by Darci Hannah
“You’ve come about this morning. I’m sorry I had to leave so abruptly, but I knew you would find my note.” She peered at me over her round glasses.
“I did, and I was concerned. By the way, your cookies look divine.” Unable to resist, I plucked a Swedish sandwich cookie from the tray. It looked like a linzer but with a dusting of crystal sugar instead of powdered sugar. I took a bite, savoring the hint of ground almonds and the tang of currant jelly.
“I usually don’t abandon my duty,” she apologized. “But my friend quite suddenly decided to spend Christmas with her son and his family after all. I was hoping she would. Anyhow, once she made up her mind she asked if I could drive her to the airport this morning. How could I refuse a friend?”
“Very kind of you.” Rory had been watching her closely. He gave a small nod before asking after her friend’s name. Good move, I thought, and relayed my silent approval.
“She’s letting me use her car,” Mrs. Nichols added, pouring her own cup of tea. She sat down and joined us.
“The soul of generosity,” Kennedy agreed. “And does your friend have a name?”
“Yes. Forgive me, Mabel Bennett. Her friends call her Bell.” She paused to take a sip of her tea. “It’s really quite sad when families are torn apart by silly, senseless squabbles. I told her to swallow her pride and visit her grandchildren. It’s worth it in the end. Spoiling children at Christmastime is one of the great pleasures in life.”
Rory, with a thoughtful look on his face, said, “I imagine so.”
The sincerity in his voice sent my heart tripping away like the wings of a hummingbird. What was wrong with me?
“Someday you’ll have children of your own, dear, and you will know what I mean.” She spoke as if it was a certainty, before casting him a wink. Reflexively, or perhaps by design, his eyes shot to mine. The intensity behind them made my heart beat even faster, which I didn’t think was possible. Kennedy, noting my dumb stare, rolled her eyes at me.
“Mrs. Nichols,” she began, not caring a hoot about children and only mildly about Christmas, “I don’t mean to be a bore, but we have it on good authority that you were seen with Chevy Chambers before he was murdered. Could this be true?”
Mrs. Nichols pursed her thin lips as she gave my friend an owlish stare. “It is.”
Her frank admission sent my extremities tingling unpleasantly—as if I were standing on the edge of a cliff looking down. “You . . . followed Chevy Chambers to the library at the other end of the hotel?” My worst fears were coming true. Alarm bells sounded off in my head. They grew even louder with her next reply.
“Yes.”
We’d been expecting a bit more of an explanation than that. Tuck’s eyes narrowed in speculation as he leaned on his elbows. Obviously deciding to match her word for word he asked, “Why?”
“Because everyone else was.”
He shook his neatly trimmed blond head—as if to dispel a tangle of pernicious cobwebs. “Mrs. Nichols, when you gave me your statement on Sunday, you never mentioned that you had a conversation with the deceased.”
“I didn’t think it was relevant.”
“Not relevant!?” Tuck blurted. Kennedy slapped a hand on his shoulder, reminding him to use his indoor voice.
“Excuse me, but can you back up a moment?” Although Tuck had a legitimate complaint—and really, who thought the woman would omit such important information? —I was still stuck on that one kernel of information she’d dropped. Rory, obviously stuck on it, too, urged me on with his eyes. “You just said that everyone else was meeting with Chevy. I want to know, who else met with him during the bake-off?”
The round blue eyes behind the glasses homed in on me. “Chevy Chambers was a very naughty man.” Her words were a little cryptic, I thought. Not quite what I was expecting. She then leaned forward, as if telling us a great secret. “He wrote mean-spirited reviews for perfectly good restaurants. He took pleasure in destroying the reputations of talented bakers and chefs. He had no right to judge your cookies.”
Aha! I thought. This is about revenge. And who could blame her for hating the nasty food critic? I then reminded myself that she was my assistant baker. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing her too. I swallowed hard and tried to make sense of what she was telling us. “So, you met with him in that private sitting room to give him a piece of your mind. We know about that. Stanley Stewart told us that he saw you coming to meet with Chevy.”
“I’m sure he did. But don’t believe everything Felicity’s husband tells you. Chevy was taking bribes. He liked playing with people. A very naughty man.”
“I have to agree,” Rory told her. “Mrs. Nichols, you seem to indicate a familiarity with Mr. Chambers. Did you write him a letter asking him to meet with you?”
“No.” She stood firm on her response.
He then asked, “How did you know where to meet him?”
She cast Rory a sly grin, then picked her teacup up by the handle with her pinkie finger extended, like Kennedy had a habit of doing. She took a languid sip before setting it back down on the saucer. “Felicity’s angry husband,” she said. “He was fit to be tied. I watched him slip away and decided to follow him . . . at a prudent distance, of course.”
Tuck McAllister was sitting at the table sipping tea and taking it all in. However, the fact that Mrs. Nichols had followed Stanley Stewart—one of the prime suspects—made him slam his cup down with force. The poor man was having a bad day. “You followed Stanley Stewart to the library?” His face turned red with frustration. Mrs. Nichols politely nodded. “Well, did you hear their conversation, at least?”
“Oh no. It’s not polite to eavesdrop, dear. Stanley was angry. I couldn’t hear Chevy’s voice at all. I waited until I thought they were done.”
“So, Stanley Stewart didn’t kill him?” It was a revelation for Tuck. I was certain he’d tell the sergeant this little tidbit of information.
“Not at that point,” our hostess said. “They both saw me coming. Chevy wasn’t pleased.”
I’m sure he wasn’t, I thought. In fact, if Stanley was to be believed (and I was beginning to believe the poor fella), Chevy Chambers had appeared frightened at the sight of the older woman. It sounded laughable, until one thought that maybe there was a history there. Whatever Stanley’s original motive might have been, the appearance of Mrs. Nichols had chased him away. But her story did coincide with what he had told us. I looked into her round, guileless face and asked, “Why did you confront him?”
“I was recalling him to his duty.” Her answer was as straightforward as her expression.
“And how did he take that?” Tuck asked.
“Not well. Like most black-hearted people, he didn’t like being revealed.”
My hand flew over my mouth. I lifted it slightly to ask, “Did he threaten you?”
“Oh no,” she assured me with motherly comfort, which, truth be told, wasn’t very comforting at all.
By confronting the food critic in the very room where Rory and I had discovered his dead body, Mrs. Nichols had put herself in a precarious position. And as far as we knew, she was the last person to have seen him alive. What I still couldn’t understand was why she had met him there in the first place. She said she was “reminding him of his duty.” What on earth did that mean? Either she was as innocent as she appeared and just wanted a word with him, or she was an utterly diabolical murderess. This last thought was not sitting too well with me. I could feel a raging case of anxiety coming on.
But the hard question had to be asked. Looking around the table at my partners-in-crime-solving, I got the distinct feeling it was up to me. Since there was no liquor to provide a much-needed dose of Dutch courage, I went with the next best thing. I shoved a whole seven-layer bar in my mouth, chewed it for all I was worth, and washed it down with an unladylike gulp of tea. Then, propelled by a string of poor choices, I blurted, “Did you murder Chevy Chambers?”
The thought, apparently, had been the fur
thest thing from her mind. Her sage, crinkled eyes shot so wide that all the wrinkles vanished. “My goodness, no.”
“No?”
“No?”
“No?” We all said it, looking at one another for confirmation. Yep, we had heard her correctly.
Rory, staring at the older woman, nervously raked a hand through his wavy hair. “Then what on earth were you doing in that remote wing of the hotel with him? And please, for God’s sake, do not tell us that you were trying to bribe him with carnal favors like the others.”
If Mrs. Nichols was offended, she didn’t show it. Instead she let out a little melodious giggle, one that had the cadence of jingling bells. “Oh, Mr. Campbell! I’m a married woman. I told you that I was reminding him of his duty. Chevy was supposed to judge cookies honestly and fairly. That’s why I gave him one of Lindsey’s cookies.”
“What?” It was my turn to choke on my tongue. “Dear heavens, why?”
She looked at me with all the concern of a beloved grandmother. “Because you, Lindsey, bake with joy in your heart, and it shows. Your frosted southern pecan cookie was inspired, truly it was. Chevy knew it too. I made him taste it again. I made him admit it to me. You deserved to win, but I knew you never would. One of the bakers had gotten to him.”
This made Rory angry. Kennedy, also miffed, flipped her long black hair with force to her other shoulder as her face darkened. Tuck, maintaining his composure, merely looked confused. “The bake-off was fixed?”
A deprecatory huff escaped my lips. “It was hardly a secret that Chevy was a player. He even tried to get me to take the bait.” Noting that Rory was not amused by this, I felt compelled to add, “But, you know, I can’t be bought.”
“I must apologize to all of you for not speaking of this earlier,” Mrs. Nichols said. “Chevy was a naughty man and not worth your time. But I will tell you something that just occurred to me. As I left the library, heading for the ladies’ room, I did spy one of the cookie-nappers marching down the hallway. She didn’t see me.”
“Was she meeting Chevy?” Tuck asked.
“I couldn’t say. I was in a hurry.”
“Could they have been working for him?” Kennedy offered.
Tuck shrugged. “They could have been, but we really don’t know anything about them other than they are somehow involved in this case. Without names, photos, or proper identification, we might never find them.”
The thought was unsettling. We were just about to leave when Rory asked Mrs. Nichols a seemingly random question. “Do you know a man named Patrick Wagner?” It was the name of the man who had owned the bakery in the Upper Peninsula.
Mrs. Nichols shook her head.
“Did you ever own a bakery in the U.P.?”
This, apparently, made her chuckle. “Oh no!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been a home baker since the dawn of time.”
CHAPTER 31
“Now what?” I looked at Kennedy, expecting her to have something witty to say about our meandering murder investigation.
She looked up from her phone and shrugged like a distracted teen. “Don’t think our Mrs. N is a murderess, but I do think she’s hiding something.”
After leaving the Candy Cane Cottage, we decided to head out to Hoot’s Diner to discuss our visit with Mrs. Nichols. Hoot’s was one of my favorite places to eat, mostly because breakfast was served all day. It was a family-friendly restaurant with a huge menu, reasonably priced meals, bottomless coffee, and a slightly kitschy Up North theme—made even kitschier in December with the trappings of Christmas. It was also a few miles out of town and close to the interstate, giving it the feel of being a little more private, which really wasn’t the case. It was a favorite of the locals and the area’s summer residents.
Kennedy, slouching in the green leather booth, was checking her Twitter feed. She was sandwiched between Tuck and a pile of our hastily discarded winter coats. I marveled at how, even in the bitter cold, her long black hair remained silky smooth. My ash-blond hair became the texture of straw in the cold, making a long ponytail my seasonal choice.
Tuck was drumming his fingers on the menu. “Did you catch the name of her friend? Bell Bennett. Sounds made up to me.”
Rory lowered his menu enough to peer over the top of it. “Right. Because you know everyone who lives in Beacon Harbor.”
Tuck blushed. “I’ll run it tomorrow. Anyhow, I’m still mad she didn’t mention the fact that she spoke with Chambers when I was taking her statement. She also omitted following Stanley Stewart and handing the victim one of your cookies, Lindsey. At the time, she had seemed so honest and believable.”
“She didn’t lie,” I pointed out, which was technically true. But even as I said this, I knew it sounded a little fishy.
Tuck shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, now we know why your cookie crumbs were found on the victim. We have Mrs. Nichols to thank for that.”
Kennedy looked up and set down her phone. “Do you believe her? I mean, she corroborated Stanley Stewart’s story. She just told us that Stanley left when she arrived, which places her alone with Chevy Chambers in that room.”
“Not necessarily,” I chimed in, thinking. “What if Stanley meant to kill Chevy but realized that he wasn’t alone? He could have waited in one of the hallways, then doubled back once she had left. Remember, Stanley was very angry with him. He had motive—Chevy was having an affair with his wife. He had means—confronting Chevy in a private room. And his wife owned the rolling pin slash murder weapon. We know that Mrs. Nichols had means, being in that same remote room. But what motive did she have to want Chevy dead?”
Rory set down his menu and turned his attention to me. “You want to believe Stanley is the murderer for Mrs. Nichols’s sake. We all want to believe it, but we must stick with the facts. Unfortunately, Stanley Stewart can vouch for the fact that your assistant baker was the last person seen with Chevy.”
“But she wasn’t,” I countered. “Mrs. Nichols told us that one of the cookie-nappers was on the way to meet with him when she left.”
Tuck threw his hands in the air. “That’s hearsay. Now we’re back to the mysterious cookie-nappers again! May I point out that Mrs. Nichols is the only one who saw this person? They targeted your bakeshop, Lindsey, yet she’s the only witness. Then she sends you two”—he wiggled an accusing finger between Kennedy and Rory—“chasing after them. We don’t have names; we have vague descriptions.”
I raised a cautious finger. “I chased after one, as well, and got locked in a storage closet. Hey, wait.” A jumble of thoughts collided in my head all at the same time. I was sorry to think that I was struggling to make sense of them. So many people had issues with the food critic that it was hard trying to keep all the facts straight. But one thought kept popping to the surface. Why was I locked in a storage closet by a woman I had never met? Since Tuck was a professional, I addressed my question to him.
“The first two cookie-nappers were seen talking to Chevy. If I remember correctly, the man returned to the bake-off stage looking flustered. Cookie-napper number three shows up and I chase after her, but I never saw where she went.” I glanced at Rory. “How long was I locked in that closet?”
“At least fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty before Chad and I got there.”
“Right, and immediately after being let out, we decided not to go back to the ballroom. Do you remember why?”
Although his dark brows were pinched with troubling thoughts, a smile played on his lips. “A small romantic gesture.” He placed his warm hand over mine before addressing the two people sitting across from us. “There was a ball of mistletoe hanging in the room Chevy had been murdered in. I saw it earlier when chasing after one of the cookie-nappers.”
“Chevy had a note in his hand, remember?”
Tuck perked up. “Of course. Definitely written by a woman, in my opinion. It said, Meet me under the mistletoe. Was that the only room in the hotel with mistletoe?” His questioning eyes flicked back and forth between Rory and m
e.
“As far as I know.”
“At least one of the cookie-nappers would have known about the mistletoe as well. My bet is that all three of them did. I think the woman I was chasing locked me in that closet to buy more time. With me out of the way and everyone else occupied by the festival and the bake-off, she had plenty of time to do the deed.”
Tuck didn’t like this at all. With his elbows resting on the table, he dropped his adorable head onto his awaiting hands. “Great. An unknown woman murders Chambers for an unknown reason with an unknown blunt object suspected to be a rolling pin. I say ‘suspected’ because Felicity’s antique rolling pin mysteriously vanished around the time of the murder. This day just keeps getting better.”
Indeed, I thought. For at that very moment my parents came strolling through the door of Hoot’s Diner, and with them, Betty Vanhoosen.
CHAPTER 32
“I’ll have what he’s having,” Mom teased, scooching on the bench next to the deflated Officer Tuck. Betty sat next to Rory, and Dad pulled up a chair.
“We were just discussing Christmas,” Kennedy blithely lied. “Tucker forgot to get a gift for his mother. And here, I thought devoted sons were supposed to be thoughtful.”
Tucker, as she called him, picked up his head and cast her a pained look.
“I wouldn’t know,” Mom replied equally as blithely. “I have a daughter. She’s not only thoughtful, but so very honest. She can’t keep a secret from me. Isn’t that right, Linds?”
“If you’re referring to Hoot’s Diner—the best-kept secret in town—then guilty as charged. You found me out, Mom.”
