Mistletoe, Merriment, And Murder

by Sara Rosett

  No wonder Cecilia had taken the duck decoy and left the electronics. Reluctantly, I decided that this was big enough news that it warranted a call to law enforcement. Instead of calling Waraday, I dialed the police department and asked for Officer Fawkes. “Oh, hello,” I said, surprised when he answered on the first ring. “I thought I’d get your voice mail.”

  His voice sounded rougher than I remembered from last night as he said, “Long shift. Just going off duty. How can I help you, ma’am?”

  “I think I know why Cecilia took the duck decoy. I found a picture of one almost exactly like it online. It sold at auction for over a million dollars.” I clicked between the two pictures as I spoke, still amazed at the similarity of the two decoys. Abby’s had a few scratches and a couple of nicks, but it looked remarkably like the one that was auctioned.

  There was a long pause, then he cleared his throat. “A million?”

  “Over a million, actually.”

  “Better send me that link,” he said, and gave me his e-mail address. “I’ll forward this to the detective who has been assigned to the case.”

  Before he could hang up, I quickly asked, “Any news about Cecilia?”

  “We are pursuing all leads at this time,” he said, sounding as if he was reading off a press release.

  “Oh. Well. Just wanted to check. With all the strange things that have been going on . . . the robberies and then Jean’s murder. It makes me a little . . . worried.”

  His voice lost its formality as he said, “I can’t go into detail, but let’s just say that it appears you only need to worry about Mrs. Cedrick if you own a priceless duck decoy.”

  That must mean Cecilia’s alibi had checked out. We’d told the police officers about Cecilia’s claim that she was at the bank during the time Jean was killed. “Thank you, Officer Fawkes. That’s good to know,” I said, and hung up. I felt slightly better. Cecilia had apparently confined her illegal activities to theft, but that still left the question of who killed Jean.

  My phone rang and I answered it when I saw it was Abby. “I’ve got five minutes and then I have to be on the playground. What’s this about an auction?”

  “A duck decoy like yours went for over a million dollars in an auction.” I waited a moment. “Abby?”

  “Yes, I’m here. Did you say a million?”

  “Over a million.”

  “I think I need to sit down.” Abby said faintly. “Are you sure?”

  “No. I’m not sure, but the pictures online are extremely similar. Even if what you have isn’t the same thing, Cecilia must think it is.”

  “But how did she know?”

  “I don’t know, but she did grow up on a farm. Maybe her dad or someone in the family was into hunting and she recognized it from that. Or, maybe she knows someone who collects them. Maybe she collects them.” I hadn’t seen any in her house, but you never knew . . . “Duck decoys are a hot item right now.”

  “I think that’s an understatement.” Abby sounded numb. “Do you think that if they find Cecilia and Gavin, I’ll get the decoy back?”

  “I would think so . . . eventually. It is evidence. Who gave it away at the party? Do you remember?”

  “No, I don’t know who brought it. Whoever it was couldn’t have known . . . I should give it back.”

  I smiled. “I think that would fall in the category of generous to a fault. Besides, you have to get it back before you can do anything with it. And I wouldn’t be too quick to hand it over . . . finder’s keepers and all that.”

  “Says the woman who didn’t keep valuable letters from one of America’s most famous literary recluses,” Abby said tartly, referring to an incident that Mitch and I were involved in last summer when we visited his family in Alabama.

  “Point taken,” I said. Obviously, the shock was wearing off. “All I’m saying is that you might not want to be impulsive, if you get it back. Still no sign of Cecilia and Gavin, according to the police—I passed along the info about the decoy to them.”

  “Do you think they’re still here? Cecilia and Gavin, I mean. Hiding out somewhere?” Abby asked.

  “Why would they stay here—especially since they have this valuable collector’s item? Wouldn’t they try to sell it before anyone here realized what it was worth?”

  “I suppose so,” Abby said. “I have to run, but I’ll ask Nadia if she knows who brought it to the party.”

  “Good idea. I won’t tell anyone else about the auction. Probably better to keep quiet on that.”

  “Sounds good. Possible millionaire off to playground duty—that’s a new one.”

  I hung up, still smiling. Abby could take pretty much anything in stride.

  I clicked on the photo of the duck decoy again thoughtfully. Those white elephant gifts Jean took home . . . were they the key to her murder? Absurd to even think along those lines . . . but, then again, who would have thought one of the supposedly worthless gifts would be extremely valuable?

  I found the photos that Gabrielle had e-mailed to me of Jean’s garage. I’d seen several of the white elephant gifts in the garage. I enlarged the photos of the box that had been sitting on the floor. I could see the larger items easily—the sewing machine, the bat house, and the picture in the ugly frame. The smaller objects were a little blurry, but I could still make out the Hot Wheels cars at the bottom of the box. That was everything except—I closed my eyes, searching my memory. Someone else had added an item to the stack that Jean was going to take home—what was it? My eyes popped open. The jigsaw puzzle with a picture of butterflies, the one that was too hard for Nadia’s kids. She’d handed the butterfly puzzle to Jean at the end of the party. Where was it?

  Chapter Nineteen

  “So where do you think the missing puzzle is?” I said to Mitch as I stepped into my heels.

  No answer from the bedroom. “It’s the missing piece,” I said, twisting my arm around to zip up my dress as I prepared for the squadron Christmas party. The hasty move reminded me that I still had a sore arm, which was beginning to show some nasty bruises.

  More silence. I’d searched every photo Gabrielle had taken of the garage and house—and totally reversed my thoughts on her crime scene pictures. A complete set of photographs had been an excellent idea. And I was going to tell her that just as soon as she called me back. Thanks to her exhaustive pictures, I knew that the puzzle was missing. I gave up on the zipper and stepped out of the closet to see Mitch fully dressed in a sport jacket and tie and sitting on the edge of the bed with spreadsheets fanned out around him. Those spreadsheets, some special project from work, were his constant companion lately.

  “Did you get it? The missing puzzle is the missing piece,” I repeated as I walked over and stood beside him. “Pun intended.”

  “Hmm,” he said as he highlighted a row on the paper.

  I pulled my hair to one side and looked over my shoulder at him. “Zip me up?”

  “What? Oh, sure.” He whipped the zipper up, murmured, “You look nice,” and went back to highlighting.

  I turned around and stared. This was not the normal reaction to the help-me-with-my-zipper request, not by a long shot. The zipper thing had made us quite late several times. I picked up a spreadsheet and looked at the columns of numbers. I immediately had his attention.

  “Ah, so this is what I have to do to get you to notice me?”

  He stood up. “Sorry,” he said as he dropped a kiss on my mouth. “Just wrapped up in work.”

  “I can see that,” I said, not missing that he’d deftly removed the paper from my hands. “What is that, anyway?”

  “Special project.” He stacked the pages, then turned back and gathered me into his arms. “When I figure it out—if I figure it out—I’ll tell you about it,” he said, his gaze locked on mine. “Now, you were insinuating I’m not paying enough attention to you?”

  “Yes. You weren’t listening to a word I said.”

  “I am now. How’s that zipper? Need any more help with it
? I should probably check to make sure it’s still working.”

  “My zipper is fine,” I said. “What I need help with is the puzzle.” He looked blank for a minute, then his face cleared. “The jigsaw puzzle.”

  “Yes. I know I saw it somewhere, but I can’t remember where.”

  “You’re sure you’re not remembering it from the party?”

  “No, I’ve thought about it all afternoon and I know it wasn’t here at our house that I’m thinking of. It was somewhere else . . .” I shook my head. “I’ll think of it later. The bigger question is—does it matter?”

  Mitch shrugged. “Hey, it might. I wouldn’t have thought a duck decoy would matter, but it did.”

  The missing puzzle kept nagging at me even after we arrived at the party. The wide wooden floorboards creaked as I moved down the central hall that ran the length of the Peach Blossom Inn from its double front doors to the large French doors that opened onto the wide veranda that encircled the building, which had once been a rather modest plantation home. Now a thriving restaurant and bed-and-breakfast, it was one of my favorite places for a night out. I’d read the paragraph on the back of the menu and learned that the Peach Blossom Inn was built in the Tidewater style of architecture. Narrow, square pillars supported the two-story structure and enclosed the wide verandas on both floors. Instead of ornate moldings, the trim around the doorways, windows, and fireplaces had simple, clean lines. The owner of the B-and-B, Kate Navan, had maintained the traditional elements when she remodeled and only changed the floor plan to add bathrooms and a full kitchen.

  I smiled to myself, thinking that she would contradict me on that statement about not changing much. I’d gotten to know her pretty well shortly after we moved to North Dawkins. The history of the Peach Blossom Inn came up when I was researching the area’s local history. Kate would have pointed out that practically everything—from the walls to the outdated electrical system—had been refurbished. With the restaurant bustling and the squadron Christmas party going on, I’d only caught a glimpse of Kate as she hurried back and forth to the rooms on the left side of the central hallway. These served as the restaurant where her guests dined at linen-covered tables positioned so they had a view of the peach orchards and the massive live oak that shaded the B-and-B.

  The low murmur of conversation interspersed with occasional laughter drifted from the rooms on the right-hand side of the central hall where the pocket doors that had once divided the front parlor from the formal dining room had been pushed open. Tables with centerpieces of mistletoe, holly, and poinsettias were scattered around the room.

  The gift baskets for the Helping Hands fundraiser were set up on long tables in the main hallway. I put bids in for a spa-themed basket (for me), a sports-themed basket (for Mitch), and a science-themed basket (for the kids). The heavenly smell of fresh bread and barbeque sauce permeated the air. I hoped dinner would be served soon because I was starving. I meandered back down the central hallway, threading through the knots of people looking at the baskets and overhearing snippets of their conversation.

  “. . . our fourth party this week!”

  “. . . and the police have no idea where they are. Just drove away and disappeared . . .”

  I wasn’t surprised that Cecilia and Gavin’s disappearance was a topic of conversation, but I didn’t hear the words “duck decoy,” which was a good sign. At least, that detail was still under wraps. I was a bit surprised to see Simon standing with Hannah at the end of the long hallway, but then I realized he must be here in his capacity as a Helping Hands board member. His dark suit seemed to hang loosely on his shoulders as if it were a size too big. The green-and-red-striped tie showed that he’d made an effort to join in the festivities, but his face looked gaunt and more lined than I remembered. While his face seemed slightly drained and his eyes tired, I didn’t see any evidence of the moodiness and emotional swings that Gabrielle had remarked on. He seemed to be handling everything okay right now, nodding at Hannah as she said, “Such a shame that you had to cancel the home construction for the low-income families.”

  I smiled at them both as I moved past them. “It’s a heartbreaker for us,” he replied. “We hated to do it, but the donations this year have dried up . . . that’s one reason I wanted to be here in person tonight. We appreciate—”

  He broke off abruptly to stare at me. “Sorry,” I said as I all but screeched to a halt and practically snatched up one of the baskets that had been shoved behind another larger one. “I missed this basket before,” I said. It was a puzzle-themed basket and the second I saw the jigsaw puzzle of a medieval castle nestled in its corner, I thought of the missing butterfly jigsaw puzzle. Maybe I couldn’t find it because someone had packed it in the basket and donated it to the auction. I twisted the auction basket around and examined it from all sides. There were Sudoku books, crossword puzzle books, a 3-D puzzle of a globe, and a book of brain teasers, but no butterfly jigsaw puzzle.

  Both Hannah and Simon were staring at me with perplexed looks. I repositioned the other baskets to make room for the puzzle basket. As I shoved it back into line with the others, I said, “Sorry to pounce like that. It’s just that I thought it might have a puzzle I was looking for. Remember the butterfly puzzle Nadia won at the white elephant gift exchange?” I asked Hannah, and she nodded. “She gave it to Jean to put in the online auction, but I realized it wasn’t in the garage with the other auction items. I thought it might be in here, but it’s not.”

  Hannah shook her head. “I do remember Nadia gave it to Jean when I gave her the framed painting. Why are you looking for it?”

  I shrugged. I couldn’t tell them about the duck decoy, so I simply said, “It seemed . . . odd. It bothered me that it wasn’t in the garage.” I shifted my attention to Simon, hoping that the topic of his garage and Jean’s auction-item box hadn’t upset him, but he didn’t look distressed. He was discreetly checking the time on his watch.

  “Maybe Jean took it inside the house for some reason,” I said, almost to myself.

  “No, I don’t think she did. I haven’t seen anything like that in the house,” Simon said, his gaze shifting to someone standing behind me. I turned and saw Marie hovering behind my shoulder. “Hi, Marie,” I said, turning toward her. To include her in the conversation, I said, “We were talking about the jigsaw puzzle that Nadia won in the white elephant gift exchange. Do you remember it? The one with the butterflies. Monarch butterflies, I think.”

  Her face flooded with color and she said, “No. No, I don’t.” She looked inordinately relieved a second later when a loud buzz came from her purse. “That might be Cole. Excuse me.”

  She hurried away and I was left wondering why she would blush such a fiery red color at the mention of the puzzle, especially if she didn’t know anything about it.

  Saturday

  I gripped the handrail firmly and moved like an old lady as I climbed the small set of porch steps to Marie’s front door. I felt every one of the bangs and bumps I’d sustained in my tumble down the back deck stairs. My bruises, which had been pale yellow yesterday and fairly easy to camouflage with dark hose and a crimson pashmina shawl at the Christmas party, had turned an ugly mauve shade. I pushed the doorbell and then realized I probably should have taken a quick look at the back deck to make sure Marie hadn’t stashed more bags of stuff out there, but it was too late now.

  Marie’s Christmas-crazy neighbor was outside again, this time hanging garland across the front porch. He spotted me and gave a wave. I raised my hand in return, then glanced up at the pecan tree above me as the wind seeped through its branches. Unlike the last time I was here, when there had been little wind, today the branches were bobbing as the wind buffeted them. The late afternoon sun hung just above the tree line in the west and, with the wind slithering through the branches, it was chilly. It would be dark when I left. I checked my watch and rang the bell again. Maybe Marie had forgotten, which would actually be nice. There was something about the gathering darknes
s of a winter afternoon that made me want to hide away at home. If she didn’t answer the door, I could head home, curl up on the couch, and read a good book or find an old movie to watch until Mitch returned from the mall with the kids. They were on a shopping trip, picking out a Christmas present for me. The daylight seeped away as the shadows lengthened and a dimness coated the yard. I dug my chin into the collar of my turtleneck and glanced over my shoulder. I again had the funny feeling that someone was watching me. Except for the neighbor and a jogger with a Yorkie on a leash, the neighborhood was quiet.

  Maybe Marie hadn’t forgotten. Maybe she was avoiding me. She’d certainly steered clear of me at the party after I’d asked her about the puzzle. Of course, dinner had been served shortly after our conversation and she’d been seated at a table on the other side of the room from us, so we didn’t have a chance to talk then. After all the toasts were made and the baskets were presented to the winners, I’d headed across the room toward her. Abby had stopped me to show off the basket she’d won and by the time I’d turned around, Marie had slipped out.

  My phone buzzed and I saw it was Gabrielle.

  “I found it,” she said when I answered.

  I leaned sideways, trying to catch a glimmer of movement through one of Marie’s windows as I said, “Found what?”

  “Jean’s will,” Gabrielle said, excitement lacing her voice. “She did make a new one, with one of those online services. It was in her papers, the ones that Simon put out to be recycled.”

  “What happens with the house?” I asked.

  “She left it to me, free and clear.”

  I paused, then said uncertainly, “That’s great.”

  “What? Don’t you see? It means she trusted me . . . in the end she knew she could count on me to make a good decision.”

  “Ah—that’s good,” I said, glad that Gabrielle felt better about her relationship with her sister, but it did bring up a few new issues.