Marry Christmas Murder

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “So, you think he tried to poison his soon-to-be father-in-law? That’s so silly.” I stood from my chair with a loud scrape on the black-and-white tiles. “You can do better, Rach.”

  “You just don’t want to see it, Mallory,” my sister countered me with no satisfaction. “I’m just not sure what Toby poisoning Alan would have to do with someone else poisoning Lacey, unless he meant it to be a copycat killing.”

  A trill of panic made my heart beat faster.

  It kind of fits.

  I glanced at Truman. He remained wordless, taking in our theories. I was sure he knew what I was about to say, if not Rachel.

  “I don’t want it to be true. But you may be right. Because there is a connection.” I detailed Nina’s account of Toby and Lacey’s breakup. I felt Truman’s eyes bore into me as I vaguely credited the story to town gossip. Which could have been true. After all, Toby and Lacey had dated for nearly a year. Lots of people had known.

  “So Toby may have poisoned Lacey because she still wouldn’t take no for an answer. Especially after he may have suspected her of threatening Olivia by spray-painting her car. Then he turned to Alan when he thought he could get away with it.” I hugged my middle and stared out at the now frozen expanse that was the backyard. The snow had developed a top crunchy crust, reminiscent of sugar icing. The soon-to-be setting sun turned the western sky into a pleasing palette of pastels. But the pretty view was wasted.

  Did I set my best friend up with a stone-cold killer?

  And she was carrying his baby, to boot.

  I wasn’t sure how to broach the topic with my bestie that her fiancé may have killed his former girlfriend and attempted the same with her father. Truman had agreed it was the leading theory. I’d tossed and turned that night, the cats not enjoying the seismic quakes my legs created under the comforter.

  But the next day dawned cold and clear, and I had more fun things to attend to.

  “What’re you up to, dear?” My mom gave me a hug in the kitchen as she fired up the waffle maker. Doug held up the front page of the Eagle Herald, featuring a beaming snap of Rudy, Clementine, Rachel, and yours truly.

  “You girls are famous.” He went back to his bowl of oat bran, making sure he downed something healthy before he ate a decadent waffle.

  “I’m dropping off a cookbook at the Davieses’ house. Summer wants our cardamom men recipe.” I beamed at the thought. “And later today I’m meeting Olivia to make the centerpieces at her wedding. But between then, I’m free.”

  “You’ll make a wonderful stepmom, Mallory.” My mother bestowed me with her special smile.

  My face must have dimmed. “I’m not so sure I’ll have the opportunity, Mom.”

  “Well, it’s time for your fellow to make a decision.” My mom’s face changed from mellow and calm to annoyed in startlingly quick fashion. She angrily beat the waffle batter with a spin of her whisk. “Or I’ll give him a piece of my mind!”

  “Don’t meddle, Mom.” Rachel leaned over to bestow our mother with a quick hug as she entered the kitchen. “Mallory can handle her own love life.”

  I sent my sister a grateful glance. Meddling may as well have been Carole’s middle name.

  “Just trying to move things along, dear.” My mother wasn’t affronted. If anything, she seemed to enjoy the rapid-fire banter between my sister and me. She, Doug, and Ramona were slipping so nicely into our lives in Port Quincy.

  “And when will you guys be moving out?” My sister took a hearty bite of a banana.

  “Rachel!” I glowered at my sister for destroying the warm fuzzies with her characteristic bluntness.

  My mother let out a laugh like silver bells. “I know you want your third floor back. As it happens, Doug and I are going to check out some open houses today. You’re welcome to come along.”

  I made plans to join my parents while Rachel prepped for another epic date with her surgeon Evan. After handing off the cookbook and giving Summer a quick hug, we were on our way.

  “It’s this way, Dougie.” My mom used her pet name for my stepdad as she squinted at the rental car’s built-in GPS. The two chatted in their rapid-fire manner and I smiled from the backseat. I could barely remember my birth father and mother’s relationship since he’d walked out on us so young. But within moments of meeting Doug, I’d known he was the one for my mom. They had their occasional differences, but they truly were best friends. They still held hands, and did so today, advancing up the path to the first house on their list. A generous smattering of rock salt had eaten away the ice on the stairs of the pretty Craftsman style we were checking out.

  “Welcome.” The realtor invited us to check out the house after we’d dragged our feet over the plush rug just inside the door.

  “It’s so pretty,” my mom mused. “But a bit boring to be honest.” The rooms were all made over in builder’s beige, the better to appeal to the widest market of buyers.

  “You could gussy up this place in no time flat,” Doug assured her as he trailed after my mother. I could picture her at home here, selecting a palette of the muted but still vibrant tropical colors she favored, like the ones she’d decorated my third-floor apartment in.

  I reflected on what it would be like to have my mom and Doug so close. There seemed to be no turning back now. And there would be no stopping the force of nature my mom could become when she set her sights on something. If some mothers were tiger moms, Carole was a sabertooth.

  My mind wandered to all of the mother-daughter relationships in my midst. There were Clementine and Goldie, with their subdued and ever-simmering differences, if not dashed with a healthy helping of real affection; and Goldie’s wishes for Olivia, complicated by the unusual manner in which my friend had joined the March family; and then there was poor Nina Adams, with her two girls now gone.

  “You could use this time to start looking for yourself, Garrett, and Summer, you know.” My mother turned around with a twinkle in her green eyes.

  “What do you mean?” I tried to tread cautiously but suspected a trap. Carole just had to live up to my expectations of her as a meddlesome but well-meaning mom.

  “I imagine after you two wed, he’ll want to move out of Truman and Lorraine’s house, and you’ll cede the third floor of the B and B to Rachel.”

  I was stunned to realize I hadn’t yet thought of what kind of arrangement would work best if Garrett and I took our relationship to a new level. I felt my mother’s eyes searching my face. I felt bamboozled.

  “Just give her some space,” Doug gently chided my mother. So she switched gears and dropped the subject. I felt a swift blush stain my face.

  “I do love the style of the new March Homes models,” my mother admitted as we made our way down from the finished attic. “But nothing beats the charm of an old house.”

  “A drafty old house,” Doug muttered. He tugged his Mr. Rogers-esque blue cardigan a bit closer. Today my mom had dressed herself and Doug in a fresh periwinkle blue. My mom’s pinstriped gray pants bore threads of the blue woven through, and her cardigan nearly matched Doug’s.

  “It is a bit chilly.” I hugged my own sweatered arms around myself.

  “You could blow some insulation into the walls,” the realtor offered cheerily. She’d overheard Doug’s complaint. “I think the last thing you need to see is the basement.” The woman flicked on a light switch atop a steep set of stone stairs and motioned us downward.

  “This is where they keep the bodies,” my stepdad joked.

  Um, not funny, Doug. Haven’t you been paying attention to what’s going on this December?

  But he was right. The rest of the house had received a slick, modern update, but the basement revealed the house’s true age.

  “Lots of storage.” My mom tried to make some lemonade out of the situation. There were rows of neat steel shelving erected in front of the peeling paint walls and dirty, concrete floor.

  And on the shelf nearest the stairs resided a single can of paint.


  Gold spray paint.

  “Do you see what I see?” I nodded my head toward the can. Maybe I’d been wrong in my hunches. Lacey may not have vandalized Olivia’s car; the owner of this house could have.

  “But lots of people have metallic spray paint.” My mother frowned. “I always have a few cans.”

  “You’re a stager and decorator,” I said with exasperation. “This is a total scarlet letter can of paint!”

  “Excuse me, is there a problem?” A beefy figure took up the frame of the top of the stairs.

  “Um, no. Excuse us.” I alighted up the steep steps and brushed past the man.

  “Oh dear, we’ve run over time for the open house.” The realtor glanced at her large rose gold watch. “The owner has come back.”

  “Well, what’d you think of the place?” The man seemed to search my mother and Doug’s faces as they gushed over the house. I wondered how much he’d heard about the paint.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” My mother smiled indulgently at the man.

  “Greg Gibson.”

  I froze, then recovered. Here was the man who had stalked Andrea Adams before her disappearance. The man who was suing his parents in court for selling their land to the Marches. The man who had threatened Judge Frank in her very own courtroom.

  “Um, we’d better go.” I placed my hand on my mother’s elbow where she swatted it off as if I were a pesky fly.

  “And you are . . .” Greg waited expectantly for us to cough up our names.

  “I’m Carole Shepard, and this is my husband, Doug. We just moved back from Florida. I’m the head stager for March Homes.”

  No, no, no!

  I tried to send my mom a telepathic message to stop her prattling. If I’d had time, I would have stepped on her blue moccasin clad foot.

  “Those disgusting locusts?” Greg seemed to morph into a version of the Hulk, his chest puffed out and his eyes nearly bulging. “The people who tricked my parents out of their prime farmland, what was to be my inheritance? No way would I consider selling my house to the likes of you!”

  The realtor mumbled something in the corner of the kitchen. She looked as if she wanted to sink straight into the kitchen tile. And I wanted to join her.

  “Get out of here.” Greg Gibson pointed a quivering finger toward the back door.

  “But—” my mother opened her mouth, no doubt to extol the virtues of her new employer.

  “You heard the man.” Doug linked arms with my mother and swept us from the house.

  And not a moment too soon.

  Greg slammed the door in our wake, making the bank of back windows shake.

  * * *

  I texted Truman about the gold spray paint we’d seen in Greg Gibson’s basement. I figured that in the karmic scheme of things, withholding some info from the chief, like Nina’s pilfering of the toys, could be balanced out by offering up other evidence.

  I tried to put the scary man out of my mind as I met Olivia to craft the centerpieces. The RSVP list of confirmed guests was predictably small, since the big day would be a mere two days before Christmas. We wouldn’t have too many centerpieces to make, but the work still had to be done.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Olivia breezed through the back door of the B and B as if floating on a cloud. “But look!” She held up a miniature Santa suit, complete with teeny, tiny black velvet booties and a white-trimmed hat. “Grandpa Rudy is already campaigning for the baby to be named after him.”

  I gushed over the little outfit and beamed at my friend. “But what if it’s a girl?”

  Olivia laughed. “He thinks Rudy would work for a girl, too.”

  I ushered Olivia into the dining room where I’d set up a representative centerpiece. I’d procured glass angel candelabras to sit in the middle of each table. We’d ring wreaths around each angel and place the whole shebang atop a large star mirror. The centerpieces would reflect the dancing candlelight, bring in some fresh greenery with its lovely scent, tie in the color scheme of evergreen and silver, and honor Olivia’s request to include angels.

  “It’s lovely,” Olivia breathed, reaching out to touch the wreath. “And it won’t be hard to pull off this late in the game.”

  The nursery on the north side of town had agreed to reserve six fresh wreaths for the centerpieces as well as a healthy passel of poinsettias. The mansion was already decorated for Christmas, and we wouldn’t be overhauling much for Olivia’s wedding.

  “Are you okay with these plans?” I bit my lip. Some brides wouldn’t think there had been enough effort put into this super-sped-up affair.

  “It’s just perfect.” Olivia gave me an impetuous hug. “Now let’s make these favors.”

  She settled down in front of the centerpiece, and I brought in a box of favor-making bits and bobs. We’d be giving guests the same cardamom soldier cookies Rachel and I had been baking and nibbling since Thanksgiving. Each little iridescent bag of cookies would also feature a cookie cutter tied with silver ribbon.

  “We’ll bake the cookies the day before your wedding, so they’ll be fresh. But we still need to tie a fair number of cookie cutters to each bag, make the table number signs, and design your program.”

  Olivia’s eyes grew wide as saucers at the mini to-do list. We tucked into our work. We chatted about the rest of the plans for her wedding and then fell into companionable silence.

  I decided to let her in on some perhaps good news. “While my parents and I were looking at houses today, we found a bottle of gold spray paint.”

  Olivia’s nimble fingers froze above her cookie cutter, the metal fashioned into the shape of a holly leaf. “Oh?” She set the bag and baking implement down. “Was this Lacey’s old house, by any chance?”

  Interesting.

  So Olivia assumed Lacey had vandalized her car as well.

  “No. It was Greg Gibson’s house.”

  I let the statement hang in the air. Olivia set her face in an impassive cast and picked up the cookie cutter. Her cool demeanor was belied by the almost imperceptible shake of her hand.

  “So this is in retaliation for my parents’ real estate development.” She cocked her head in thought.

  “Why did you think it was Lacey?” I had to admit I was a bit hurt. It wasn’t my business that my best friend’s fiancé had a stalker ex or that he’d broken up with Lacey a mere two weeks before he got together with Olivia. But once upon a time, we’d shared everything.

  “If you must know, Toby and Lacey were once an item.” Olivia stared darkly into the flickering flames of the centerpiece, then observed my reaction. “But then you already knew, didn’t you?”

  I squirmed in my wingback chair. “Yup.” I figured the truth was good enough. “But not before I set you two up. Not that it would have made a difference,” I hastily added. “But I had no idea Toby and Lacey dated until a few days ago.”

  “Gossip is spreading now that the town knows I’m pregnant, we’re getting married two days before Christmas, and my whole family is considered to be one big gang of suspects.” Olivia sighed and rubbed her eyes wearily.

  Phew.

  I was glad I didn’t have to spill the beans about who had told me about Toby and Lacey.

  “Everyone thought Lacey was this great girl,” Olivia mused. “Even my own mom. Especially my mom.” Olivia shook her head ruefully, her glossy dark hair swinging from her shoulders. “I did Lacey a big favor by not telling my mom the half of it.”

  I nodded, giving my friend encouragement to go on.

  “Lacey was pretty chill when I started dating Toby. I think she figured we were just a fling or that we wouldn’t last because I live two hours away.” Olivia cringed. “But then she realized I was here to stay, and she started contacting Toby again. It seemed friendly and innocent enough, but my radar told me it wasn’t with good intentions.”

  “And then it escalated.”

  “She started calling morning, noon, and night. I’d almost convinced Toby at one point to ta
ke out a restraining order against her. I wish I had.” Olivia shivered at the memory. “But then she succeeded in getting through to him. She claimed,” her voice hitched, “that she was dying of kidney failure.” Olivia’s delicate features turned down. “I’m not proud of what I did. I told Toby she’d just concocted it all in an effort to gain his pity and win him back. But then it turned out Lacey was telling the truth.”

  “It’s okay, Liv.” I reached out and squeezed my friend’s hand.

  “So Toby started talking to her, trying to calm her down and explain her options from a medical standpoint. I’ll admit I got scared. I could tell he still had feelings for her, although they did seem strictly platonic. But they did date for a year. Feelings do run deep.” She stared at her ring and gave a sigh. “In fact, I found out he had started contacting her about her health the day I realized I was pregnant. I considered breaking up with him right then and there.” A rueful smile ticked up the corners of her cupid’s bow mouth. “I’m glad I didn’t.”

  “And I’m glad, too.” We resumed our crafting in pensive silence.

  “One thing I never did figure out. I was so certain Lacey had vandalized my car because she once approached me.” Olivia broke the silence and seemed to consider a memory. “She cornered me in the produce section in Giant Eagle. She accused me of getting pregnant to entrap Toby.” She shook her head, as if responding to Lacey in person. “But that wasn’t true. I’d been taking antibiotics for a sinus infection, and they messed with my birth control. I wasn’t trying to get pregnant at all. But how did Lacey know? I accused Toby of telling her, but he denied it, and I believe him.”

  I kept my face impassive as I stared at my favor with calm concentration. No way was I going to tell my friend I’d been discussing this very issue with Lacey’s grieving mother.

  “I guess the lure of gossip was just too strong for someone at my OB’s office,” Olivia mused. “HIPAA law be damned.”