Thanksgiving by the Sea

by Kathi Daley

  “Yeah, me too. The gang is going to be together for the entire Thanksgiving weekend, and I’d really like not having this murder investigation hanging over our heads. It seems to me that the brother makes a strong suspect when it comes to Vonda’s killer. If the brother is the killer and not John Thornton, and he found out that Bryson was onto him, then he makes an obvious suspect in Bryson’s death. I don’t suppose you have a photo of the brother.”

  “I don’t, but if you are thinking the brother and the PI who looked at the office across the street are one and the same, I doubt it. I did a video chat with the brother just to get a feel for the guy, and he is about five foot six and two hundred pounds. I remember you said the man who claimed to be opening a PI office was tall and distinguished.”

  “Yes. He was. I guess the brother could have hired someone to kill Bryson. He did make a killing when he sold his sister’s apartment building to the developer.”

  “Hey, Amanda,” Alyson called out. “Shadow is digging at the carpet in the bedroom.”

  I headed in that direction. I wasn’t sure what the cat was pawing at, but it did look as if one corner of the carpet had been pulled loose. I pinched the corner of the carpet and pulled. There was a floor safe underneath the carpet. Newly installed by the look of it. I glanced at Woody. “Can you open it?”

  “Not without the combination. I guess I can call someone at the district office to come and take a look.”

  “Don’t bother. Donovan can do it. I’ll call him and ask him to meet us here.”

  Donovan had been a field agent for the CIA before he transferred to Homeland Security. He eventually ended up in witness protection. I really didn’t know his whole story, but I was pretty sure he could get into a commercially built floor safe. He arrived within twenty minutes of my calling him, and five minutes after that, he had the safe open. There was a document inside the safe that looked to be fairly old. John Thornton had filed the document with the court, asking that a new public defender be assigned to his case. He claimed that not only was Donald Ferguson not doing his best to find the real killer and prove his innocence but that he seemed to be using the information he provided to him against him.

  “Donald Ferguson was this man’s public defender?” Donovan asked. “District Court Judge Donald Ferguson?”

  “Based on the information we have uncovered, yes,” I answered.

  Donovan thumbed through the documents. “It looks as if Thornton provided some pretty persuasive arguments that his case was not being handled properly. Do you know if he was ever assigned a new public defender?”

  “He was not,” Woody verified. “In my opinion, there seems to be sufficient evidence to support the fact that Thornton was arrested after only a very cursory investigation and convicted even though the evidence gathered really didn’t support a conviction. I’m not sure why Bryson Teller decided to dig around in this all these years later, but it does seem like he was onto something.”

  “Do you think Judge Ferguson would have killed Bryson if he was negligent in the manner he handled Thornton’s case all those years ago?” I asked.

  “I would hope that wouldn’t be the case, but he is running for state senate, and he has his eyes on a national platform. If Teller was digging around, even if he couldn’t prove negligence, it could have hurt his campaign.”

  “Ferguson isn’t a tall and distinguished man in his sixties is he?” I asked.

  “No. He is tall, and I guess some people would consider him to be distinguished, but he is in his late forties,” Donovan answered.

  “He still might have hired the man who shot Teller,” Woody said.

  “Or one of his handlers might have hired someone,” Donovan said.

  “Handlers?” I asked.

  “Once you get into the political arena, you tend to collect people who want to control everything about your life.” Donovan looked at Woody. “If you will allow me, I can have someone quietly look into the possibility that Ferguson was involved in Teller’s death.”

  Woody nodded. “Fine by me. If Ferguson is involved, this case might be above my paygrade.”

  “I’ll be in town for a week. I should have a preliminary report back that we can look at in a couple of days. What I need from you is a copy of everything you have relating to both Donald Ferguson and Bryson Teller.”

  “I’ll make copies of everything and bring it by the house later this afternoon.”

  I bent down and picked up Shadow. “Good kitty. I knew there was a reason I needed to bring you.”

  Chapter 19

  Monday, November 26

  “I think this tree will be perfect for the entry,” Mom said, as she stood proudly in front of a twenty-foot giant that looked like it weighed a ton given the closely placed branches. It was the Monday after Thanksgiving, and Mom, Donovan, Mac, Ty, Trevor, and I had all bundled up and come into the woods to cut down several trees for the house. It had been such an awesome weekend. All the people I loved most in the world had been together under the same roof for several days. Well, mostly together. Donovan did go back to the inn where he was staying each evening, but he returned each morning, and after that first night, Trevor had returned home each evening as well. I’d been tempted to join him, but ever cautious Amanda couldn’t quite relax to the point of giving in to my hormones.

  “It looks like Sunny found a pretty great tree for the living room,” Mac added. It was true that Sunny was digging frantically at the roots of a much smaller but equally full tree.

  “I’ll grab the saw,” Trevor said.

  “And I’ll grab the netting,” Ty added.

  The plan was to cut down the tree and then wrap it in netting for the drive home to protect the branches from flopping around in the back of Trevor’s truck.

  I couldn’t help but smile as Mom wrapped her hand around Donovan’s and then drug him off to look for pinecones to use to make the wreaths she’d been talking about for two days. I realized that a relationship between the two of them would work out just fine if they were both inclined to pursue the attraction they seemed to feel for one another. They both lived in New York and liked to travel, and Donovan had mentioned to me that he was looking to cut back his hours as he prepared for his eventual retirement. I’d been devastated when my dad had elected to keep his old life and not to go into witness protection with Mom and me, but now that I looked at the situation with adult eyes, I could see that Mom and Dad were never really suited the way Mom and Donovan seemed to be.

  Donovan was great. In addition to the fact that he was one of the people in the world I could depend upon, he was also handy to have around when what seemed to be a typical local murder investigation turned international. Not only had Donald Ferguson been officially charged with playing a role in Bryson Teller’s murder, but the deeper Donovan’s men dug, the more widespread Ferguson’s dirty dealings appeared to be. I was happy to hand things off to Donovan’s men, and I think Woody was happy to have it off his plate as well. Of course, now that we knew that a hired gun had killed Bryson and Ben Bellingham had shot Trinity, I had to wonder who’d been watching the house since I was pretty sure it wasn’t either of these individuals.

  That was tomorrow’s problem. Ty was going home tomorrow, and while I knew Mac would miss him, she didn’t seem at all inclined to go with him. They talked about the weekend, but I had the sense that, as Trevor had indicated, Mac wasn’t ready to jump into anything too complicated. I was happy Mac had found Ty, but I was also happy that I wasn’t losing my roommate. I was really looking forward to Mac, Trevor, and me being together this Christmas. Mom planned to stay through the new year, but I swear I overheard her and Donovan discussing the holiday dinner in such a way as to make it sound as if he might be coming back. I hoped so. The last thing I wanted to do was get in the middle of whatever was going on between him and my mom, but I really did like having him around.

  “I’m going to get a small tree for my bedroom, and your mom wants one as well. Do you want one?”
Mac asked.

  “I do,” I answered. “There is a perfect place for it in the corner near the fireplace as long as it is fairly narrow.”

  “Maybe we should have brought two trucks,” Trevor said.

  “We can just stack them and tie them down,” I answered.

  “I’m looking forward to decorating them,” Mom smiled in such a way as to bring warmth to my heart. “Of course, that tall one will take some work. I volunteered to help with the Christmas Carnival, so it is a good thing we are getting an early start.” Mom ran her hand over the branches of one of the trees to check for freshness. “By the way, I signed you kids up to help with the carnival as well. I hope that’s okay.”

  “I’m game,” I answered.

  “Me too,” Mac said.

  “And you know I’ll help,” Trevor added, “but I do have a business to run.”

  “I think the schedule can be pretty flexible,” Mom answered. “I thought it would be fun if Tucker was Santa’s reindeer again this year, so I signed you all up for shifts in the Santa House.”

  I groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t sign me up to be an elf.”

  “Of course, I did, dear. You were such a cute elf the last time.”

  “I was sixteen.”

  “You look just the same to me.”

  I glanced at Trevor. He laughed. “I think Amanda will be an adorable elf,” he added.

  “Good because I have you signed up to play Santa on your days off.” Mom clapped her hands together in front of her chest. “I’m just so excited. Things this year are going to be just like they used to be.”

  “Without the murder, kidnapping, and conspiracy,” I added. Even as I said those words, I knew deep down inside that knowing my luck, murder, kidnapping, and conspiracy would be exactly the sort of thing I had to look forward to.

  Up Next from Kathi Daley Books

  https://amzn.to/2lRKSJH

  Preview: The Mystery Before Christmas

  “He moves softly through the night, unseen and unheard, leaving gifts for those in need, while the residents of snowy Foxtail Lake slumber beneath blankets piled high to ward off the chill of a Rocky Mountain winter.” I turned and looked at the cat I’d been reading aloud to. “What do you think? Too flowery?”

  “Meow.”

  “Yeah, maybe I should back off the descriptors a bit. It’s just that I want to grab my readers right from the beginning. Maybe I should just say something like: ‘Secret Santa strikes again,’ and then talk about the latest gifts.” I paused to consider this. “Honestly, most of the gifts have been delivered by means other than late-night drop-offs, but the imagery of Santa lurking around in the middle of the night is a lot more appealing than the imagery created by a wheelchair being delivered by UPS.” I glanced out the window at the falling snow. The little room at the top of the house felt cozy and warm, and it was this feeling I wanted to bring to my readers. I glanced down at my laptop and began to simultaneously type and speak once again. “Not only has the mysterious gift giver, known only as Secret Santa, been busy doling out random acts of kindness to the town’s residents, but he also seems to understand exactly what each gift recipient needs. Billy Prescott received a new wheelchair after his mother backed over his old one; Connie Denton was gifted a down payment on the diner where she’d worked for over twenty years that she hoped to buy from her boss when he decided to move off the mountain; Gilda Frederickson found a gift card for a winter’s worth of snow shoveling services in her purse after word got out that she’d broken her hip; and Donnie Dingman walked out onto his drive to find a used four-wheel-drive vehicle so he could get to his doctor’s appointments even when it snowed. Some are calling this anonymous gift giver an angel come to earth during this holiest of seasons, while others are certain the late-night Samaritan actually is Santa Clause himself.” I looked at the cat. “Better?”

  The cat jumped down off the desk where he’d been sitting and watching me work, and headed toward the attic window, which was cheerily draped with white twinkle lights. Apparently, my honorary editor was done listening to my drivel for the day. I supposed I didn’t blame him. It did seem like I was trying too hard to find the perfect words to describe the phenomenon that had gripped my small town for the past two weeks.

  I got up from the desk and joined the cat on the window seat. It felt magical to sit in the window overlooking the frozen lake as fresh snow covered the winter landscape. Great-aunt Gracie had strung colorful lights on one of the fir trees in the yard, bringing the feel of the season to the frozen landscape. Combined with the white lights draped over every shrub outdoors, and the white lights I’d strung around the window and along the ceiling of the attic, it felt like I was working in a magical fairyland.

  “Maybe instead of a whimsical piece filled with artful words, I should do more of a hard-hitting expose,” I suggested to the cat. “Everyone knows about the mystery person who has been gifting the citizens of Foxtail Lake with the exact gifts they most need, but no one knows who he is. Maybe I, Calliope Rose Collins, should work to unmask the Good Samaritan. I know the people he has helped with his good deeds would welcome the chance to thank him. He really is changing lives. He deserves recognition for that.”

  “Meow.” The cat began to purr loudly as he crawled into my lap. I gently stroked his head as I considered the past two months and the changes I’d seen in my own life.

  Two months ago, I’d come back to Foxtail Lake after a terrible accident had shattered my world. At the time, I was a broken woman simply looking for somewhere to lick my wounds, but in the two months I’d been here, not only had I finally begun to accept my new situation, but I’d made quite a few strides in my effort to reinvent my life as well. While my years as a concert pianist would always hold a special place in my heart, I loved volunteering at the Foxtail Lake Animal Shelter, and I adored my new career as a columnist for the local newspaper, a role I’d earned after I’d helped my childhood friend, Cass Wylander, solve not only a present-day murder but the twenty-year-old murder of my best friend Stella Steinmetz as well. After the case was solved, I wrote about my experience, the local newspaper picked it up, and as they say, the rest is history. The article was so well received that I’d been offered a weekly column to fill with whatever subject matter I chose.

  Unfolding myself from the window, I crossed the room and sat back down at the old desk that I’d shoved into the center of the attic to use as my temporary office. The article on Secret Santa would be the fourth article I’d written for the newspaper. The first article on Stella’s murder had been published in mid-November, followed by an article about the missing dogs from the animal shelter where I volunteered, and then an investigative piece relating to the controversy surrounding the misappropriation of the funds which should have been earmarked to pay for the annual tree lighting. The stories I wrote weren’t the hard-hitting exposes a real investigative reporter might pen, but I had helped Cass find Stella’s killer, I had found the missing dogs and the man who took them, and I had found the cleverly disguised missing money after it was announced the annual tree lighting would be canceled.

  Of course, I’d had Cass to help out with Stella’s murder and the missing dogs. He would probably have been happy to help with the missing funds as well, but that story broke right about the same time Buford Norris turned up dead. Buford was an ornery sort who tended to drink too much, so after his body was found buried beneath the snow, most people just assumed he’d passed out and froze to death. But Cass wasn’t quite as sure as some of the other town folk were that Buford had passed out on his own. Investigating the man’s death as possible foul play wasn’t sitting well with the sheriff or the mayor, but Cass was a conscientious sort who wasn’t going to close a case based on a maybe.

  “Is Paisley coming for a piano lesson today?” Great-aunt Gracie called up the stairs.

  “She is,” I called back down the stairs of the large lakefront home I’d grown up in. “Anna has dance after school, so her mother c
an’t give Paisley a ride home. I was planning to pick her up.”

  “I’m going to run to the market. I can pick her up if you’d like.”

  “That’d be great.”

  Paisley Holloway was our ten-year-old neighbor who was living with her grandmother after her mother passed just before Thanksgiving. Gracie and I were doing what we could to help out since the grandmother had her own health issues to deal with. Most days, Paisley got a ride to and from school with her friend, Anna, but on the days Anna’s mother was unable to provide a ride, Gracie or I picked her up from school. On the days we picked her up, we usually brought her here to the house, helped her with her homework, and generally did what we could to make things easier for everyone involved. It really was a terrible situation. One that no ten-year-old should have to live through. I’d lost my parents when I was young as well, so I knew better than most how important it was to have a safe harbor in the storm.

  “Is Alastair up there with you?” Aunt Gracie called after a few minutes had passed.

  I looked at the longhaired black cat who’d jumped back onto the desk next to me. “He is.”

  “Okay, make sure he doesn’t get out. There is a storm blowing in, and I wouldn’t want him to get trapped out in it.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on him,” I called. I supposed I should have gotten up and headed downstairs when Gracie first called up since it would have cut down on all the yelling back and forth. “Just send Paisley up when you get back. Alastair and I are working on this week’s column.”

  “Okay. If you see Tom, let him know that dinner will be at six tonight.”

  Tom Walden was Gracie’s groundskeeper, although, in reality, he was so much more. He’d lived on the property with Gracie for more than forty years. Tom and Gracie were friends, good friends who shared their lives. Sometimes I wondered if they weren’t something more.