the victim of an overdose that wasn’t accidental. Someone could have held her head under the wassail until she drowned. There were still any number of ways that Melissa Balthasar could have been murdered.
Given the police’s “accidental death” stance, it was up to me (more than ever) to find out what had really happened. So I shored up my resolve and decided to keep investigating.
My next step? Eating a couple of chocolate cookies with white chocolate–peppermint icing and candy-cane sprinkles (quality control, naturally). After that? I wanted to meet Roger Balthasar—because a death that was truly accidental definitely didn’t require bribing the police to stop investigating it.
Eight
I was waiting for Travis in the B and B’s snug parlor, enjoying its Christmassy ambiance (and a slice of fruitcake), when opportunity knocked. I needed a moment with Zach, my B and B’s host, so I could casually ask him about the guest list for the Christmas in Crazytown tree-trimming party. I wanted to know, too, about the lack of cleanup afterward. After all, leaving a potential weapon (the wassail and punch bowl) out in plain sight might have made things easier for Melissa’s (maybe) murderer.
Sometimes, I reasoned, opportunity might be as important as motive. Even unpremeditated murder left catastrophe in its wake. I doubted that Melissa’s loved ones and friends would feel comforted by knowing that her killer hadn’t necessarily planned to cold-bloodedly drown her. Or maybe he had. I didn’t know.
I was still mulling it over when an argument broke out at the B and B’s front desk. Curious by nature, I set aside my fruitcake and swiveled to watch. A tall, dark-haired man was insisting on being given a room right away. Zach, ever soft-spoken and apologetic, was . . . well, apologizing.
His remorse wasn’t sufficient for the newcomer—who was handsome, I observed, with patrician features and an athletic appearance. His puffer coat framed his high cheekbones and almond eyes; his checkered scarf was worn with a rakish air.
Unfortunately, it didn’t matter to me how good-looking he might have been. I don’t like people who berate service workers. That was Zach’s role at the moment. Looking on, I frowned.
“You must have a room!” the man complained, his shoulders slumped. He clenched his fists. “I drove for hours to get here.”
“I’m sorry, but since you don’t have a reservation—”
“I don’t need a reservation! It’s Christmastime.”
“I’m afraid that’s one of our busiest seasons.” Zach seemed contrite. “Maybe the Sproutes Motor Lodge could—”
“Come on, dude!” the newcomer wheedled, changing tactics. “Can’t I just crash up in the attic or something? Please?”
I’d never heard anyone call Zach “dude” before. More intrigued now, I took careful measure of the man. He was tall, I saw, and wore wrinkled canvas pants and lug-soled snow boots.
Whoever he was, he seemed familiar with snow—and with Zach. Was this a strategy, using a casual nickname on the spot? Or did they really know one another? They seemed about the same age. But where Zach Johnson was friendly, the stranger seemed aloof—at least when he wasn’t pleading for a favor, he did.
Before Zach could answer, the unknown man’s phone rang. He moved away to answer it—without excusing himself first—leaving Zach standing, ignored, at the front desk. That was my cue.
I wandered over, then gave Zach a commiserating look. “Tough afternoon?” My meaningful nod indicated the demanding man. “I guess some people just can’t take no for an answer?”
My host’s expression looked faraway. Zach started, then flashed me a hasty, rueful smile. “It comes with the job. He’s not such a bad guy. He’s definitely not the first friend of mine to want a favor. Ordinarily, I’d help out, but I just can’t.”
I smiled in understanding, yet my mind was stuck on that word. Friend. This new guy was a friend of Zach’s? He hadn’t acted like one. “That’s perfectly reasonable,” I assured my B and B’s host. “Especially with all that’s been going on . . .”
I waited, hopefully, but Zach didn’t volunteer anything more—especially not about Melissa’s death. I forged onward.
“Now I feel doubly lucky to have scored a room here,” I remarked. “I must have snagged the last one available, right?”
Zach nodded, but his pensive gaze remained trained on the newcomer. Naturally enough, I looked in that direction, too. Now he was pacing across the B and B’s foyer, still looking beleaguered.
Snatches of his (one-sided) conversation filtered to us, albeit quietly. I gathered that someone was calming him down.
“Yes, all right,” the man murmured. “I will. Thanks, Dad.”
I nodded and hooked a thumb in that direction. “See? Parents solve everything, especially at Christmastime. Right?”
Zach gave me a distracted nod. Then his gaze cleared. He focused on me. “Sorry, was there something else you needed?”
“Just the recipe for your yummy fruitcake, please.”
We both smiled. “That’s easily done,” Zach told me. “I’ll ask housekeeping to leave a copy in your room this afternoon.”
I thanked him and turned away. Then I did a Columbo, trying to seem absentminded and nonthreatening as I doubled back.
“Sorry. Just one more thing,” I said with a smile. “My friend Danny Jamieson is Tansy Park’s bodyguard. He asked me to pick up a copy of the guest list from the Christmas in Crazytown tree-trimming party. He was planning to come over himself for it, but since I’m already here, I told him I’d try to help out.”
“A guest list?” Zach blinked. It was obvious he was still eavesdropping on the newcomer’s phone conversation. “Sure. I don’t see why not. I thought the police might want one, so I wrote down everyone I could remember. But they never asked.”
We talked fo
r a while about the (non) investigation. Zach e-mailed me his list. I confirmed I’d received it on my phone.
“All right. Thanks, Zach! Have a nice day today.”
I turned and deliberately passed close to the newcomer, who’d wrapped up his conversation now. He seemed visibly calmer as he put away his phone. He glanced up at me, then nodded.
I felt jolted. If Albany had had a male counterpart, it occurred to me as I nodded back, it would have been him. He had her hair color, her rangy build, and her sense of entitlement.
I disliked him on sight. But then I caught a glimpse of Travis, descending the B and B’s beautiful old carved oak staircase, and knew that he’d been right about me. I’d reacted badly to Albany and her closer-than-close relationship with my financial advisor. Now I was apparently projecting that reaction onto a total stranger. Zach had said he wasn’t such a bad guy.
For all I knew, the newcomer had suffered a flat tire, gotten stuck in the snow, and nearly frozen to death on the way to Sproutes. It was treacherous out there. I was lucky I hadn’t skidded into a snowbank myself. I shouldn’t be too hard on him.
Still, it wouldn’t have killed him to be a little nicer.
As if reading my mind, he smiled. “Sorry you had to hear all that.” He gestured to the front desk. “I was out of line.”
“The holidays can be stressful,” I commiserated. I might not have liked him, particularly, but I didn’t want to be rude myself. And he was apologizing, at least. I waved to Travis. “Sorry. That’s my friend. I’d better run. Merry Christmas!”
And that, as they said, was that. Or at least it was until I glanced back at Travis and saw recognition on his face.
My financial advisor met me at the bottom of the stairs. With a hello nod for Zach, Travis herded me into the parlor.
“Whoa, whoa! Easy there, bruiser!” I rubbed my arm, where my (surprisingly strong) keeper had grabbed me. “What’s up?”
“That was Cashel Sullivan. What are you doing with him?”
“Cashel Sullivan? Really?” I turned to look, but the newcomer was gone. “The prodigal son? Albany’s older brother?”
“The very same,” Travis confirmed. He looked worried. “I didn’t know he was in town. His family wasn’t expecting him.”
“His dad was. They just had a long and apparently bolstering phone call.” I described what had gone on. “So he’s come home for Christmas. Big deal.” I leaned in, hoping to find a crack in the Sullivan family armor. I’m not as generous as I’d like to be. “Is he really the black sheep of the family?”
“You still haven’t read Albany’s memoir?”
“I’ve read some of it,” I prevaricated. I’d taken a crack at it yesterday, after meeting with Ophelia and before going to Josh’s house for our baking lesson. I’d made some headway. Then I’d gotten sidetracked watching Albany’s interviews online and reading gossip sites’ coverage about her. “It’s a long book! Besides, the names and identifying details have been changed, so—”
“So ‘my brother’ still means one thing, as far as I know.” My advisor’s disapproving look swept over me. “Of all the people in Albany’s memoir, he’s probably the most closely represented.”
“So shoot me, I didn’t compile a dossier. That’s your job.” I gave him a “Lighten up” nudge. I wanted to move on from this. “So, you were looking into the Balthasars’ financials?”
My brainiac advisor nodded, successfully diverted (as always) by talk of accounting. He adjusted his horn-rimmed specs, then dived in. He described Roger and Melissa’s meeting and courtship, their prenuptial agreement and marriage, their business partnership, and their “extravagant” lifestyle.
“Then they weren’t short on money,” I summed up. “Was there a huge life insurance payout available on Melissa’s death?”
“A payout, yes, but nothing unusual.” Travis looked up from the paperwork he’d brought. “I don’t think it would have been sufficient to motivate a murder, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Lately? That’s always what I’m asking.”
“Yes.” My keeper gave me a commiserating look. “How are you holding up, anyway? I’ve been busy taking care of Albany.”
“That’s what you should be doing. Your friend needs you.” I remembered Danny’s theory that Travis and Albany were sleeping together. My overactive brain offered up a vivid image of the two of them together. Intimately. I shook my head but couldn’t get rid of it. That meant I had to act. “Especially now that you and Albany are a couple. You know, reunited. She needs you, and you’re there for her. That’s how love works, right?”
An excruciating silence followed my statement.
Okay, so technically, it was broken by the Bon Jovi version of “Please Come Home for Christmas” on the B and B’s sound system. But I still felt those moments tick by in slow motion. Argh.
When I glanced up, Travis’s dumbfounded look met mine.
Then he quirked his mouth. “I’m not in love with Albany.”
“Oh, so it’s just a fling, then. Sure.” I managed an offhanded wave. “Well, you’re a grown-up. And it’s the holidays.”
“And everyone has torrid romances during the holidays?”
Was he holding back laughter? I stiffened my posture. “Some people do,” I said defensively. “There are songs about it.”
“And movies,” Travis added with exaggerated solemnity.
But his eyes were sparkling at me. His sexy, husky voice had lowered to a seductive octave, too. Probably on purpose.
“Fine!” I blurted, sorry I’d brought up the subject. “If you and Albany aren’t getting hot and heavy, then why are you sharing a room here at the B and B? Huh? Explain that, genius.”
I folded my arms, waiting. Danny would have been proud. This was my best impression of his trademark no-nonsense stance.
Travis’s face sobered. “The B&B was full. Albany and I doubled up so that you could have a room to stay in. Her parents don’t have a guest room, so she can’t stay with them while she’s in Sproutes. Albany lives and works in New York now, remember?”
I knew that. I recalled it from reading her interviews and bio. But I wasn’t quite ready to let this go. I opened my mouth.
Before I could do so much as take a breath, my financial advisor beat me to the punch. “You realize this is none of your business, right? My private life is just that. Private.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” This was Danny’s fault. His conjecture about Albany and Travis had bothered me more than I’d realized.
Still . . . “Come on, though, Travis. I’ve seen the movies. When people come home for the holidays—or at any time of year—their childhood bedrooms are always perfectly preserved in their parents’ houses.” It was one of those things that I, as a perennial gridskipper, had never experienced . . . but had honestly yearned for. Having a permanent bedroom retreat sounded nice.
Now Travis appeared to be holding back a grin. “Sometimes, I forget about the gaps in your upbringing,” he confessed.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that the movies aren’t real, and neither is a childhood ‘room shrine.’ In real life, parents move on. They use that space for home offices. Gyms. Craft spaces. Or sometimes for guest rooms. But those guest rooms aren’t typically frozen in time, decorated with someone’s favorite posters from high school and filled with years of memorabilia and photographs.”
I stared at him, stubbornly holding on to the idea.
“Kids tend to take that stuff with them to college,” he added. “I know I did. What I couldn’t bring went into storage.”
Storage? That sounded so unfeeling. Sure, I keep most of my personal belongings in storage these days. But that’s because I have to stay on the move, due to my trust fund’s requirements.
“Just because you and Albany don’t have childhood bedrooms to go to, that doesn’t mean no one does,” I argued. Something else occurred to me. “Maybe you both had unhappy childhoo
ds?”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them.
A shadow passed over Travis’s face. “Let’s get back to Roger and Melissa’s finances.” He busied himself with his papers, then cleared his throat. “They had plenty of money.”
“Then the motive wasn’t financial.”
“And there’s no evidence of malfeasance.”
“I’m sure Roger was making a deal with that police officer, though,” I maintained. “Were there any big payouts to anyone?”
“None directly linked to anyone here in Sproutes,” Travis told me. He gazed across the B and B’s parlor, toward the decorated foyer. “Although seeing Cashel here does make me wonder . . .”
“About?”
“About the expenses I noted for several Malibu rehab centers.” Travis’s candid gaze met mine. “We need to know more about Melissa’s past. No one I’ve talked to mentioned her having a history of drug abuse, but those rehab stays bother me.” He lowered his voice. “For one thing, they were paid at above the market rate. For another, they were all very brief—far too short to have accomplished anything as far as recovery is concerned.”
“Maybe Melissa was in and out of rehab a lot. Maybe it didn’t work for her.” I frowned. “From what I’ve learned about her, Melissa wouldn’t have had much patience for being told what to do. If she had a problem, then, she might not have kicked it in rehab. So she might still have been using in Sproutes.”
“That would explain her passing out in the punch bowl,” Travis mused. “She goes to the tree-trimming party, gets carried away with drinking or drugs, staggers into the dining room—”
And face-plants into a punch bowl of wassail. Forever.
I didn’t want to think about it. “If there were multiple short stays,” I said instead, “maybe they were for her clients?”
Travis nodded. “That’s a possibility. I’ll look into it.”
“After all, if the Balthasars paid the rehab staff to keep quiet about their clients’ treatment, that hush money would be paid ‘above market rate.’ We need to ask Danny about all this.”
The Peppermint Mocha Murder Page 10
