Murder at Mistletoe Manor: A Mystery Novella

by Holly Tierney-Bedord

  “You’ll get over Scott. You will. It’ll just take some time.”

  Ariadne shook her head. “Let’s talk about something else. How are you and that new girl you’ve been dating? What’s her name? Lauren?”

  “Laurel.”

  “How long have you two been together now?”

  “Since September.”

  “Two whole months! That must be a record for you.”

  “Now who’s the funny one,” said Jess. He dunked one of Ariadne’s biscotti sticks in his tea and bit it in half.

  “Quit stealing,” she said, hitting his hand. “On second thought, have it. It reminds me of him.”

  “Did you two bake a lot of biscotti together?” asked Jess.

  “No. The name. Biscotti. It’s too close to Scotty. I’m done with it.”

  “Cool. More for me,” said Jess.

  “So, back to Laurel. Have you two moved in together yet?”

  “Her toothbrush is in my bathroom, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “She’s brushes her teeth. That’s good. What’s she like? I can’t believe I haven’t met her yet.”

  “She’s great.”

  “But not great like me, right?”

  “Glad to see you haven’t lost your confidence.”

  “I’m trying hard to keep it at an uncomfortable level. Just for you.”

  “Thanks,” Jess said, laughing.

  Ariadne leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. “In reality,” she said, “I feel like a total loser. I can tell you that, right?”

  “Sure. You can tell me anything.”

  “I know! Usually I abuse that rule.”

  “Hey,” Jess said.

  “Hey what? Uh oh. Why do you look all serious?” asked Ariadne.

  “You can tell me whatever you want to tell me, when you want to. About what happened with you two, I mean. Or, if you don’t want to, that’s okay too.”

  “I know I can tell you. I will soon. Not today, though.”

  “Okay,” said Jess. He finished the biscotti. “I’m doing you a favor. Getting it out of your way,” he explained.

  “Right. Thanks. So, are you bringing her to our Thanksgiving dinner next week?”

  “I might. Will you be there? Or have you decided to boycott every holiday?”

  “I’ll be there. I promised our moms I’d help them with dessert. If I hadn’t already made that promise, I’d be hiding out at home, watching movies, alone.”

  “Well, in that case, I’m glad you made that promise.” Jess glanced at his watch. “Speaking of Laurel, I need to pick her up from play practice.”

  “So soon?”

  “We’ve been talking for two and a half hours!”

  “I suppose I’d better go, too,” said Ariadne. She didn’t move though.

  Jess downed the rest of his tea, stood up, gave Ariadne a quick kiss on the cheek, and zipped up his down parka. “Are you coming?” he asked.

  “I’m just going to finish my coffee. You go ahead.”

  “Okay. See you next week. Your mom’s hosting this year, right?”

  Ariadne nodded. “See you then.”

  She took another sip of her cold coffee and watched Jess stepping out the coffee shop door, going to the corner, and crossing the street. She drew in a deep breath and sighed.

  “Can I take this away from you?” asked a young woman with a tub of dirty dishes. She pointed at Jess’s empty mug on the table.

  “Sure, thanks,” said Ariadne. The woman put the mug in her tub and swiped at the table with a damp cloth. She then replaced a vase of fake flowers and a sandwich menu that Jess had set on a neighboring table. She topped off the table with a glass bear of honey, a basket of sugar packets, and a printout in a tall, plastic holder advertising an upcoming poetry slam,. By the time she walked away, Ariadne felt like she was barricaded behind a wall.

  It’s like I’m not even here, Ariadne wrote on her napkin. She read the words a few times and then added I wish someone cared about me. After she’d spent a couple of minutes feeling appropriately sorry for herself, but not so sad that she started crying in public, she wadded up the napkin and tossed it into a nearby plant. She took her phone out of her purse and trying to entertain herself. Nothing was happening in her virtual world. Why would it be? It was four o’clock in the afternoon on a Monday.

  She glanced around the assortment of tchotchkes on the table to the space Jess had just occupied, imagining for a second that he might have remanifested himself there, but there was nothing but an empty chair. The coffee shop was almost completely empty, and getting bleaker all the time. Ariadne decided the removal of his mug was what had caused this chain of reactions and the only option now was to leave. She stood up and pulled on her coat.

  Back in the spring, buying a gigantic Victorian house had seemed like a great idea. She hadn’t listened to one word of warning from her naysaying friends and family:

  “It’ll cost so much to heat it!”

  “Why do you need a six bedroom house?”

  “It’ll be too much work!”

  “It’s a total fixer-upper! Buy a condo instead!”

  She’d been so proud of herself for finding such a great deal in one of Madison’s most desirable neighborhoods.

  At the time, she and Scott were still together. Before she bought her house, they’d spent the majority of their time together at his apartment since hers was so tiny. His place, filled with bizarre quirks like an accordion door on the bathroom and a tacky chandelier dripping in fake pearls, had been her second home. She’d gotten her mail there. It had been more of a home to her than her own apartment. So when she bought her house, she’d figured soon it could be his house, too. Just as she’d migrated into his larger, more comfortable space, he’d do the same with hers.

  In her imaginings, they’d remodel the kitchen into a chef’s paradise. They’d plant an amazing garden, filled with herbs and berries and every kind of vegetable. Someday they’d fill the house with kids.

  But this wasn’t how it had turned out. Once she’d moved into her house, Scott had stayed as planted in his apartment as ever. She’d taken her time moving her things out, since the time they spent together was almost exclusively on his turf. Despite her telling him that he could spend as much time in her new home as he’d like, this notion had never quite taken.

  Now, without him, her house stood as a giant, drafty, spooky reminder of just how alone she was. With winter setting in, all her extra money was going to heat it, just as everyone had predicted. She was realizing she’d made a big mistake.

  Lately, this was her fortune. One mistake after another. The days of being a success seemed to be all in the past.

  Right Under Your Nose ~ Chapter 2

  Halfway through her short walk home, Ariadne stopped in her tracks, in front of a bookstore that seemed to have sprung up overnight. Right Under Your Nose read the wooden sign hanging in front of the door. She cupped her mittened hands around her face and peeked in the front window. The shelves inside were filled with thousands of books, haphazardly stacked and leaning in precariously tilting piles. It looked like the kind of place that had existed for fifty years. But that was impossible. She’d lived in her house since May, and she’d known this neighborhood for years. She certainly would know this shop if it had been here all along.

  She opened the door, jingling a string of bells hanging from it as she went inside.

  “Greetings,” said the old man sitting behind the front desk.

  “Hi,” said Ariadne. She looked around and took in a deep breath of the magical smell of old books, mingling with the welcoming aroma of cookies and cider.

  “What brings you in today?” asked the man.

  “Well… The cold, for one thing; it looked so warm and inviting in here. I’ve never seen this place before. Are you new?”

  “New?” asked the old man. He chuckled. “No. I’ve been here since 1968.”

  “You have? I live just two blocks from her
e. I’m not sure how I never noticed you before.”

  “I’m tucked back from the street a little. Easy to miss.”

  “I could have sworn this place was a… never mind.”

  “What were you saying?” he asked.

  Ariadne shook her head, feeling flustered. “Was this ever a yoga studio? Have you always been right here, in this exact same location?”

  “Since 1968.”

  “I guess I need to pay more attention,” she said.

  “Help yourself to some hot apple cider,” said the man, “and some pumpkin cookies. My wife Margie’s special recipe. Let me know if you need any help finding anything. I admit, my organizing system might not be the easiest to understand, but I can usually help folks find what they’re searching for.”

  “Thank you,” said Ariadne. There was a little sign taped to the back of the cash register, right above the cookie plate, telling customers to Please Take a Cookie.

  “This place is adorable. I really don’t know how I’ve missed it,” she said to the man.

  “I’m glad you like it. We always tried to make it homey.”

  “It is! It definitely is.”

  “Thank you,” said the man. He smiled, but his eyes looked sad. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, heading toward the back of the shop.

  Ariadne nibbled the cookie, careful to keep crumbs off the books, while she perused the shelves. The cookie practically melted in her mouth. I need to see the recipe for this, she decided with the rare urgency usually reserved for moments when she was dining at a particularly delicious competitor’s restaurant.

  She finished it, dusted off her fingertips, and was about to go back for another when a book called Decorating Your Victorian Home for the Holidays caught her eye. It rested under a crooked Non-Fiction: How-To Section sign, atop a pile of books about caring for houseplants, training puppies, and restoring antique tractors. Momentarily forgetting her plan to skip Christmas, Ariadne picked it up and began flipping through it.

  The pages were thick and glossy. Page after page of inspiration. There were stockings hanging on tall mantels. Tall fir trees adorned in ribbons and softly glittering angels. Evergreen boughs wound their way up grand banisters and sidewalks twinkled with rows of old lanterns set in the snow. Ariadne sighed.

  “Two dollars,” said the old man.

  “Oh! I didn’t realize you were right there.” Ariadne set the book back where she’d found it.

  “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. So, that’s not the book for you? Usually I’m so good at this! Victorian houses aren’t your thing after all?”

  “It’s not that,” said Ariadne. “It’s just… I’m not celebrating Christmas. Not this year, anyway.”

  “Not celebrating Christmas this year? I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Never mind. I really didn’t mean to burden you with my problems.”

  “You’re not burdening me. I admit, I can see where you’re coming from.”

  “You can?”

  The old man nodded. “Ever since Margie passed away, I haven’t felt quite the same about the holidays. I bake her cookies because they make me feel like she’s still close to me… But sometimes… Well… I get it. I get where you’re coming from.” The old man’s eyes filled with tears. He looked down self-consciously.

  “I can see you really do understand. Thanks,” said Ariadne. She hesitated, unsure what to say. She didn’t want to upset the man further, but changing the subject seemed kind of harsh. “You two were together a long time?” she asked.

  The man nodded. “You could say that. Our whole lives. We grew up right next door to each other.”

  “That’s amazing,” Ariadne said.

  “Why don’t you take that book with you,” said the man. “No charge. Just take it. I think you’ll like it.”

  “I’ll pay you,” Ariadne said, opening her purse.

  “No, no. Please, take it.”

  Ariadne smiled. “If you insist, then sure. Thank you.” She tucked it under her arm. “I suppose I’d better get home. Nice place you’ve got here. I’ll stop by again soon.”

  “That would be nice. Would you like a cookie for the road?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” she said.

  The old man wrapped two in a napkin and gave them to her. “You have a good night,” he said.

  “You too,” said Ariadne, feeling cheerier than she had in days.

  If you’d like to read more of Right Under Your Nose: A Christmas Story, click here to purchase it.