Have Yourself a Beary Little Murder

by Meg Macy

  With a sigh, I trudged toward Fresh Grounds again. A muffin and a cookie might help. The dress I planned to wear to Uncle Ross and Aunt Eve’s second wedding was tighter than a sausage casing, however. The willowy image of Cheryl Cummings came into mind as well. Maybe I’d better skip a sweet treat. This time.

  I quickly searched for Dad. He wasn’t anywhere to be found near Christmas Alley with its vendor tents. Where had he gotten to now? I peeked into the busy Fresh Grounds, but he wasn’t talking to Gil Thompson. A friendly Labrador wagged his tail at me. I scratched behind his ears, amazed that the dog would wait for his owner, his leash lying on the ground, without running off. Rosie would be halfway to the Village Green, if not the park. Inside, Garrett and Mary Kate worked behind the counter, frantically pulling shots and filling orders. I waited in line, less patient than the other customers, until Garrett took my order.

  “Hey, Sasha. The usual?”

  “No, I’ll take hot tea. Herbal, orange spice. No muffin.”

  “I’m shocked. Shocked!”

  I laughed along with his playful outburst and waggled my eyebrows. “Me too. Especially since those scones are calling my name. La, la, la, can’t hear them!”

  “Don’t tell me you’re on a diet, Sasha,” Mary Kate called out.

  “No, but I had two of your muffins this morning. I really have to fit into the dress I’m wearing to my uncle’s wedding. See you later.”

  I paid up and headed outside, then crossed the street to the church in hopes of finding Sherry Martinez or the pastor’s wife. Maddie and I had volunteered to help at the Christmas Bear-zaar on Saturday, held in the church’s attached Fellowship Hall. Vendors would be selling handcrafted items like candy, soap, floral centerpieces, jewelry, quilts, clothing, and other gifts suited for the holidays. A village-wide Teddy Bear Cookie Bake-Off contest was also a big part of the event. We’d advertised that the winner would provide cookies for our staff party and earn three hundred dollars as a bonus. That would more than pay for the ingredients.

  But no lights showed in the church office.

  “Rats,” I muttered under my breath. My sister sprinted across the street to join me in front of the church steps. “Hey, Mads.”

  “I haven’t seen any of the flyers I designed about the cookie contest and Bear-zaar around Silver Hollow. Have they printed them yet?” Maddie’s cheeks were flushed, and she panted hard. “They better have. I took time out to do the committee a favor.”

  “I have no idea,” I said truthfully. “Did you come from the studio? Any sign of Dad between here and Theodore Lane?”

  “Nope. So what about the flyers?”

  “Really, I don’t know. I came over this way to ask about the Bear-zaar, but no one’s here. Mom will be on the warpath, because Dad’s supposed to drive the float in the parade. And he doesn’t have his cell on him,” I added, since she’d pulled out her phone.

  “Okay, I’ll send him your way if I see him. You going back to the float?”

  “I guess I’ll drive it if Dad doesn’t show up in time.”

  Maddie nodded and scurried off, her open parka flapping around her petite form. She didn’t need sugar to fuel her energy. Caffeine was her kick while I craved carbs. Someone had to taste test those cookies for the bake-off contest.

  Yum. Oh, wait. That dress.

  “Maybe I’ll find something that fits better before Christmas.”

  Why kid myself when cookies were impossible to resist during the holidays? I couldn’t say no. Maybe by being so busy, planning for our open house and staff party the same week, plus the wedding, I’d forget to eat. A whirlwind of a month, the busiest since I’d started managing the Silver Bear Shop. But I had yet to skip a meal. Maybe I’d get lucky and come down with the flu. Ugh. Maybe not.

  I walked back along Kermit Street to the Quick Mix Factory’s parking lot, where the high school band milled around in small groups. I waded through the chatting and laughing teens in their navy wool uniforms trimmed with silver, several holding their plumed hats in one gloved hand and their instruments in the other. April Rodgers, the band’s director, whistled shrilly to get the band’s attention and give last minute instructions.

  Mark Fox, the local vet, kept firm control of a pack of gorgeous huskies and Alaskan malamutes with the help of his cousin Jodie, despite the noise and whirl of activity. The animals stood atop a float that advertised Fox’s Veterinary Hospital combined with the local pet shelter, Wags and Whiskers, which Jodie managed with Phil Richardson. Another family rebel who’d chosen something different than working at the family farm and orchard.

  The fire department’s truck, strung with white lights and evergreen boughs, slowly pulled into line after them, followed by the Bloom’s Funeral Home’s Winter Wonderland, and the Village Bank’s carousel. The Quick Mix Factory’s float stood on one side, a huge trailer with a theme of Mrs. Claus’s Kitchen, complete with the company bookkeeper in full costume. Maggie’s float with its hodgepodge items followed it.

  Our Silver Bears in Toyland float was squeezed between the Gingerbread House float and Richardson Farm’s flatbed, which held the entire Peanuts gang surrounding Snoopy’s wildly decorated doghouse. They must have rented the resin characters, who stood with upturned faces, mouths open to sing, while several Christmas carols blared.

  “Sasha! Over here.”

  Mom waved from the shiny red convertible that sat in the middle of all the floats. Banners with GRAND MARSHAL had been fastened on either side of the vehicle. Flynn stood beside her, grinning wide, a steaming coffee cup in hand. Cheryl shivered beside him, her mittened hands cradling a hot chocolate. She sipped with a grateful sigh.

  “Did you find your father?” Mom asked.

  “No,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “He’ll turn up. But I’m more worried about Cal Bloom. He’s supposed to be here by now, dressed in his costume. We’ve got to find him.”

  “I bet he’s behind the factory,” my ex-husband said, “fortifying himself.”

  “What do you mean—oh, his flask of brandy?” Cheryl laughed. “Yeah, he does like to keep warm in this type of weather.”

  All news to me, since I’d never noticed the mayor with a flask. Mom didn’t deny it, though. The cold wind brought a whiff of tiny, needle-like snowflakes into the air, and the temperature had certainly dropped in the last hour.

  Flynn took Cheryl’s elbow when Mom led the way toward the Quick Mix Factory. Its twin towers had painted murals of their boxed products, and the squat addition held miles of conveyor belts that sent the various items to be shipped. I always used their muffin or bread mixes when in a rush, adding fresh fruit to the batter. My efforts never tasted as good as Mary Kate’s made-from-scratch treats. Buying hers was worth the extra money.

  My stomach rumbled, thinking of her scones, fried donuts, and the latest holiday muffins she’d created. Raspberry cream cheese, date nut, blackberry lemon, maple pecan, and chocolate chip cappuccino—my latest favorite. I swallowed hard. Veggies, think green. Cabbage soup. Carrots with dip. Carrot muffins would be far better, though. Slathered with cream cheese frosting, too. I tugged my earlobe. Celery, celery. With peanut butter . . .

  Every time we stopped to chat with parade volunteers, my stomach grumbled again. And that bitter wind groped through every layer of clothing I wore. I sipped the hot tea I’d had the good sense to grab at Fresh Grounds. Mm. That helped. Especially since the icy snowflakes kept hitting my face. My breath plumed in front of me, too, and I shivered while we stood. Once we started walking again, that helped.

  I followed Flynn, Cheryl Cummings, and Mom, who chatted about her efforts to coordinate the floats and the various decorated trees in the Village Green, and then explained how she’d talked the mayor into being Santa Bear in the parade.

  “I wasn’t sure anyone else would want to do it, that costume is so hot. Even on a frigid day. Tom Richardson was the original Santa Bear for the last eight years, but begged off last year. And now he’s been sufferin
g with a bad case of bronchitis.”

  “Tom Junior?” Flynn asked.

  “No, his dad,” Mom said. “Poor man, almost eighty-six, but he’s never been sick a day in his life. Now he’s in the hospital, and I feel so bad for him.”

  “The whole clan is worried,” Cheryl said. “I know they’d rather care for him at home, but from what I heard it’s turned into pneumonia.”

  “Anyway, who else could fill out that polar bear costume better than Cal Bloom?” She laughed. “No need for extra padding.”

  Flynn and Cheryl joined in the chuckles at the mayor’s expense. I sipped the last of my hot tea. Did they have any idea how hard it was to keep extra pounds from creeping up whenever the scale loomed? I’d struggled for years, so addicted to sugar. The endless advertising on road billboards, TV, radio, social media, plus the candy train for every holiday, from February to December, didn’t help. Exercise had never been my favorite thing, although I forced myself to walk Rosie. The reality of fighting weight gain was a pain.

  We passed the last float and walked the entire length of the factory until we neared the playground of the local elementary school on Quentin Street. The band started warming up again, playing the same melodies, so I checked my watch.

  “Only half an hour until the parade begins, Mom.”

  “That must be Cal, sitting over there on the bench.” She gestured ahead of us.

  “And there’s his flask, like I predicted.” Flynn sounded smug.

  Mom hurried across the empty ground toward the wooden seat. I followed, keeping the factory on one side to avoid the wind, as softer snowflakes drifted down. Not fast enough to blur my view of the mayor slumped to one side, as if asleep. The sleeves of his red Santa suit looked wet, probably from the falling snow. His face was hidden somewhere in the huge bear head, which had one beady eye missing. The mayor’s hands hung slack, and his white furry paw-shaped gloves were also soaked. Weird.

  My mother shook Bloom’s shoulder. “We’ve got to get you to the parade, Cal.” She sounded annoyed now. “Calvin Bloom. Wake up!”

  Cheryl backed up until she bumped hard into me. “Oh! Sorry.”

  “No problem.”

  “I guess the mayor’s had a bit too much brandy.”

  But my instincts told me something more than alcohol was at play here. Mom pulled off the bear’s head to reveal the mayor’s grayish skin. That was one clue, and that he didn’t budge. Bloom didn’t even shiver, which anyone would be doing this late at night. And there were no intermittent clouds from his breath. The wind suddenly snatched my empty cup from my hand and tossed it end over end down the street, scaring me.

  Flynn darted forward. “Judith, wait! Don’t touch him again.”

  Snowflakes glistening in her auburn hair, Mom shoved the mayor so hard that he rolled off the bench. We all heard the loud thump when Bloom landed on the damp cement. Even Cheryl gasped aloud. I surged forward in concern.

  “Oh, my heavens,” my mother said. “Is he dead drunk?”

  Flynn knelt and pressed two fingers against Bloom’s neck. “The first, actually.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he can’t feel any pain at all.” Flynn glanced at us all and then rose to his feet. “Sorry, Judith, but the mayor’s dead.”

  Chapter 3

  Mom stood aghast, a gloved hand covering her open mouth, eyes widening. “That’s not possible—”

  “Dead as a doornail, I’m afraid.” Flynn rose to his feet and brushed snow from his coat and hair. “No heartbeat. No pulse on his wrist, either. Bloom’s a goner.”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  Cheryl and I exchanged shocked glances. This had to be a strange nightmare. Breathing deep, I was shaken to the core. How could this be happening? Cal Bloom was always full of life and talked so loud that his booming voice hurt my ears. And now he was lying cold and dead. We’d seen him only an hour or so before, complaining about things, and then greeting people with overt friendliness and charm.

  The snow had thankfully ended. Cheryl and I both scrabbled for our cell phones. I dialed 911. A habit, especially after finding two other dead bodies in the last few months, so I reported our location and situation before I hung up. Cheryl was still talking, hunched over, speaking in a half whisper. My mother pulled out her own phone and punched in a sequence of numbers. She must have called Maddie, Aunt Eve, or even Uncle Ross given how she kept hanging up and redialing. At last she succeeded reaching someone.

  “Gil Thompson, listen to me. Track down Alex for me, and get him over to the factory parking lot. I’ll explain later!” Mom sounded beyond frantic. “I know you’re busy. I don’t care if there’s a huge line—yes, it’s an emergency! Send Garrett out then, anyone. Thank you. Yes, whatever it takes. As many people as possible, until you find my husband. And send him to the Quick Mix parking lot.”

  She hung up, but I waved a hand. “Mom, I couldn’t find Dad—”

  “I’ll find him,” offered Flynn, who’d circled the bench a few times.

  “We’ve got to stay here until the police arrive.” She knelt by Cal’s prone figure. “For the children’s sake, the parade must go on. That means your dad will have to be Santa Bear. Come on, Sasha, help me get this costume off him. Why are these paws so damp and stiff?”

  Mom tugged off a glove and then gasped. I stared at the mayor’s reddened, blistered fingers. Flynn stripped the Velcro apart that fastened the coat over Cal Bloom’s chest. The mayor wore only a white ribbed tank shirt beneath, and thin enough that we could all see the charred skin of his chest. Cheryl backed away, although she held out her phone a few times. Was she taking photos? Mom marched over to her, clearly angry.

  “I know you’re part of a TV crew, but please stop. The police will not appreciate any unauthorized photos ending up on social media. Nor would the family.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” she said wanly. “Flynn, I’m freezing. I’d rather wait inside the Grand Marshal’s car.”

  “Uh, sure.” He pointed to the mayor’s chest. “His hands must have gotten all wet. And if he touched a live wire, it could have given him a shock and caused a heart attack. Didn’t he have a bad heart, Judith?”

  “Yes. So you’re saying he was electrocuted?”

  “All of these floats have generators to power the lights.” Flynn waved a hand around. “People have been coming and going all day. But I wonder why nobody noticed Bloom over here, or heard him cry out when it happened. That’s really weird.”

  Mom took a deep breath, although her voice shook. “It had to be an accident.”

  “That’s for the police to determine.” He rose to his feet. “But greed is a pretty big motive for murder. I’ve heard and read about plenty of cases where the family offs Grandpa or their parents to get an early inheritance.”

  “That’s ridiculous—”

  “Flynn’s right,” Cheryl cut in. “It doesn’t matter what we think. The police will handle this whenever they get here. You two can stay and answer their questions.”

  “Yeah, and I don’t want the cops to get the wrong idea like last time.” He stuck his hands into his pockets. “Come on, babe. Let’s go.”

  “You two can’t leave,” I said flatly. “They’ll need a statement from each of you.”

  “Tell them to call us later.”

  “Oh, go on, then.” Mom sounded hysterical and turned to me. “Now I know how you and Maddie must have felt, finding Will Taylor. And then you found that other poor girl, Sasha! Oh, thank goodness your father’s here. At last.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief when Dad’s SUV turned onto Quentin Street. He climbed out and then strode our way. “What the devil is going on?” Dad stared down at Cal Bloom’s body while Mom explained how we’d found him. “You called 9-1-1, I hope.”

  “Of course we did. Now, help me get this costume off poor Cal. You’ll have to wear it, Alex, and take his place. Hurry, there’s almost no time to spare.”

  “Judith,
we can’t touch the body.”

  “But someone has to play Santa Bear in the parade!”

  “Stop. This is a police situation.” Dad scrambled for his phone in his pockets, sheepish until I handed mine over. “Thanks, honey. I know, I know. I keep forgetting it at home. I’m calling Ross right now, Judith. He can drive our float instead of me in the parade. Don’t fuss. Everything will work out. I’ll play Santa Claus instead. The kids won’t mind.”

  “But Dave Richardson is wearing that costume at Christmas Alley,” Mom wailed.

  “Not today. He went home sick, so I filled in for him. I hope he’s not getting that same bronchitis that put his father in the hospital.” Dad checked his watch, holding my cell to his ear. “Good thing I stashed the Santa suit in the car instead of leaving it back at the tent. Ross? Yeah, I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans. You’ll have to drive the float. Get all those packets of gummy bears and toss them out for the kids lining the street—”

  “Alex, no! Those are supposed to be for our Holiday Open House.” Mom frowned when he hushed her. “All right, but don’t complain when we have to buy more.”

  I patted her shoulder. “We’ll manage.”

  She grasped my hands and dragged me aside. “He made a fuss over what we had to pay for the wizard robe fabric,” Mom said, “but never mind that now. I’m so sorry, honey. You have to understand I only wanted you to be happy.”

  “Huh?”

  “Flynn just told me he’s going to marry Cheryl,” she rushed on, “and all this time, when he talked about wanting to settle down again, I thought he meant with you. That he wanted to patch things up—but I was so wrong. Can you forgive me?”

  “Uh, sure.” I blinked. “It’s okay, Mom. Really.”