Marci felt like she’d received a punch in the stomach.
“Really? I had no idea. Stephanie and Ward Adams from the B & B Association recommended that he be on the list.”
“Interesting. They know the story about Rush and Carl. They were also pretty involved with what happened at Rush’s B & B. To add even more drama, Neema Chun is also a former girlfriend of Ethan Thomas.”
“And that didn’t end well either, right?”
“Well, it’s been a few years. They may have patched things up by now.”
Marci leaned against the cold granite counter. “As if there wasn’t enough stress with the opening. I may have to referee. I don’t understand why the Adamses would have recommended this group.”
“Oh, they’re the big guns when it comes to unique B & B’s, and Ethan’s YouTube channel is very popular. He has almost a million subscribers. It’s definitely the right group to have at your opening. I thought you might appreciate a bit of warning, so you aren’t surprised.”
“Thanks, but now I’m wondering if Carl will back out once he knows about this Rush Cleaver.”
Kristin plucked a white chocolate truffle from the rack and bit into it with relish. Chewing slowly, she finally responded. “Well, let’s keep that a secret until after he arrives. I’ll do my best to keep the lumps out of the gravy.”
Marci gave her a weak smile. “All right. You certainly know him better than I. But I don’t want any deceptions either.” The last thing she needed was a nuclear meltdown from Carl on the eve of the opening weekend. Might as well get it over with beforehand if it was to happen. She was confident Kristin could carry the day if Carl walked out. That would have to be her Plan “B” for the moment. Grilled cheese was Plan “C.”
“Sure. I understand, but Carl needs special handling all the time. After three years with him, I’ve honed the process to an art form.” She finished the truffle and began arranging the remainder of the confections in small crystal bowls.
Just as Marci reached for another truffle, the doorbell chimed.
“That must be Quentin. The presentation for the staff starts in a few minutes.”
Quentin stood poised at the ornate front door. Dressed in a Victorian suit complete with tails, dark lavender gloves, and a stovepipe hat, he held an ebony cane topped with a silver bird. The historian cut quite a figure, and he looked pleased with himself.
“Wow! Come on in. Quentin, you’re magnificent!”
“Thank you, Marci. Wanted to be sure this met with your expectations.”
“They’ve been exceeded. I can’t wait for the talk. Let me round up everyone.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The steady chink of the chisel against brick was beginning to give Marci a headache. She was overseeing the last of the deconstruction, hoping the masonry contractor and his young apprentice wouldn’t find another grave underneath the herringbone pattern. The men worked steadily, removing the last layer of brick on the cellar floor. Joe stood up, rubbing the small of his back, while his apprentice Bill loaded the wheelbarrow with the final bricks to be reused.
“What do you think, Joe?” Marci asked, taking stock of the area, hands on hips. “Should we dig down a bit and see if there are any more surprises?”
“That’s up to you. You’re the boss. We have to re-level the floor anyway, so we’re not finished with excavation.”
Marci bit her lip. She had to know if anyone else lay underneath the house. The double layer of brick was suspicious in and of itself. A small, gold Christmas ornament earring was revealed when she tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Hesitating for a moment, she made the decision.
“Dig away. It’ll be way too creepy to think that someone might be left there if we don’t.”
“All right, let’s find out what’s under here.”
Joe dug a shovel into the hard earth. Bill swung a pickax to break up another section of terra firma. It didn’t take long for six inches more to be excavated, the pile of dirt growing outside the alcove.
“Should we go any deeper?” Joe asked, wiping his forehead with a red handkerchief.
“I think so. I mean, if I was hiding a body down here, I’d try to go down at least a foot, don’t you think?” Marci leaned against the alcove’s arch, scanning the hole for any sign of bones or fabric.
“Makes sense to me,” Bill agreed, swinging the pickax with renewed energy.
Marci smiled. The young man was sure to be telling his friends about this job. Who uncovers a couple of skeletons in a cellar?
Joe thrust the shovel into the growing cavity and lifted another scoop of earth to add to the pile. That’s when Marci saw what she’d been dreading.
“Stop! There’s a bone, I think.”
Joe tossed the dirt onto the floor. A yellowish-brown curved bone was left exposed in the bright work lights. It looked like a human rib.
“Holy crow!” Bill backed away, clutching the handle of the implement. His eyes were wide with fright, his back pressed against the wall.
“It might be an animal bone,” Joe reasoned. “We need to check to see if there’s anything else. Hand me that trowel, Bill.”
Marci found herself holding her breath while Joe painstakingly scraped away another layer of dirt with the sharp-edged trowel.
“And we’ve got another body,” he breathed out, sitting back on his heels. A skeletal left hand with a wide gold band encircling the pinky lay exposed in the light.
The same forensics team from the sheriff’s department traipsed up and down the stairs, carrying small evidence bags out to a van. They discovered the ring, a stick pin, and then a bullet. Sheriff Hotchkiss had made another appearance and supervised the unearthing of the next subterranean find. Doc Remington was sure it was a man and the manner of death was a bullet to the brain. It was an unofficial opinion, the doctor had quipped, but Marci had seen for herself the hole in the left side of the skull. The victim was tall, probably around six feet. Who knew how long the poor man had been lying below the kitchen?
Kristin had ceased her work, joining Marci in the nether regions of the house. Sheila Duggan, her housekeeper, and Devon Jakabaszek, her part-time maintenance guy, also appeared as spectators to the grisly task.
“It’s a good thing Quentin left before the excitement,” Sheila said. “He’d have lost his mind.”
“I think you’re right. He was excited enough the other day. But I’ll have to tell him.”
He may actually be a help in figuring out who this is,” Marci replied, her eyes never leaving the technicians, who gingerly deposited the bones into the black body bag.
The faint sound of a horn outside caught their attention.
“Oh, the horses are here,” Devon said, zipping up his coat. “I’d better help them unload.”
Marci was torn between following Devon or continuing to watch the gravesite work. She’d leased a pair of Halflinger geldings to draw a restored 1890s sleigh for the winter guests. With the absence of snow, however, she may have wasted her money on the expensive team.
The stalls in the large barn were ready and waiting for the handsome pair of golden draft horses with long, cream-colored manes. She’d been hoping for an inaugural ride in the sleigh before the guests arrived, but that was out of the question, at least for the foreseeable future.
Devon’s hurried exit and excited look on his face more than confirmed her decision to recruit him. Devon’s handyman skills were exceeded only by his equestrian skills. He’d been riding and driving horses in competitions since he was old enough for 4-H. Soft-spoken and hardworking, he was new to the Western New York area, relocating from a horse farm in Maryland. His teenage years had been troubled after the death of his parents. Their small farm was sold, along with his horse. Devon had even lost his dog when he’d been thrust into foster care. No family stepped forward to care for the thirteen-year-old, but his younger sister was taken in by an aunt.
Ultimately, he’d told her, foster care proved to be beneficial. His
fourth set of foster parents had found work for him on a horse farm after he’d turned sixteen. That had changed his self-destructive course to building a career in the equine industry.
His story mirrored some of her own life, which was the linchpin in her decision to hire him. Devon had proved himself to be capable in every respect, whether fixing an electrical issue in the barn or maintaining the expansive grounds. He had almost singlehandedly restructured the long-neglected formal gardens, and even though the perennials were slumbering through the initial mild winter, the brick pathways, gazebos, and yew hedges looked perfect. He had also strung the thousands of tiny lights throughout the trees and grounds. She would have to remember to give him a raise as soon as the B & B began taking in some money.
The sheriff and her team wrapped up their work, and the technicians began carrying equipment back to their vehicles. Sheila and Kristin were quick to return upstairs after them.
“We’ve cleared the scene—again,” Sheriff Hotchkiss announced. “But if you can, hold off on any further excavation for a couple of days, that would be helpful. We may want to come back.”
“Sure,” Marci agreed. “I’m beginning to think the wine cellar needs to be located somewhere else after this.”
The sheriff laughed. “It may be a good idea. I’ve been looking into the history of this place, and a clerk is digging out any incidents reported during the late 1800s up through the 1960s. We may find something that could help identify the remains.”
“Thank you. I’d really like to know.” Marci led the way up the stairs to the kitchen.
Kristin was stirring a large pan on the range when they entered. An earthy, rich aroma filled the room.
“Free mushroom soup tastings,” she said, holding up a wooden spoon over the saucepan.
Marci smiled and shook her head. “I’ll catch you later on that.”
“None for me, but thanks,” the sheriff answered. “I’m due in Warsaw for a board of supervisors meeting.”
Intending to check on Devon’s progress of settling in the horses, Marci followed the sheriff to the small porch outside. She watched the sheriff’s department vehicles wind their way down the long drive to the roadway. The doubts about opening the B & B had been niggling at her since the first skeletons were discovered. Now with a third one, she was beginning to think that the property was under a cloud. Evil things had happened here, and who knew if there were more to be unearthed. It was a wonder no one had been found buried in the garden. Of course, they hadn’t looked under the sundial or the lilacs … She deliberately put her spiraling thoughts on hold and entered the barn’s warmth. The smells of hay and horse greeted her, a pile of steaming road apples already on the concrete. Watson and Holmes were in their respective stalls, nosing about in the straw with gentle snorts.
“They’re beauties,” she remarked to Devon, who stood watching the pair acclimate to their new surroundings.
“Absolutely,” he said softly. “I haven’t seen Halflingers in several years. We bred Friesians and Belgian Warmbloods.”
Marci had no idea what breeds he was talking about. She’d spent a few summers at a camp with mostly brown horses, who could have cared less if they ever broke into a trot, let alone a gallop. That was pretty much the extent of her equine knowledge.
“I hope these guys are gentle around everyone.” The last thing she needed was a lawsuit over a horse-caused injury.
“They’re mature and very well trained,” Devon assured her. “Watson and Holmes have competed in the ring and been in a lot of parades. They’re solid boys.”
“That’s good. I’m glad I can count on your experience. Otherwise, the sleigh rides wouldn’t be possible.”
“Well, we really need a couple of feet of snow anyway. We may just have tours to the barn to have guests admire them,” he chuckled, his gray eyes twinkling.
Marci returned the smile, reaching out to stroke the nose of the curious Sherlock. “No snow in the forecast yet, but hey, this is the Snowbelt. You never know what might happen.”
The sound of a vehicle caught their attention, and Marci went outside. The unseasonably mild afternoon breeze caught her brunette shoulder-length hair, blowing it from her face. It smelled almost like a spring day. Isabelle’s new cream-colored Lexus sedan pulled into the handicap parking spot.
Marci felt tension increase in her neck. She squared her shoulders before walking to greet her exceptionally high-maintenance visitor. When she’d met Isabelle the previous year and learned of her tragic family history, Marci had determined to befriend the realtor. How she could be related to Gracie and Theresa was a stunning family tree mystery. There had been progress in their relationship, but Isabelle’s self-absorption with her success both professionally and personally made her difficult to like. Whether she realized it or not, Isabelle needed a friend. Marci sensed the anger and loneliness that gripped the realtor’s life. She could relate, shuddering at the memories of the past five years. The ugly divorce. The bruises emotionally and physically were still things she couldn’t speak about.
Since Isabelle’s on-again-off-again boyfriend Kevin had left Deer Creek for good in the last month, she hoped their friendship would thrive now that Isabelle regularly sought out her company. Marci owed much of her own recovery to a friend who faithfully stood by her side through the worst days. She wanted to be that kind of friend to Isabelle, no matter if the cost was high.
Isabelle waved cheerily and quickly opened her trunk, pulling a gigantic wreath from its depths. It was dripping with ropes of pearls, dried red roses, lace, and small gold balls. She balanced it precariously on her shoulder, gripping the evergreens tightly to balance the awkward load.
“I found this today and just had to buy it for you,” Isabelle warbled. “Merry Christmas, my friend.”
“Oh, Isabelle, why it’s—uh—breathtaking.”
“I thought so too, and it’s perfect for your front door.”
Marci struggled to keep from screaming, “No!” or running back to the barn to hide in the haymow. She silently instructed herself to stay calm, smile, and figure out a more appropriate place to display the ostentatious Victorian wreath.
CHAPTER SIX
The choir finished the Advent anthem, dispersing from the choir loft to take their seats in the congregation. Pastor Minders rose from his chair behind the pulpit. Placing his worn, black leather-bound Bible on the oak podium, he removed his glasses, cleaning them with his tie before replacing the silver frames on his face.
Gracie felt herself go cold watching him. He was different, almost detached in his manner. He was scaring her, and she reached for Marc’s hand. He cast a puzzled look at her, and she felt the rush of unexpected tears.
“When I began preparing for today’s sermon, I planned to speak about the angels who announced Jesus’ birth to the shepherds,” the silvery-haired man began. “That sermon has been a bit of a tradition for Advent as we’ve examined the elements of Christ’s birth for many years. It’s been made clear to me that tradition can become dangerous and divisive. Because of the turmoil in our church family over the last couple of weeks, that plan changed.” His eyes skimmed over the congregation, his lips pressed together in determination.
A few bulletins rattled, and people shifted in the pews uncomfortably. A baby’s babbling broke the silence. Gracie smiled at the happy sound and wished she could remain as oblivious to the tension in the church as the infant.
“Today’s Scripture is from the Gospel of Matthew, chapter six, verses nineteen through twenty-one. The rustle of turning pages was a welcome distraction and everyone stood for the reading.
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
The pastor’s voice was strong and clear, and the text pierced
Gracie’s heart. She could easily deduce what he would say.
The sermon was direct and contained no soft pedaling of the message. The nativity had become an important treasure, a source of pride and even division in the church. In fact, it had become way too important. Disagreements and the focus of Christmas celebrations in the church had centered on wooden figures. Although beautiful and an enhancement to the community and church, the nativity set was in truth an idol of sorts for many. Its theft proved its temporal value in contrast to focusing on the Savior’s birth.
Gracie heard some sniffles and she saw two couples slip out the rear doors of the sanctuary, their faces suffused with anger. Her parents in the row immediately in front of her and Marc had their heads bowed. She couldn’t tell if they were angry or feeling contrition. Her father had refused to speak about the council’s meeting with the pastor over the nativity, which led her to believe it had not gone well at all.
“As the Savior laid down his rights of deity and sovereign authority to go to the cross for us, so should we lay down our rights to pursue the recovery of earthly treasure and pursue eternal treasures that glorify Emmanuel, extending grace as it’s been extended to us.”
With that final statement, the pastor closed his Bible and pulled a hymnal out, announcing the number of the last hymn. The organ bleated out a wobbly introduction, and a subdued congregation could barely be heard as they endeavored to sing “Jesus, Priceless Treasure.”
While a few congregants avoided the fellowship time of coffee and goodies by making a hasty exit, the majority went to their pastor, expressing affirmation and even appreciation for his bold correction. Gracie began to feel the tension ease in her body. As the fellowship hour stretched past the usual ending time, it seemed that her church family was adjusting its attitude. Things were going to be all right.
The Mistletoe Murders Page 5