"Of course I'll share!" I said. "It's the Christmas season, after all."
"I brought some Christmas bread," Quinn offered. "And a little bit more news."
"Oh?"
"Remember that buried treasure story?"
"Of course I do," I said. "There was someone out in my peach orchard just last night."
"Who?" Quinn asked.
"I don't know," I said. "But they were digging around my trees."
"Well," Peter said, "it turns out the rumor came from a mom who didn't know what to do with her kids during winter break. She made up the story, gave her kids metal detectors, and set them loose in the pasture. Of course, they talked to their friends, who talked to their friends..."
"And before long, the entire town was out digging up the creek," Quinn said.
Tobias laughed. "That's all it was?"
"Yes," Quinn said, "but a few people have turned up interesting finds."
"Like what?" I asked.
"Farm implements. Old plows. And a few old coins from the Confederate era, which, of course, just got everybody going again."
"Tobias and I found some kind of metal star down in the orchard," I said. "I haven't figured it out yet, though."
"Can I see it?" Peter asked.
"Sure!" I said. "Come on into the kitchen and have something to drink, and I'll show it to you."
As Tobias served up cider, whiskey, and beer, I grabbed the metal star off the windowsill and handed it to Peter. He turned it over in his hands and looked at me. "This is a World War II medal," he said.
"Really?" I asked as Tobias handed me a glass of cider.
"Really," he said. "The ribbon's gone, but this is definitely a silver star. And if you look closely—" he turned it over so the back faced up—"you can see there was some engraving."
I peered at it closely. "I didn't see that initially, but you're right. I can't make out much of the first name, but the second name looks like a G... and maybe an o after it?"
"Who do we know by that name?" I asked.
"I know whose this is," Quinn said.
"Whose?" we all asked.
"Alfred Goetz," she said. "He'd grown up speaking German, so he went behind enemy lines as a spy during the Second World War."
"I've heard about him," Peter said. "Wasn't he shot at by the Americans because he had on a German uniform, and then the Germans when he was escaping?"
"That's it," Quinn said. "He passed about ten years ago. He lived up the road; their house was right on the creek, and about fifteen years ago, a flash flood ripped through their house. This must have been carried downstream over time."
"I can't believe we found it!" I said.
"This will make a nice Christmas present for his family," Quinn said. "He's gone, but at least they'll have this to remember him by."
"So there was buried treasure out by the creek," I said. "Just a different kind than everyone expected."
"Life is always full of surprises, isn't it? And speaking of treasure, how about you crack open that Christmas bread, Quinn?" Peter asked.
"Sounds like a plan," Quinn said. I took a sip of cider and turned on Christmas Sing with Frank and Bing. As Quinn sliced her delicious Christmas bread, Peter unwrapped some of the cheeses and homemade crackers he'd brought, and Tobias started a fire in the fireplace. Soon we were all snuggled in around the cozy fire, eating farmstead cheese and homemade bread and laughing as Chuck and Pip played tug with an old length of rope. My little Christmas tree twinkled in the corner by the window, and I remembered the holidays of my childhood, with my grandmother baking wonderful things in the kitchen while I stared at the gifts under the tree and tried to guess what was in them.
I thought about the Lemmons' house next door, and the sadness—and loneliness—I knew was in those vast, expensively decorated rooms. There might not be a ton of presents on my red-felt tree skirt, and my furniture might consist primarily of slipcovered couches and last-day deals from the Antiques Fair at Round Top, but as I leaned into Tobias on the couch, Chuck wrestling with his best friend at my feet and two of my favorite people filling my space with laughter and good conversation, I reflected that I had been given the best gifts of all: friendship, community, and most of all, love.
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The Dewberry Farm Mysteries
Killer Jam
Fatal Frost
Deadly Brew
Mistletoe Murder
Dyeing Season
Wicked Harvest
Cookbook: Lucy’s Farmhouse Kitchen: A Collection of Recipes from the Dewberry Farm Mysteries
The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries
Murder on the Rocks
Dead and Berried
Murder Most Maine
Berried to the Hilt
Brush With Death
Death Runs Adrift
Whale of a Crime
Claws for Alarm
Scone Cold Dead
Cookbook: The Gray Whale Inn Kitchen
Blueberry Blues (A Gray Whale Inn Short Story)
Pumpkin Pied (A Gray Whale Inn Short Story)
Iced Inn (A Gray Whale Inn Short Story)
The Margie Peterson Mysteries
Mother’s Day Out
Mother Knows Best
Mother’s Little Helper
Tales of an Urban Werewolf
Howling at the Moon
On the Prowl
Leader of the Pack
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About Karen MacInerney
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Baker Street Christmas
Copyright © 2019 by CeeCee James
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For my Family, my favorite Christmas gifts ever. <3
Blurb
Christmas at Baker Street
In this Baker Street spin-off, Oscar and Cecelia find themselves and the guests snowed in this Christmas holiday. What should be all sugar cookies and hot cocoa takes a drastic turn when one of the guests turns up cold—as in stone cold dead. With no help in sight, the two hope to find the killer before anyone else gets iced out, including them.
Included is Cecelia’s special Christmas morning recipe!
1
The clouds in the sky lay across the horizon like a gray flannel blanket, threatening an impending snow storm. It was not good news to the retired FBI agent who rubbed his arthritic hands together in an attempt to warm them. He blew a plume of mist from his mouth and s
tuck his hands under his armpits.
“Bear!” he yelled, his face getting lost in another misty cloud. “Bear, get over here!”
The man’s name was Oscar. Right about now he was feeling sorry for himself and in a big way. It was too dang cold to be standing out here waiting for that confound-dog, who was laughing at him from behind the crab-apple tree, tongue dangling out. He sighed and tried snapping his fingers. The sound produced was like two pieces of sandpaper being rubbed together. It did no good enticing the animal to come back.
How had he ended in this predicament? Oscar had only just arrived home from spending far too much money at the grocery store, when, upon opening his front door, the dog ran out.
The beast in question was a defiant, puffy Pomeranian who now dashed toward the bushes in a yellow blur. Mushy piles of leaves and mud, wet from an earlier cold rain, splashed on her underbelly.
“Confound it, Bear! Will you get over here!” He tried again. “I have a treat!” He threw out the last word with as much wheedling as his vocal cords that sounded like a chainsaw could attain.
She sniffed around a pile of rotten crab apples, completely ignoring him. Oscar considered his options. His late wife had named her Peanut, and he’d always detested it. The animal seemed in on the joke and never responded to her new name, try as he might. A bell happily jingled from her jaunty red collar, annoying the grizzled man even more. He definitely didn’t recall placing that around her neck.
“What have you got on you? Has someone gussied you up?” His eyebrows lowered as he scowled.
Behind him, the sounds of soft footsteps came down the hall. “What are you grumbling about, Oscar?” A woman appearing close to his age poked her head, white hair piled high in a bun, out the front door. Her name was Cecelia, and she ran the bed-and-breakfast next door. She calmly wiped her hand on a dish towel, her mouth hinting at a smile. “I see you’re back, already. Did you get my ginger?”
“What have you done to Bear?” he asked, pointing indignantly to the prancing animal who now had a pinecone in her mouth. A leaf clung to the dog’s backside.
“It’s Christmas time. Everything gets a little magical touch.” Cecelia rubbed her fingers together, pantomiming sprinkling pixie dust. “Even you, Mr. Grumpsters.”
Oscar’s eyes opened wide behind his thick glasses. “What the? I’m not—” he sputtered.
“You are. You are. You are,” interrupted Cecelia in sing-song. “Grumpy as the day is long.”
Oscar harrumphed loudly, a gift he’d perfected through much practice in his eighty some odd years.
“Oh, come on, smile. Everyone loves a happy face.” Cecelia tapped the dimples in her pink cheeks, miming what she was encouraging him to do.
His eyebrows lowered even further.
She danced the last few steps over to him and tucked her soft fingertips into the corners of his lips. Ever so slightly she pushed up. As soon as she released, his mouth dropped again. She frowned. “Those muscles haven’t been used much. Got some atrophy going on there. Give it a try. You can do it.”
He blinked, more stoic than ever.
“Oh, pooh.” She stepped back, waving a hand at him, and then glanced up into the sky. “Is that a snowflake? Look, Oscar! It’s snowing. Right on time for Christmas!”
He adamantly shook his head. “We aren’t going to have any snow this year, I tell you.”
“Really? Let’s make a bet. How about if it snows you make dinner? If not, I will. I choose lasagna. Come on, Peanut!” she called to the little dog.
The dog immediately dropped the pinecone and pranced along the path and up the stairs. She ran two tight circles around Cecelia and then scampered into Oscar’s house.
Oscar’s lip quivered with indignation. He rubbed his arms and tried to hide a shiver.
“Come on, let’s get these groceries unpacked and then help me get the decorations on the tree.” Cecelia tucked her arm into his and helped him gather the few bags he’d dropped in the entry way.
They carried them into the kitchen. Cecelia immediately dug into them, smiling as she pulled out her ginger.
Oscar attempted to pull the leaf off the dog cavorting his feet. “Bear! Stand still, will you? What do you have? Ants in your pants?” He plucked the leaf off and continued in the same grumpy tone, “What were you saying about a tree, Cecelia? What tree? I haven’t had one of those since the year of the freezing rain.”
“Frank brought it over while you were out,” she answered, tucking the groceries away. Frank was her grandson, a retired military vet and a current police officer with the Gainesville police force. After shutting the last cupboard, she headed to the living room without waiting to see if Oscar would follow.
Grumbling, Oscar sank into a chair to untie his shoes. It hurt his hands, but he soon had them off. Then he trailed behind her down the hallway, his nostrils widening at the scent of her lingering rosewater perfume hanging in the air. A ghost of a smile flitted across his lips, although he’d never let her catch him doing that.
“Look. Isn’t it lovely?” Cecelia exclaimed at the sight of him. She waved a hand at the giant tree that sat in the corner.
Oscar’s mouth dropped. As far as trees go, it was a rather prestigious display. Fluffy boughed and spilling the aroma of snappy fresh pine, it stood rather proudly in the corner.
But a tree! In his own house! He pushed his glasses farther up his nose as he stared in horror. And was it… flocked white? It was!
Oscar sank down into his easy chair which squeaked and squished to accommodate him. He dug his toes into the worn flannels slippers he’d had tucked under the coffee table. Bear jumped up and snuggled into his lap. Not that he’d say she was snuggling—more like hogging all the space. He dropped his hand to scratch her soft ears, and she gave his hand a little licky-kiss.
Her warmth calmed him, and he finally found the words to make an indignant objection. “What is the meaning of this? You can’t just put up a tree in someone’s home! They’re dirty and lose needles and have spiders.”
“Oh, poo! Are you afraid of a little spider?” Cecelia lifted Bear off his lap and held out a hand to help him up. “Come on! Time to make new memories.”
He stared at the tree grudgingly but slowly stood. She kissed his cheek, and he smiled. Then she handed him a box of ornaments.
Oscar glanced at the menagerie of ornaments in his hands, everything from gingerbread houses, ice-cream cones, and rocking horses. “How are ice-cream cones about Christmas?”
She was already at the tree placing candy canes.
Before she could answer, a fierce knocking rattled the front door. Bear exploded into barking and raced down the hall with a furry kick and a puff of fur. Oscar stomped after her. He reached the door with Bear running in circles around his feet.
“Watch it, ya billy-pup. You’re going to trip me.”
The dog ignored him. She continued to jump, with every third leap bringing her eye level to a skinny window in the wall next to the door.
Oscar wrenched the door open.
On the other side was a short man weakly grasping the door frame. He wore jeans and a thin jacket despite the cold temperature. His feet sported gray sneakers. As Oscar watched, the man slowly slumped to his knees. The stranger glanced up. “Water…” he gasped before collapsing onto the welcome mat.
2
A patter of feet came down the hallway and a breathless Cecelia popped into the doorway behind him.
“Oscar,” she puffed. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“Stand back,” he warned. Knees creaking, he lowered himself down to nudge the man on the shoulder. “Buddy, what’s going on with you? You okay?”
“Oscar?” Cecelia’s voice wavered. “Oh, my stars! What’s going on? Is he hurt?”
Feeling his joints screaming, Oscar leaned in deeper to feel the man’s neck. Seconds ticked by. Sighing, he slowly stood and glanced at Cecelia. “Call 911.”
She peered down at the figure. “Lord ha
ve mercy. Oscar! I know who that is! He’s a guest at my bed-and-breakfast!”
“You know him?”
Her voice wavered. “Yes, yes. I know him. That there is Mike McElroy. Both he and his father have been with me for two days now. They were supposed to leave tomorrow.”
Oscar shook his head. “Well, he’s not going home now. Or, you might say he’s already arrived.”
“He’s dead?”
“Deader than a doornail.”
Cecelia stuffed her knuckle into her mouth. “Oh, my word. The poor man! What am I going to tell his father?”
“Let’s get the phone. This a job for the police to handle.”
The ancient clock on the wall ticked, its glass face cracked from when one of Oscar’s teenaged sons had hit it by accident with a tennis racket. He thought about his sons now—over twenty years had passed since he’d last seen them. What were they doing? Would they ever forgive him?
Guiltily, he glanced across the kitchen table at Cecilia. “How you doing?”
“I feel like I can’t breathe until the emergency personnel get here. I swear it’s like some shade of claustrophobia.”
Oscar nodded. “It’s pretty odd. We’re staring at each other like two store mannequins.”
“This is all so sad. Those two weren’t getting along at all from the time they arrived at my place. Even something as simple as beverages caused problems. At breakfast Steve asked his son if he wanted some coffee, and Mike answered that he hated coffee and only drank energy drinks and to leave him alone.” She shook her head. “Those drinks are such a nasty habit. I bet they contribute to his bad attitude."
Cecelia flushed with self-reproach, realizing that the man she said had a bad attitude was lying on the front stoop. The conversation between them petered out after that.
Six Merry Little Murders Page 13
