Marry Christmas Murder

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “What would you have done, Carole?” Clementine left my office, and we all followed her into the hall.

  “Well, for starters, I’d place a more daring tree as a statement piece.” My mother flicked her eyes over the decor and licked her lips. She was just getting started. “Perhaps a teal and fuchsia tree, to echo the rose tones in the bird chandelier. Something that would pop.”

  Clementine nodded, her green-tipped spiky hair more vivid under the brighter lights.

  “I’d focus on a bounty theme. The mansion would be filled with sparkly fruit ornaments in a panoply of warm, tropical colors. I’m not afraid to mix more bold items against a traditional palette. Then I would—Ow!” My mother yelped and stopped her speech. My sister had thankfully pinched my mom, and she stopped her verbal deconstruction of my carefully crafted holiday decorations.

  “I think it looks great,” I put in with a small voice. “I wanted to honor the architecture and history of the mansion and make it festive but not overpowering.”

  “We didn’t want it to look like Father Christmas vomited all over the mansion,” Rachel spat in sisterly solidarity.

  I plucked a large framed photo in mellow sepia tones from a marble table. “The decorations echo the past nicely.” I thrust the picture of the original inhabitants of Thistle Park, the McGavitt family, into my mother’s hands. “I even consulted with our town historian, Tabitha Battles. We checked out photos of parties here in the past and designed the holiday decorations with that in mind.”

  She gave it a quick glance and set it firmly back on the table. “Different strokes for different folks.”

  Oh my goodness, she’s auditioning for a stager position at March Homes.

  I decided to shrug off my mom’s traitorous teardown of my decorations in light of my realization she was directly appealing to Clementine March for a job. I had to stifle a giggle as she continued her pitch, detailing how she’d meld her preferred Emerald Coast decor with traditional elements to create Spode on steroids with a tropical flair. And Clementine was eating it up, much to Goldie’s chagrin. Olivia and Toby watched with amusement, stealing more kisses under the sprig of mistletoe.

  Rachel and I soon doled out coats to Olivia and her family.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow at the Paws and Poinsettias auction,” I promised. Rachel opened the heavy double doors, letting in a gust of damp wind. The hinges whined in the cold, and I made a mental note to lubricate them. There was no white stuff on the ground at the moment, but if the temperature dropped a few more degrees, the roads would be slick with ice.

  Olivia was ushered out first, and I mistakenly thought her gasp was in response to the harsh weather.

  “Oh, my God.” Toby rushed forward to wrap his arms against a shaking Olivia.

  The windshield of the bride’s Acura was covered in oozing metallic paint. The runny and hastily sprayed message matched the meaning of the words sprayed there:

  Gold Digger

  The perpetrator had taken the little wooden cradle and baby Jesus from the small crèche I’d placed on the front porch. The cradle rested on the hood of Olivia’s car. A nasty gust of wind ripped across the yard, and the cradle threatened to topple off.

  Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop. When the wind blows, the cradle will fall.

  We all shared a collective gasp as the cradle slid down the hood of the car and landed on the frozen grass. Thankfully the ceramic infant within was intact and safe.

  But Olivia was not. She fainted dead away, caught by her fiancé. The glass angel in her hand crashed to the porch, its wing broken clean off.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Toby carried Olivia inside the mansion, this time to the parlor. He gently settled her on the appropriately named fainting couch, as Rachel fetched a strong cup of tea from our office. It was the longest thirty seconds of my life as she lay in his arms, before her large lashes fluttered open.

  “Who would have done that?” Olivia’s voice was breathy and anguished. She sat up with a shudder, Toby’s arms still protectively wrapped around her.

  “I’m sure this has nothing to do with you personally, sweetheart.” Alan March gripped his hands into fists and jammed them in his pockets. “Each new town we go to, we meet initial resistance. People fear change and progress. I’m sorry to say this isn’t the first time a disgruntled person has tried to threaten or cow us.” Alan’s brown eyes flashed with anger behind his mild-mannered glasses. “I’m just sorry they decided to go after you.”

  I shook my head, trying to take it all in. The message sprayed on Olivia’s windshield didn’t even make sense. It was true that Toby Frank was considered wealthy, the son of a judge, his father once a surgeon as well, but now deceased. Toby no doubt was quite comfortable in his career as a surgeon. But Olivia herself had a lucrative career at the firm. “Gold digger” seemed an odd epithet to smear her car with.

  No matter, a threat didn’t have to make immediate sense to still be jarring and alarming. I dialed the number of my boyfriend’s father, who also happened to be the chief of police. We traded some tense exchanges, and he assured me he’d be on his way.

  “You’ve been under so much stress lately, Olivia.” Goldie pressed the cup of tea into her daughter’s hands. Olivia took a grateful gulp. Our eyes met. Olivia gave me a scared, if wavering smile. I returned it and gave her shoulder a squeeze. Then I stood back, assessing my best friend. I was more worried than I’d initially been.

  The strain of wedding planning coupled with her final bid at making partner had taken a toll on Olivia. I was concerned because Olivia was known for having nerves of steel. She was a more than capable litigator. She’d been appointed second chair on cases faster than most young associates and then began helming her own cases as lead attorney. Nothing ever rattled her, but the sinister spray-painted message had accomplished just that. Before I gave the situation more thought, Truman Davies, Port Quincy’s chief of police, arrived.

  “Not the kindest welcome to town,” he grumbled as he took off his sodden hat. He nodded his head toward the scene of the vandalized Acura visible through the front doors. I shivered and shut them against the disturbing scene and the almost-as-worrying weather.

  “I know some are unhappy with the Marches’ new housing tracts, but this takes it to another level.” Truman furrowed his brows and squared his shoulders, his large frame nearly skimming the top of the door. Truman was a preview of what my boyfriend Garrett would look like in a few decades’ time. I ushered Truman into the parlor, and he began a round of questioning.

  * * *

  An hour later, Olivia’s car had been impounded for evidence. Truman finished his questioning of my visitors and examination of the frigid scene outside. The bride and her family retired to the aforementioned cabin, and Toby was called to work at the hospital.

  Rachel and I bustled about getting our mother and stepdad all settled in. I set them up in one of the bedrooms in our third-floor apartment, opting to leave the rooms in the B and B portion of the mansion unoccupied. Ramona the pug sniffed joyfully around the third floor, her curly little tail quivering back and forth as much as its length would allow. My older cat, Whiskey, a sweet but sometimes aloof calico, gave Ramona a wide berth. Her daughter, Soda, an energetic orange puff ball, playfully batted at the pug before rolling over on her back in welcome. The two pets eagerly clattered down the back stairs after my family as we made our way to the main kitchen for a restorative cup of eggnog.

  “Mallory dear, I need a favor.” My mother set down her glass mug with its festive rim of holly berries and fixed a winning smile on her face. “I want you to put in a good word for me regarding the stager position at March Homes.”

  My sister snickered and set down her own mug of eggnog. My hand wavered upon hearing my mother’s request, and I shook a measure of nutmeg over the kitchen island in surprise.

  Mom was never one to beat around the bush; I’ll give her that.

  “You heard Goldie,” I responded evenly. “March Home
s already has a stager, Lacey Adams.” And while I wanted my mom to be happy in her new life in Port Quincy, I wasn’t so sure how I felt that she seemed to be gunning for Lacey’s job.

  “It sounds like Clementine wants to go in a new direction,” my mother put in. “And with all of the developments the Marches have planned, they’ll need more than one stager.”

  My stepdad Doug raised a brow. “You mentioned wanting to come out of retirement, dear, on a part-time basis. But a position with March Homes sounds like quite a commitment.” A small cloud of concern seemed to dampen Doug’s usually easygoing manner.

  My mom waved her hand, dismissing all input. Her face was as serene as the light green she was clad in, from head to toe. My mom favored matching her outfits and today was no exception. Her mint sweater set picked up the mint pinstripes on her gray wool pants, further tied in with the light green moccasins on her feet. Light jade elephants dangled in her ears, complementing the similar beads around her neck. She liked to tie Doug’s wardrobe in with her own, and today he sported a similar mint fleece henley. My parents were seamlessly matched and had a marriage that prioritized compromise and respect. But my mom’s new obsession with gaining a full-time staging position with March Homes was news to Doug.

  Gleams and schemes sparkled in my mother’s lively eyes. “I already have a great rapport with Clementine. They must need more stagers if they’re expanding!”

  Rachel cast a skeptical glance at our mom. “But Goldie also runs March Homes, and she doesn’t want to hire any more stagers.”

  Carole took a fortifying sip of eggnog and sighed at my sister, before turning to me. “I’m not asking you to get rid of their current stager or do anything irrational. All I would like is for you to reiterate my interest to Clementine and my skill set as a decorator.” My mother set her glass mug down a bit more harshly than necessary, her version of a harrumph. I stifled a giggle.

  “And if I were to gain a position with the Marches, it could lead to more business opportunities for you.” My mother raised a brow, dangling an enticing proposition.

  “I suppose so,” I reluctantly agreed, although we’d already been able to secure some planning work with the Marches. I wasn’t sure how my mom ingratiating herself with them would lead to even more business.

  “Okay, Mom. I’ll put in a good word for you.” It was a promise I could keep. My mom was interested in working for March Homes, and they were extremely busy. Lacey, their current stager, had said as much. It couldn’t hurt, and my mother had already made a somewhat successful pitch to Clementine.

  “As it turns out, we do have a new engagement to plan for the March family,” I admitted. “Or rather, an event moved up several months.” I took a gulp of eggnog, wondering how my mom and stepdad would take the news that we were putting on a wedding the week we usually dedicated to holiday family togetherness. “Olivia’s wedding has been moved up to December 23.”

  “What?” My mom let out a very indecorous yelp. Ramona trotted over to make sure she was all right. “But that’s time I usually spend with you girls.”

  I traced the rim of my glass with my finger in a nervous movement. As soon as I’d assented to Olivia’s request, I’d wondered how my mom would take the news. Putting on a wedding, even a small one, would encroach on our over-the-top holiday traditions. “I know. But Olivia and Toby seemed so keen to move up their wedding date.”

  “And what about Garrett?” A deeper frown furrowed the spot above the bridge of her nose. “I thought we’d be spending quite a bit of time with the Davies family this year. Shouldn’t you have run these plans by him first?” My mother slyly cut her gaze to the fourth finger of my left hand and was treated to a view of my bare and unadorned finger. Rachel sent me an amused look and a wink.

  “Garrett is my boyfriend, not my keeper.” I tried to tamp out a testy tone in my voice. But a slight bit of worry crept between my shoulder blades. I’d been busier than ever this fall with weddings nearly every weekend at the B and B. My beau also had a busy caseload, and as a sole practitioner, all of the extra hours fell on his capable but harried shoulders. Garrett and I had fallen into an amiable but business-like schedule of just seeing each other on Sundays. I realized with a start that our relationship was beginning to look a lot like Olivia and Toby’s workaholic setup.

  “Earth to Mallory.” Rachel snapped her long red acrylics before my nose, startling me out of my realization. “You didn’t make plans with Garrett yet?” My sister seemed even more concerned than my engagement-obsessed mother. I squirmed under the lens of her careful scrutiny.

  “Um, Garrett and I haven’t discussed our Christmas plans,” I demurred and cut my eyes from my sister’s incredulous inquisitor gaze. Last Christmas my romance with Garrett had been relatively new. We’d spent the holiday separately, with our respective families. We got together the day after, spending it ice-skating with his lovely daughter, Summer. It had been the perfect arrangement, low-key and sweet. But the stakes seemed so much higher this year. I wondered with a start just why we hadn’t discussed it. The nagging worry only grew. The beginnings of a headache formed behind my eyes.

  “At least you have a boyfriend,” Rachel grumbled. Her beaded earrings jangled their distaste along with her headshake. I breathed a sigh of relief. My sister’s outburst seemed to have captured my mom and stepdad’s attention, turning their focus from me.

  “Don’t be silly,” I smoothly soothed. “You have so much fun, and you don’t need to even think about settling down yet.” Rachel was six years my junior, enjoying her mid-twenties with lots of easygoing dates and fun trips.

  “Just because I’m younger and you’re dawdling with deciding what to do with Garrett doesn’t mean I haven’t matured.” Rachel threw her statement like a javelin, and I felt my mouth open and close. “What I really want to know is why you set Olivia up with Toby instead of me.”

  Not much rendered me speechless, but Rachel’s verbal volley did.

  “If I’d known you had any interest in Toby Frank, maybe I would have.” I tried to tamp down the defensive note in my rejoinder. My head was spinning as I recalled thinking that from the moment I’d met the judge’s son, I’d wanted to set him up with my best friend. It wasn’t that I wouldn’t have done the same for Rachel if she’d asked, but the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.

  My sister seemed to tap into the eerie sororal ESP we sometimes shared. “Why didn’t you think of me with Toby? I could totally date a professional, too, you know.” Rachel adopted a petulant pout, and only broke her glare to administer some pets to Ramona, who was panting at her feet. She picked up the pug and scuffed behind her little ears, to her doggie’s delight.

  “No one’s saying you couldn’t date a professional. You’re a professional yourself.” In addition to helming wedding planning gigs with me and helping to run the B and B, Rachel also had a burgeoning cake-baking side business. “Toby just isn’t the kind of guy you usually date.”

  I distinctly recalled her one date with a doctor last fall, a cute but staid ophthalmologist, and Rachel’s declaration that she would never want to date another physician again. “I remember you saying you didn’t want to date someone who was looking to settle down.”

  “Well, that was last year.” Rachel buried her nose in Ramona’s holiday sweater. Carole and Doug looked at us girls with barely suppressed amusement.

  “Tell you what. I know how you can make this right.” Rachel wore a cunning look in her pretty almond-shaped green eyes. “Ask Toby to set me up with his most eligible doctor friends.”

  I threw my hands up in consternation. First my mom wanted me to put in a good word with Clementine March for a nonexistent stager job, and now my sister wanted me to facilitate her doctor chasing. The two women stared at me expectantly. Doug shook his head and sent me a shrug. I finished my mug of eggnog and let out an amused chuckle.

  “Fine. Whatever makes you two happy.”

  My sister and mother exchanged triumphant smiles and clin
ked their mugs together. I couldn’t help feeling I’d somehow been bamboozled.

  * * *

  I left my sister to finish settling in our mom and Doug at the B and B. I had some last-minute threads to tie up for the Paws and Poinsettias auction and gala. Now that Olivia and Toby’s wedding was moved up by a few hair-raising light years, I couldn’t wait to throw a successful event for March Homes and place the current party on deck firmly in my rearview mirror. Then I could focus on crafting a beautiful day for my long-time friend, and not worry it would be somewhat of a rush job.

  I grabbed a scraper from my trunk and brushed sleet from the front window of my ancient tan station wagon, a trusty 1970s steed I’d christened the Butterscotch Monster. I took in the festive atmosphere of Port Quincy as I made my way down slalom-like hills paved with yellow bricks. Thankfully, they were well salted in this nasty weather.

  The cheery and idiosyncratic holiday light displays adorning most houses gave way to the old-fashioned ornaments and greenery of downtown. Each street lamp was festooned with winding red ribbons and lush evergreens, creating a fleet of candy canes marching down Main Street in striped precision. Wreaths bedecked with gold bells hung from wires suspended over traffic. The skinny deciduous trees dotting the sidewalks were twined with thousands of twinkling white lights, creating an icy winter wonderland. The citizens of Port Quincy braved the cold and sleet with upturned collars, tossle caps, and a hefty helping of holiday good cheer. They gathered under eaves with cups of coffee, the miniature jets of steam curling above their heads like smoke from Santa’s pipe.

  I pulled the Butterscotch Monster a few blocks away from the Candy Cane Lane Christmas-themed shop. The little store did a brisk year-round business but predictably was in overdrive during the month of December. I felt an infectious grin of childlike delight overtake my face as I took in the window display. An antique train set large enough to hold a toddler ferried all nine of Santa’s reindeer, one per jewel-toned car. The reindeer were dressed for travel in turn-of-the-nineteenth-century garb. Some of the reindeer read period newspapers with spectacles perched on their noses while others knitted and waved at passersby. Santa helmed the train as the conductor, dressed in a striped engineer’s outfit but still undeniably himself. I brushed past a gaggle of other shoppers and made my way inside. I was greeted with the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg emanating from a basket of glittery pinecones nestled by the door.