The Peppermint Mocha Murder

by Colette London

  “Got her okay?” Another snort. “Who needs her okay?”

  Apparently, the Sullivan sisters’ rivalry was alive and kicking. At least it was on Ophelia’s side. “Zach did, obviously. He didn’t want Albany to see the pictures of your fake online relationship with him”—because that was what Ophelia had pitched for their “collaboration” project—“and be misled into thinking that the two of you were really dating.”

  The way I’d been misled last night, regrettably. It turned out, Zach was aware of the unspoken dating rules. Hooking up with your ex-girlfriend’s sister was absolutely off limits.

  Ophelia rolled her eyes. “That’s, like, so unnecessary. I mean, Albany and Zach were over with a long time ago.” Another eye roll. “He didn’t need her approval for anything.”

  “He did if he still cared about her feelings.” I drank more coffee, trying to kick-start my brain. The pieces were starting to fall into place, but there was still a lot I didn’t know. “Just the way Albany cared about your feelings.” I wound up for the big one. “Zach didn’t agree because he was afraid of your blackmail. Your sister asked Zach to help you as a favor.”

  That was why Albany had been outside with him last night.

  Ophelia’s eyes bugged. “As a favor to her? Ha!”

  “Albany was embarrassed for you,” I said gently, hoping I could make her understand. “You’d gone so far, for so little—”

  “Embarrassed for me?” Ophelia’s hooting laughter cut me off. “After all the things she said in her book? That’s rich!”

  I expected her to reveal more. Instead, Ophelia slumped on her side of our booth, arms crossed over her chest. She stared broodingly at her cell phone, still in my grasp. She exhaled.

  I gave her a moment. Then I got down to brass tacks. “The things in Albany’s book aren’t true?”

  Ophelia rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d rattle. She gave another gusty sigh. “Whether they are or whether they aren’t, it doesn’t really matter, anyway. Not in this town.”

  That wasn’t the first time I’d heard someone speak about Sproutes that way. Travis often took the same cynical tone. The difference now was, I understood what he meant. When it came to Sproutes, what was true mattered much less than what was believed. For instance, my own sullied reputation was a fiction. But you wouldn’t have known that to talk to Linda Sullivan.

  Linda’s take on my interest in Joe Sullivan had seemed extreme. Now I understood. For Linda, the rumors about my relationship with her husband might as well have been true, just as long as her friends and neighbors believed they were.

  Just as the dirty (Christmas) laundry Albany had aired in her memoir might as well have been true. It had been believed.

  “I’d like to help you, Ophelia,” I said in a milder tone. She was too young to be headed down this path. “If you would only trust me, maybe we could make a difference. Together.”

  “Nice PSA.” She sneered at me. “Tell someone who cares.”

  Okay, then. I guessed I wasn’t getting anywhere with her. It was time for plan B. Danny never has a backup, but I always do. When you’re elbows deep in liquefied chocolate, sometimes you have to embrace unexpected results—like the melted mousse that inadvertently led to my most successful consultation ever.

  I can’t tell you what it was, but you’d definitely know it.

  “All right.” I shrugged, then tipped back the last of my inky diner brew. I tossed down enough money to pay for my coffee, plus more to cover a tip and Ophelia’s hot cocoa—which, as I looked at it, suddenly jogged my memory. Because of that, I barely managed to add, “I guess I’m off to my next lead, then.”

  I still needed to get to Joe Sullivan somehow. But I was distracted by the memory that had just reoccurred to me. Could I trust it? Or was it just another trick, like the “Did we or didn’t we?” merry-go-round I’d jumped onto with Danny earlier?

  Ophelia’s eyes lit up with malice. “By ‘next lead,’ you mean, Cashel, I assume?” It was the next logical step after Albany and Ophelia. “Ha! Nice try, loser. My phone, please.”

  She arched her eyebrows, silently demanding I hand it over.

  When I hesitated, Ophelia laughed. “I don’t have to remind you who my dad is, do I? Would you rather just get arrested?”

  I’d been there, done that. I handed over Ophelia’s phone. She seized it with a gloating expression, then tucked it away.

  “You don’t think Cashel will help me?” I asked guilelessly.

  “Help you?” Ophelia chuckled meanly. “My brother can’t even help himself. Like, literally. He can’t get out of his own way. That was, like, the only thing that was true in Albany’s book.”

  My pretense of being timid for Zach’s sake was truly handy. It was certainly keeping Ophelia talking. I still needed info.

  “Maybe, but Cashel seemed pretty close to his dad,” I said. “I overheard them on the phone one time. It was really sweet.”

  I’d even remarked about it to Zach at the time, about how parents solved everything when it came to Christmas troubles.

  That was when I had first met Cashel and didn’t know how he fit into this group.

  Not surprisingly, Ophelia scoffed. “If there’s one thing my brother isn’t, it’s close to my dad. As far as Dad’s concerned, Cashel can’t do anything right. He never has and never will.”

  Bingo. “Sounds like a well-worn family truism.”

  “Whatever.” She eyed me. “Weren’t you leaving? I’m busy.”

  I glanced at the hot cocoa Ophelia was “busy” with and almost shuddered with distaste. But since Danny and Travis weren’t entirely wrong about me being softhearted, I lingered a minute. “If you ever want to talk, after all this is over, just let me know,” I volunteered. “Sometimes life is hard, Ophelia.”

  “It’ll be easier the minute you’re gone,” she huffed.

  Fine. This time, I really was moving on to plan B. And since Ophelia had confirmed my instincts about Joe and Cashel Sullivan, I had a better idea what I was getting into, too.

  * * *

  After a busy morning, I headed back to the Sproutes Regional Medical Center to check on Tansy. What I wanted to do was charge down to the police station and forcibly extract a confession from Joe Sullivan (somehow), but I knew I had to be smarter. I had to plan. I had to confab with Danny and Travis. Together, the three of us were better than any one of us alone.

  The blizzard had left its mark on the hospital’s parking lot; snowplows had been through now and had left piles of dirty snow in some of the parking spaces. Exasperated, I parked around back, near the industrial trash bins. I was hurrying past them, huddling in my coat for warmth, when I smelled something sweet, herbal, and familiar from my time in Amsterdam: marijuana smoke.

  Automatically, I glanced in that direction. Roger Balthasar stood with a lighted joint in his fingers, eyes closed as he smoked some. He held his breath, then exhaled a plume of smoke.

  He opened his eyes and looked right at me.

  I was flabbergasted. Wasn’t this illegal?

  The producer, however, was indifferent to my reaction. He waggled his eyebrows and held up his joint, offering me some.

  I didn’t want any, but I joined him. “This isn’t where I’d expect to find someone like you.” I nodded at the trash bins.

  “Eh, usually, I hide out in gyms—hotel gyms, airport gyms, hospital gyms. Take your pick. As long as I’m not in SoCal, they’re usually deserted.” Roger took another hit. He seemed beleaguered, his eyes red-rimmed and almost teary. “Today, some old lady was racking up her ten thousand steps on the hospital treadmill, so . . .” He spread his arms to indicate the grimy enclosed trash area. “Here I am! Sure you don’t want some?”

  I shook my head. “You seem . . .” Upset. “Are you okay?”

  “Okay? Me? Ha-ha-ha!” His laughter sounded forced, though. I almost felt sorry for him. “My wife—my partner—is dead. I’m knee-deep in a disaster of a show that may never open. And my lo
cal connection just called it quits. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

  I seized on the part I didn’t already know about. “Your connection?” I nodded at his marijuana. “You mean for that?”

  “Yep. He had the supremely bad timing to need rehab just when I needed him to come through with a new supply.” Roger held out his joint and gave it a fond look. “Thank God for this. I’ve been hoarding it for an emergency, and, well, here it is! Ha!”

  “Emergency?”

  He squinted in the smoke, then croaked, “Tansy. You heard?”

  I hadn’t heard anything new. I was suddenly seized with panic. “She’s all right, isn’t she? She’s not any worse?”

  “Well, she looks like hell, that’s for sure.” Roger shook his head with evident dismay. “Nobody would have hired her looking the way she does today. But Melissa had a soft spot—”

  At his mention of his departed wife, Roger broke down. Deep sobs racked his body. His shoulders heaved. Caught off guard, I looked around, not sure what to do. His grief seemed genuine.

  Tentatively, I patted his arm and tried to reassure him.

  Soon enough, the storm passed. Wearing a sheepish look, Roger wiped his eyes, careful not to drop his joint in the snow.

  “I guess Tansy getting sick was the last straw,” the producer confessed in a ragged voice. “I’ve been trying to keep it together, trying to be strong so I could lead everyone.” He swore, shaking his head. “But this is all so freaking hard!”

  I commiserated. “You’ve seemed very strong,” I told him honestly. Strong enough to maybe murder someone without remorse. But I no longer thought that was true. “It’s been difficult for everyone. It’s only natural that this would weigh you down.”

  “I know!” He sniffled, then took a final hit. I’d be glad when that sickly smell subsided—I still didn’t feel very well. “Melissa would have wanted me to keep the show going, so I’ve been trying, but I’ve gotta say . . . I couldn’t care less about it.”

  I was surprised. “Really?”

  A shrug. “Albany’s memoir wasn’t my thing. Too mean.”

  I boggled. If something was “too mean” for insensitive Roger Balthasar, that was saying something. “Too mean?”

  “All that stuff about her family—that’s private!” The producer shook his head. “The fallout from it has been brutal.” He gave a cautious look around the hospital parking lot. “I grew up in a town a lot like this one. I know how gossip works. Ugh!”

  He waved away that thought, but I couldn’t. It was integral to my case. At this point, I didn’t think Roger was guilty. I did think he’d been abusing antidepressants in an effort to keep up with Christmas in Crazytown, and it had all caught up to him.

  “So now what?” I asked him. “Will Ophelia go on for Tansy?”

  Maybe Albany’s sister had been wrong about her undervalued role as the actress’s understudy. But Roger only laughed.

  “Ophelia? That twerp never even learned her lines. She tried a few of the dance routines, took photos, then scrammed.”

  That sounded about right. “So if Tansy doesn’t recover in time . . . ?”

  “Then we’re all screwed,” Roger announced. “But you know what? It’s going to be okay.” He drew in a deep breath. “It’s almost Christmas, right? I’ll go back to L.A., maybe drop in on some of my kids, try to think about what’s important in life.”

  “That’s a good idea.” After all this was over, I hoped to do something similar. I’d spoken with my mom and dad, but that wasn’t the same. Maybe after the holidays, I’d hop a plane to their latest jobsite. “I didn’t know you had kids.”

  Roger hooted. “So many kids! Melissa was my fifth wife.”

  “Oh.” Wow.

  “Yeah. That’s what everyone says. ‘Oh.’ Ha-ha-ha!” He gave me a look that seemed almost fond. “Hey, thanks for the chat.”

  I was only sorry we’d reached this rapport so tardily. “I misjudged you, Roger.” I’d considered him a suspect because of it, too. But even if the producer had bribed the Sproutes Police Department to slow their investigation into Melissa’s death, Roger had met a willing coconspirator in Joe Sullivan. I couldn’t hold Roger entirely responsible for the aftermath.

  Nor could I completely blame myself for mistrusting Roger. I was still trying to strike a balance between suspicion and trust, fear and foolhardiness. I’ve already said I’m not perfect. The fact that I was so willing to add Roger to my suspects list—partly because he was unlikable—was proof of my fallibility. I’d almost missed a chance at the real killer, too, because I hadn’t wanted to own up to my own darker impulses.

  I’d wanted to meet Joe Sullivan to confirm my dislike of Albany—to uncover what I’d thought would be the sordid truth about her “lightly fictionalized” memoir. Because of that, I hadn’t told Danny and Travis what I was up to. I hadn’t asked for their help. I hadn’t wanted them to delve too deeply into my motivations for meeting Joe. Now I was scrambling to make up time at the last minute, caught flat-footed by circumstances.

  The ironic truth was, any one of us could have done an Internet search for Joe Sullivan at any moment and uncovered his role as the chief of police. I hadn’t had to put out “feelers” with Zach Johnson at all. I was still kicking myself for that.

  As I said good-bye to Roger and headed inside to Tansy’s bedside, I started to feel better, though. That was because Travis greeted me in the hospital corridor. He was smiling.

  He had the last piece of the murderous puzzle, too.

  First, he assured me that Tansy was improving rapidly. Then my financial advisor added, “I found the source of the toxin that sickened Tansy. You’ll never believe where it came from.”

  I smiled right back. “I bet I will.” I nodded toward Tansy’s room. “Is Danny still in there? We’ve got a lot to do.”

  “He is.” Travis arched his eyebrow. “You’ve decided to plan your approach this time?”

  “I’ve always planned!” Then I backpedaled. Sometimes things went haywire at the last minute. “But this time, I’m going to plan a little more carefully. I guess you’re rubbing off on me.”

  Twenty-two

  Of course, my plans fell apart almost immediately.

  I didn’t plan on bringing Albany to my big showdown with the Christmastime killer, but nothing I did dislodged her. I tried sprinting to my rental car; Travis’s longtime friend beat me there. To add insult to injury, she did so by thirty seconds.

  “Track and field star in college,” Albany boasted in the car, pointing to herself with both thumbs. “Let’s get going!”

  Her chipperness stood at odds with the job at hand. “This isn’t a party, Albany.” I started the car and backed out, headed for the rendezvous I’d set up earlier with Cashel. “I’m about to have a very serious confrontation, with serious consequences.”

  “No problem! All I want to do is help.” Albany gave me a look that suggested we bond like sisters, starting now. “It’s possible you don’t know what you’re in for. I need to be there.”

  I frowned, still driving. Despite the meeting I’d had with Travis and Danny, I hadn’t thought to ask my keeper how much Albany knew. Surely, she was still in the dark about some things.

  “Maybe we could go out for drinks afterward,” I suggested as I drove through the snowy streets, under holiday banners and past decorated storefronts. “Or Christmas shopping? That would be fun.” I glanced at her, then added, “You probably finished your Christmas gift shopping last August, though, right?”

  She laughed. “Are you kidding me? I’m still not done.”

  Her gaiety set my teeth on edge. I’m not going to lie. I was nervous about meeting Cashel—and even more anxious about confronting Joe Sullivan. I had some proof now, thanks to Travis and his useful connections, but would anyone listen to me?

  “I really appreciate all you’re doing, Hayden.” Albany surprised me by sounding absolutely earnest. “I can see why Travis thinks so highly of you. I understand your
friendship a lot better now.”

  She sighed, then fidgeted in the passenger seat. “I’ll confess,” she confessed, “that I was jealous of you. That’s why I was so exclusionary at first. Sorry about that.”

  I gave her a sidelong look. “Jealous? Of me?” I gripped the steering wheel in my gloved hands, feeling dubious. “But you’re practically perfect, Albany. The whole world thinks so.”

  “Not everyone.” Her face darkened. “That’s why I’m here, too. I want to set that right. And I want us to be friends!”

  All at once, I wanted that, too. “No worries. We are.”

  “Really?” Albany beamed at me. “Travis said you’d say so.”

  My keeper thought he knew me so well. That’s because he does.

  We spent the rest of the drive in silence, each of us lost in thought. I wasn’t sure what Albany was thinking about (her hopes for a Pulitzer, probably), but I was thinking how sorry I was for everything the Sullivan family was about to go through.

  It wouldn’t be easy for them, having a murderer in their midst. I wished I didn’t have to be the one to expose him.

  When we arrived at the Sproutes city park, things were hopping. There were pajama-clad children everywhere, bundled up with coats, hats, and winter boots on top of their pj’s. They ran atop the snowy landscape, some of them having snowball fights.

  “Aww, cute! Cashel and Ophelia and I used to come to this event every year,” Albany told me as we made our way inside the park. “Cashel always wanted to ride Santa’s locomotive first.” She nodded toward the nearby steam train, currently parked on its tracks while ticket-bearing children clamored to board. “Ophelia always wanted to take pictures with Santa first.” She indicated the park’s Victorian-style gazebo, where an official photo station had been set up. “But I always wanted to get hot cocoa first.” Albany gave me a mischievous look. “Do you mind? It’s awful and watery, and the mini marshmallows are always stale, but it’s nostalgia.” She paused. “Do you want one, too?”