Marry Christmas Murder

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “It’s okay, Mom.” I was still getting used to the changed room and tamped down the swirl of emotions coursing through my head. My sister and I had an event to put on in mere hours and still quite a bit of work to do. It was surreal walking through the newly-imagined and executed winter wonderland. I had to admit it looked great. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d been hoodwinked. But there was no time to reflect. Rachel and I rolled up our sleeves and got to work.

  * * *

  Later that evening my sister, mother and I returned to Paws and Poinsettias freshly garbed in our evening wear to simultaneously work and enjoy the event. I’d been treated to a profuse string of apologies from my mother and had tried to set her mind at ease. I’m not sure what I would have done myself if I’d gotten a fire-drill call from Clementine March in the middle of the night, demanding a decorating switcheroo.

  We all oohed and aahed as we stepped through the glass doors. In addition to my mother’s striking decorating job, the left side of the room now held the final items on offer for the auction. There were tickets to shows at the local theater, baubles from Fournier’s jewelry store, and certificates to the local spa. The most fun feature was a display of outrageously adorable ugly Christmas sweaters for doggies and kitties of all sizes. I mentally conjured up an image of Whiskey and Soda in one of the sparkly kitty tutus for sale and couldn’t tamp down my grin. Not that I was sure my cats would ever consent to wear such items. They were safely tucked away at Thistle Park. Although they would have enjoyed seeing the other pets of Port Quincy, I was on the clock and couldn’t shepherd them at the same time.

  Soon the large space was filled with a veritable who’s who of pets and owners. The humans dined on savory hors d’oeuvres from Pellegrino’s restaurant, and their furry companions gobbled treats crafted by local pet suppliers. It was a happy holiday menagerie of meows and barks and smiling owners.

  The attendees wore a festive mix of evening wear, the women in scarlet and evergreen velvet gowns, silver-threaded sheaths and little black dresses. Their dates wore smart suits and tuxes. But outshining even their owners’ sleek attire were the pets of Port Quincy, all dolled up as much as they would allow. The evening would kick off with a pet fashion show and behind the curtain of the temporary raised stage was a merry melee of dogs and cats sporting Scottish plaids, red bows, and adorably gaudy sweaters.

  “Everyone loves my design!” My mother appeared at my side and beamed at the partygoers. Her former humble contrition had evaporated in a haze of pride. She clasped her hands together and went on. “Clementine is spreading the word that I decorated!”

  My stepfather raised his eyebrows, and even Ramona the pug seemed to roll her bulging eyes. I burst out laughing, but Rachel glared at our mother. Doug could contain his laughter no longer and began as well, earning a sniff from my mother. Doug’s laughter died when he spotted Jesse Flowers, the preternaturally tall contractor, who had restored my B and B as well as this building.

  Once upon a time, before she’d met and married Doug, my mom had been in a relationship with Jesse. The affable contractor seemed torn about whether to acknowledge my mother and Doug’s existence, or do an about-face. His fiancée Bev’s dog decided for him, taking one look at Ramona and straining at his jingle bell leash.

  “Elvis! Heel!” My friend and the owner of the Silver Bells Bridal shop was pulled along behind her basset hound. Elvis finally reached Ramona and an intense spate of sniffing ensued. My mother’s bubble of happiness evaporated as she cut her gaze from Jesse to Bev, and she knelt to fuss over Ramona.

  I knelt to pet Elvis, taking in his earthy, loamy basset hound scent of Cheetos mixed with gruyère. The sweet hound lifted his dolorous eyes to meet my gaze. But his stumpy tail motored fast enough to turn him into a doggy helicopter, revealing his true cheerful feelings and excitement. His owners laughed, and the ice broken, Jesse thrust out his mammoth hand to shake Doug’s. The two men wandered off to catch the Pittsburgh Penguins score on the TV in the lobby, while my mother and Bev got to know each other. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “This is some event you put together.” Ursula Frank appeared at my side, and I nearly didn’t recognize the woman without her usual judge’s robes. Toby’s mother always looked like a sterner version of the goddess Demeter, with gray braids wound around her head in a heavy crown. Tonight she wore a striking red pantsuit, her ubiquitous reading glasses tied around her neck with a Pitt Panthers shoestring. The judge always made me a bit nervous, swishing around her courtroom like a tall tornado.

  “This is Hemingway.” The judge allowed me to pet the pretty Persian cat nestled in her arms. The snowy purring guy stretched out a paw to bat at my arm in a kitty hello. I squinted at his miniature toes, something different. “He’s a polydactyl cat, just like the ones Hemingway the author owned. Hence his name.” The judge seemed to soften as she discussed her kitty. I usually struggled to find similarities between the gruff jurist and her gentle son, but tonight, watching Ursula fawn over her cat, I could finally see the resemblance. “I wanted to apologize, too, for not being more involved in helping Toby and Olivia plan their wedding.” The judge cracked a rare smile. “Thank you for moving the wedding up.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” I enjoyed speaking with the judge outside the formal confines of the courthouse.

  “Say hello to Garrett for me.” And she was off, treating me to a glimpse of the Birkenstocks she always wore, even to this formal occasion. The judge had been my boyfriend Garrett’s mentor in law school and continued to mentor him now.

  A few minutes later the fashion show commenced. Rachel and I attempted to help pet owners wrangle their furry companions. There were doggies sniffing butts and barking out hellos and cats plaintively meowing.

  “Despite this chaos, it’s easier to work with these guys than the people whose weddings we put on,” Rachel giggled.

  I had to agree. “Sometimes it’s like herding cats.”

  “Um, we’re literally herding cats.”

  The first entrant was Alma Cunningham with her gorgeous Irish setter, Wilkes. Alma was a Gone with the Wind aficionado and had donned a gown similar to one of Scarlett O’Hara’s dressing gowns in the film. Wilkes sported a leash woven with blinking Christmas lights and had consented to wear a green velvet topcoat. His gleaming auburn doggy coat rivaled any human model’s in a hair dye commercial.

  Next up was Alma’s granddaughter, the wife of my once fiancé. Becca Cunningham proudly led her Maine Coon cat, Pickles, on a leash when the other cat entrants were carried or confined to cat strollers. The behemoth cat proudly strutted down the catwalk, soaking up the exuberant cries of “Work it, kitty!” I wasn’t sure who looked prouder, Pickles or his owner Becca, in her daringly cut teal Badgley Mischka gown.

  But the final entry produced the most oohs and aahs. My friend and one of my first brides, Whitney, sat in a wheeled sled dressed as an elf. She patiently moved the sled with her feet like Fred Flintstone, while her four-month-old son, Vance, sat ensconced in her lap dressed as the littlest Santa. Whitney’s three Westies—Bruce, Fiona, and Maisie—nearly danced in front of the sleigh, each pup adorned with miniature reindeer antlers. The applause was unanimous, and Whitney and Vance were declared the winners.

  The rest of the evening was fun and fancy-free. The silent auction commenced at one end of the room while denizens cut a rug at the other end on the dance floor.

  “I know you’ve been busy with this event, and you probably haven’t had a chance to speak to Toby yet about my future husband.” Rachel materialized at my side, garnering constant looks in her gold lamé minidress complete with miniature crystal ornaments sewn all over the fabric. “So I’ve identified my own top prospects.” She nodded her head toward a small group of men I recognized as Toby’s groomsmen. “All doctors. All available. All eligible to become my partner!” And with that my sister dashed off, leaving me in a cloud of sweet jasmine perfume. Our cook at Thistle Park, Miles, looked crushed. He hugged his
Dalmatian to his chest and turned away from my sister. The affable young man had held a torch for Rachel as long as he’d known her.

  I stepped into the shadows and observed the event. I was ready to declare it a raging success. I shimmied down the Spanx helping to keep my black Dolce and Gabbana dress where it belonged. I caught site of Olivia discussing something with Toby. An acquaintance brought Olivia a flute of champagne, and she smiled her thanks. As the woman turned away, Olivia promptly poured the golden liquid into a potted plant. I blinked, unsure of what I’d just seen. But before I could ponder it further, I turned around to come face-to-face with my boyfriend, Garrett.

  “Great job.” He tilted my chin up and I realized we were right beneath a sprig of tropical-hued mistletoe my mother must have hung up. We met for a scorcher of a kiss.

  “I had a little help.” I let out a shaky laugh, not sure if I was unsteady from the lovely kiss or from reliving my mother’s redecoration ploy. “You’re looking mighty debonair.”

  It was true. My dashing boyfriend looked amazing, his lovely hazel eyes dancing with mirth, his tall frame filling out the shoulders of his tuxedo. The holiday lights glinted off his dark hair, and I still felt like swooning after over a year of dating as he tenderly brushed an errant curl from my forehead.

  “You must help me find him immediately!” The voice of Judge Frank cut through the hazy glow of Garrett’s embrace. Several heads swiveled to take in the judge glowering at an attendant.

  “I guess I’d better put out this fire.” I left my beau to help Ursula. She wrung her hands and darted her eyes left and right. “I placed Hemingway in his carrier. I was getting ready to leave. I turned to retrieve my coat, and in those mere seconds, someone picked up his carrier and ran off with my cat!” Her speech gained steam as she went, until the last few words were nearly a screech.

  “Calm down, Ursula. I’m sure we can find Hemingway.” Garrett smoothly stepped up to soothe his mentor. The two rushed to speak with Clementine and Alan March, who began to help the judge look for her cat.

  And not a moment too soon, as their absence kept them from taking in Lacey. The stager appeared to have had too much to drink. She weaved unsteadily toward me, nearly tripping in her sky-high turquoise heels.

  “Uh-oh.” My mother sidled up to me and seemed to try to hide behind a potted palm. “I think Lacey’s following me.”

  “Quick, duck behind there.” I nudged my mother behind the bar, where the bartender seemed to have vanished. The last thing I needed was a drunken altercation between two vying stagers. But Lacey seemed to see just fine despite her inebriated state. She leaned over the bar, her stomach hanging over the edge, threatening to fall in.

  “I see you, Carole Shepard. You don’t need to hide from me.” Her speech was slurred and several decibels too loud. I stepped in and placed a gentle hand on her arm.

  “Would you like me to call you a cab, Lacey?” I wondered if her mother Nina would be able to pick her up.

  “I still have business to attend to, Mallory.” Lacey batted away my hand as if it were a pesky fly and attempted to focus on my mother. “I’d like some Hawaiian Punch. Neat.”

  My mother seemed to deflate with relief at not having to serve Lacey more alcohol. She gamely played bartender, pouring the tipsy stager a small cut glass tumbler full of electric blue Hawaiian Punch. Lacey seemed to reverently grab the glass and tottered away. I made to go after her to make sure she was all right, when my mother pulled me back.

  “Have you officially put in a good word for me?” My mother’s eyes were pleading.

  I rolled my eyes and gestured around me. “I think your redecoration was audition enough. Besides, you need to cut it out. Lacey is the official stager, and it’s not like they’re advertising for a new one.”

  My mother proffered her cell phone as if presenting a royal flush, a gleam in her green eyes. The screen from March Homes’s human resources department displayed a posting for a new head stager. The date of the advertisement was today.

  “Oh, you have nothing to worry about.” Clementine sidled up to my mother and gave her shoulders a squeeze. My mother beamed, until she saw Lacey return, Goldie March in tow.

  “You lied! You said you weren’t trying to replace me.” Lacey’s slurred speech ricocheted around the marble-clad room with alarming volume. Goldie shook her head, her ire directed at Clementine. “That’s right, Lacey, we are not trying to replace you.”

  “Then what’s this?” Lacey thrust a bejeweled phone into Goldie’s face, nearly knocking into her nose.

  Goldie winced as she took in the posting. “This is as much a surprise to me as it is to you. Be that as it may, you’ve had too much to drink, Lacey. I think it’s time to go.”

  Lacey stared at Goldie with a dawning look of horror. She began to weep, then shouted at Clementine. The two March women helped escort Lacey out when the stager crumpled to the ground. Several onlookers gasped, and some of Toby’s friends pushed to the front of the now-gathering crowd to help Lacey.

  “She’s having a seizure. Call 9-1-1.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “She’s gone.” Truman stood at my door to deliver the bad news. His tall frame filled our front doorway as weak, winter sunlight filtered in behind him. It was twelve hours after the unceremonious end of Paws and Poinsettias. The gorgeous holiday decorations at Thistle Park seemed to mock his somber pronouncement.

  Rachel wordlessly slung her arm around my shoulder. I knew my sister was as exhausted as I was. Lacey Adams had been in bad shape when the paramedics lifted her on the stretcher and screeched away, the ambulance lights flashing and sirens wailing. Guests at the auction has stuck around for another half hour, gossiping and exchanging worried tales of Lacey’s inebriation before her apparent seizure and collapse. They’d finished their bids and tossed back their last glasses of champagne, the fizz evaporating like the good tidings for the evening.

  The Marches and I decided to wrap up the shindig early, and the evening gown and tux-clad attendants had slipped out into the night. We’d been worried sick. And now the hopeful feelings we’d felt percolating up at the sight of the retreating ambulance had been dashed to smithereens. What had been a furry and fun event was now indelibly mired in tragedy.

  “What was the cause of death?” I stepped back to allow Truman to formally enter the hall.

  “We don’t know yet,” Truman admitted. “But she did appear to have a seizure at Paws and Poinsettias. Her heart stopped in the ICU. They couldn’t revive her.” He looked even more pained than usual when imparting bad news. I gulped and let him go on. “According to Lacey’s mother, she did have some health issues but absolutely no history of seizures.”

  Truman followed us down the series of hallways to the kitchen. He exchanged greetings with my mother and Doug, who were nursing cups of coffee at the table.

  “So, do you expect foul play or not?” I blurted out the question as Truman accepted his own cup.

  The chief ran a large hand through his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “It’s complicated, of course.” He peered at my mother and Doug, seeming to weigh whether to share his theories with them. “There are plenty of people who were not fans of Lacey Adams.”

  I felt my mother’s chair shift next to mine as she squirmed. She was one person who would perhaps benefit professionally from Lacey’s demise. She stared dolefully into her coffee and was uncharacteristically quiet.

  “There’s the March family.” I didn’t name Clementine specifically. “They were all concerned about Lacey and of course worried for her last night. But Clementine and Goldie did try to usher her out right before she had her seizure.” What I didn’t mention was that beneath the Marches’ concern for Lacey’s condition, I’d detected a simmering anger toward Lacey for ruining their resplendent, splashy foray into the social world of Port Quincy. “I don’t think the March family was happy with the way the event ended,” I put in neutrally. “So that would make it seem like they wouldn’t have anything to
do with harming Lacey, right?”

  Truman nodded at the theory. “Although they needn’t worry about the negative publicity of Lacey falling ill at their party. Mayhem and murder haven’t staunched any of your business.” The chief spoke his words in a dry and rueful tone. I felt a slow blush creep up my neck.

  It was true.

  I was busier than ever, despite some unfortunate things befalling my B and B over the last year and a half. If anything, people perishing at my events cultivated a lurid fascination in the denizens of Port Quincy. My book of business hadn’t suffered at all.

  “Lacey was about three thousand sheets to the wind,” Rachel helpfully offered. “I tried to offer her a cab, and I know Mallory did, too.”

  “Yes, it could just be acute alcohol poisoning.” Truman gave my sister a shrewd look. “And the toxicology report is being rushed as much as it can be.” He studied us all another moment. “I don’t like the insinuations I’m hearing from Nina Adams, though.”

  I pictured the warm and bubbly Christmas store purveyor and felt a stab of pathos.

  “How is she taking her daughter’s death?”

  “Not well. It was ten years ago that her eldest daughter, Andrea, disappeared.”

  So that’s what Nina had been alluding to.

  “While we can’t prove of course that Andrea is dead, one has to assume after all these years it’s true.” Truman shook his head ruefully and pushed away his steaming cup of joe. “When I spoke to Nina early this morning, the first thing she said was, ‘not again.’ She seems to think these incidents with her daughters are connected. Although that’s quite a leap.”