The Mistletoe Murders

by Laurinda Wallace

  “Let me introduce you to everyone, and then please enjoy the wine and cheese.”

  Marci appeared more relaxed and took them around the room to meet the extra-special guests. The blond was Stephanie Adams, who was married to Ward Adams. They served as the Bed & Breakfast Association’s head honchos. Ward was moving slowly with assistance from a cane, recovering from knee replacement surgery. The couple was pleasant on the surface, but Gracie’s impression of Ward led her to believe he might be pretty demanding. He was handsome with a strong jaw, a weathered tan—the look of an outdoorsman. She sensed he could be quite formidable when he wanted to be.

  Neema Chun was a lithe, athletic-looking woman, her raven-colored hair drawn back in a simple ponytail. Her features were fine boned, and she moved like a dancer. Gracie guessed she was about her own age—the forty-somethings. She was personable and quite interested in the kennel, quizzing Gracie about the operation. Neema wrote for several B & B travel publications and also hosted exclusive tours for small groups. Ethan Thomas was a tall lanky man with longish brown hair, and rather abrupt in his manner. Marc cast a wary expression in her direction once they’d headed for the food table.

  It might be a difficult couple of days, she decided, returning his look in tacit agreement. These people were out of their league in sophistication and travel knowledge. She felt like a hen in a roomful of peacocks.

  Kristin was pouring wine and sharing information about each of the local cheeses. Gracie learned more about cheese and wine in the first few minutes listening to Kristin than she’d garnered in a lifetime. Marc, who was a bit of a cheese aficionado, struck up a conversation with her, asking about the process of aging raw milk raclette cheeses. Gracie was out of her depth for that exchange, and she glanced around the room. Seeing Quentin enter the library, she decided it might be a good time to share some of the Mistletoe information she’d found online. Quentin seemed grateful for a familiar face as they found comfortable leather chairs arranged near one of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

  “I’m really anxious to hear your presentation after dinner tonight,” she began.

  “Thanks, Gracie. I have to admit, I’m a tad nervous. I’ve never talked to such a high-brow crowd. Even Stephen will critique me.” He looked up at the large painting.

  “I’m feeling a little out of place myself,” Gracie commiserated. “I have a feeling this weekend is going to be a bit cliquish. We peasants, I fear shall be left out of the coterie.”

  “Your feelings are probably accurate. I’m just glad I can go home after my talk.” Quentin’s eyes twinkled with humor. “At least I won’t have to stay in character for too long.”

  Gracie chuckled and nodded her head. “I’ll have to be on my best behavior, plus Isabelle will be supervising me on top of everything else. I did want to ask you about some Mistletoe history though. I found a couple of interesting tidbits online.”

  “Sure. I think I’ve scoured the internet for just about anything on them at this point. The genealogy websites have been very helpful. Of course, the recent finds here, including that chilling cemetery in the woods, need more research.”

  Gracie eagerly recounted Marc and Devon’s finds in the woods and then began sharing her recent discoveries.

  “Stephen Mistletoe was part of the inner circle that supported the Fox sisters and their séances. I found a couple of mentions in the newspapers about him in connection with the sisters. A man’s body was found in the Fox’s cellar too. Does that sound like a coincidence to you?”

  Quentin pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I hadn’t really put those two things together. Lily had a couple of séances here before she married Stephen. She was totally caught up in the craze of the time and wanted to connect with Ziba.”

  “Do you know if the Fox sisters ever came here? And if so, did Stephen come here for one of the séances? I’m just wondering how he maneuvered himself into a lord of the manor position. Do we even know if he was a Mistletoe?”

  “He was a Mistletoe, but hang on a minute. Those are some interesting questions.” Quentin pulled out his phone, tapping on an icon. “I have access to a lot of historical newspapers. Every social event was reported on in the papers back then. There’s a wealth of personal information— you just have to know how to dig for it.”

  “That’s what I quickly found out.” Gracie leaned forward as Quentin scrolled through several pages of newsprint. “We complain that everyone knows our business today, but back then, they really did. All your outings showed up in print.”

  “Aha, here’s something I’ve never seen before.” He enlarged the text on his phone, staring at it before continuing. “It says: ‘Mrs. Lily Parkhurst entertained her friends on Friday evening with a glamorous gathering at her home. The renowned medium Miss Kate Fox was in attendance with two companions, Mr. M. and Miss T. Miss Fox traveled from Rochester, New York to perform a séance to contact the spirit of the late Ziba Parkhurst. Rapping was heard by all who attended, which implied Mr. Parkhurst’s presence to those around the table.’” Quentin’s eyes were bright. “It’s true. One of Fox sisters actually came to Deer Creek.”

  Gracie breathed a low whistle. “Holy cow! Now I’m wondering if Stephen was one of the companions. Could he have been Mr. M.?”

  “That’s an excellent question. It’s entirely possible. I’m making a leap here, but he could have been Kate’s handler at the time. There was a lot of money to be made off other people’s grief. ”

  “The Fox sisters did well until they were exposed for the frauds they were. One of the sisters owned up to the clever tricks they used. No wonder they died in poverty and alcoholism.”

  The tinkling of a bell drew everyone’s attention toward the front of the room. Marci was the ringer.

  “Dinner is served,” she practically sang out.

  Gracie smiled to herself. It looked like Marci might have had an extra glass of wine. Their hostess’ face was a bit flushed, and she was overly jolly. Well, Gracie thought, she might have had a second glass of wine herself if she were in Marci’s shoes. Ethan poured himself another glass of the red as the rest of the guests ambled toward the dining room. A staccato of sleet against the window caught the group’s attention as they left the library. The storm was certainly not abating. The wind was increasing, and that wasn’t a good sign.

  Marc joined Gracie in the procession to dinner. She thought he looked especially handsome tonight in his white shirt with a festive red-and-green plaid tie and black trousers. Her burgundy-colored pencil skirt and cream tunic were accessorized with an amethyst choker once worn by her great-grandmother. The heirloom piece had been a last-minute addition offered by her mother. Gracie had to agree that it was the perfect jewelry for tonight.

  The dining room table was breathtaking with an antique candelabra and elegant centerpiece. The holly-decorated china and gleaming silverware sparkled in the candlelight. Calligraphic place cards identified the seating arrangement, and at each place setting sat small double-handled soup bowls, filled with what looked like a tomato-based soup.

  Gracie and Marc were placed between Ethan Thomas and Quentin. Isabelle was on the opposite side of the table next to Neema Chun, who was seated next to Stephanie Adams. Ward Adams was next to his wife, and Marci sat at the head of the table. They had almost finished the soup course when a loud male voice boomed from down the hallway interrupting the conversation.

  “They’ve already started dinner? Without me?”

  Marci went pale, pushing back from the table. “Oh no,” she whispered.

  “I recognize those dulcet tones,” Ethan growled. “I thought he was unable to come.” He stared at Marci, who looked like she was either going to faint or flee.

  A dripping wet Rush Cleaver stood in the doorway with a distraught Sheila behind him, her eyes wide with alarm. The man with stringy dark hair plastered to his forehead took off a brown double-breasted overcoat, throwing it at Sheila.

  “Mr. Cleaver. I’m quite surprised to see you,” M
arci said with icy preciseness, rising from her chair.

  “I imagine you are. I assume you have another place setting,” he said, sitting down at the vacant place at the end of the long table.

  Jim found a container of beef stew in the refrigerator and dumped it onto a plate before shoving it in the microwave. Max and Haley were at hand with mooching on their minds. The dogs merely sniffed at the bowls of fresh kibble as if hoping for a dollop of beef stew to enhance their dining experience.

  “No way, guys. This is all mine,” he instructed the pair, drawing out the steaming plate from the microwave. He sat at the counter under the adoring canine gazes. “You’re persistent; I’ll say that for you.”

  Haley sat back on her haunches, her paws in the air, begging in grand style, while Max’s eyes never left Jim.

  “I should have had you with me to get through to Josh. Max, you could stare him down with your hypnotic powers, and Haley, you could win him over with your goofy antics.”

  Steam rolled off the piping hot stew, as he stirred it with a large spoon.

  He’d found the property with the dilapidated barn that the Damons were fixing up. He’d only driven by, and it didn’t look like any work had been done recently. A no-trespassing sign was prominently displayed roadside by the driveway. It looked fairly new and was perched on a green metal stake. If only he’d had time to look around and see if his suspicions were correct.

  The earlier drizzle had increased to a steady rain, which was now sleet. A gust of wind drove ice particles against the windows like a hail of bullets. He left his dinner and went to look out the kitchen door. The ground was already white with an ice coating. After he ate, he’d need to check on the kennel guests. He might even need to sleep down there with Haley and Max if things got bad. The electricity was sure to go out if the storm continued.

  The terribly awkward addition of Rush Cleaver at the dinner table brought the small talk to an end. Gracie concentrated on eating her now lukewarm tomato-and-basil bisque. Marc had finished his and was buttering a roll. Sheila had hastily gathered another place setting, and the disgruntled and undesirable guest sipped at the bisque, as if he were analyzing each ingredient. Gracie shuddered inwardly, remembering the long list of food allergies he’d given Marci. If the chef had known who this last-minute arrival was, he might have pureed an extra pinch of something into the silky tomato bisque.

  The sleet continued a rhythmic pounding against the tall windows in the dining room. Ward Adams restarted the conversation; his deep voice easing the electric tension in the room.

  “I understand that you’ve had another discovery since last week. A cemetery of sorts.”

  Marci forced a smile. “Yes. Actually, Marc was instrumental in that find. He’ll be sharing more about that after breakfast tomorrow.”

  “I’d like to hear about it tonight,” Rush said, wiping his mouth with a dark-green linen napkin.

  “We can certainly wait for the details until tomorrow morning, Rush,” Ward soothed. “Since we’re all perishing with curiosity as to your appearance, why don’t you fill us in? You weren’t able to come as I understand it.”

  A slow smile crept across Rush’s face, which reminded Gracie of the Grinch. “Ah well, there was a misunderstanding between Ms. Drummond and myself. A little mix-up on the dates. After some rearranging of my plans, I was able to come after all.”

  Gracie felt a surge of sympathy for poor Marci, who was now dangling like a helpless ragdoll over a cliff of this rude man’s making. How could she tell the group she’d kicked the man out a few days ago after Chef Flambeau had drawn a knife on him?

  Marci took another healthy sip of wine, attempting to maintain an unruffled façade. “That’s a somewhat simplified version,” she managed after a pause.

  “Well, Cleaver, you’re here now, and the weather is fit for neither man nor beast and who’s to say which side you fall on, but I’m sure our able hostess has a bed for you tonight,” Ethan quickly supplied, snatching another soft roll from a wicker basket.

  “Ah, the consummate host must be ready for the unexpected,” Cleaver said pointedly, eyeing Marci.

  Sheila swept in with a tray to remove the first-course dishes, and minutes later, plates of crab-stuffed shrimp drizzled in a wine reduction, risotto, and grilled asparagus were set in front of each of them except for Cleaver. He glared at Sheila, who ignored him with the aplomb of prison matron.

  “Kudos to Carl,” Neema gushed. “This is beautiful, and it smells wonderful.”

  “Well, don’t wait for me to be served. Enjoy your meal.” Cleaved oozed with insincerity.

  “Thanks, old man,” Ward responded brightly. “It’s nice to see you be a good sport. A new role for you.”

  Gracie coughed daintily into her napkin, attempting to hold back a laugh, and picked up a fork. The rest around the table began eating, and Cleaver sat with his arms folded across his chest.

  Sheila reappeared and set a plate with an omelet accompanied by grilled asparagus in front of the man.

  “Really. Eggs?” he complained.

  “I believe you’ve put us at a disadvantage tonight. You were not expected, and as I recall, the list of your food allergies is extensive. Crab and shrimp being two of them.” Marci crisply rejoined. Gracie could tell her friend was in no mood for further temper tantrums.

  “Are you kidding me?” Ethan spat out. “Since when have you contracted food allergies? Didn’t I see you at the Wellfleet Seafood Festival in October? What are you up to?”

  Cleaver scowled and looked down at his plate. “These things happen at any time. That’s when I first noticed a problem,” he whined defensively.

  His statement was met with skeptical expressions, and he wisely decided to eat his dinner sans shrimp. Gracie concentrated on enjoying bite after bite of heaven, looking over at Marc, who likewise was savoring his meal.

  “This sure beats MREs in the field,” he remarked, finishing the last bite of creamy risotto.

  “Are you in the military?” Stephanie asked.

  “No, but my company works with the DoD—the Department of Defense.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” Neema added.

  “Sometimes,” Marc responded, smiling at Gracie. “My wife doesn’t much care for that part.”

  “I agree with your wife,” Marci said. “I know she does worry about you from time to time.”

  Carl and Kristin stepped into the dining room, staying well away from Cleaver.

  “Bravo, Carl!” Ward gave a thumbs-up to the chef.

  “And to Kristin,” Stephanie added. “I’d know that risotto anywhere. Perfection.”

  The chefs received enthusiastic applause, and both bowed, looking pleased.

  “Thank you. It’s been a pleasure to cook for you tonight. Dessert will be served in the library,” Carl said. “You’ll find a lovely dessert wine—Essentia and sweet bites that pair perfectly.”

  Marci thanked the chefs again and led the way back to the library. The wind continued to assault the house, which groaned and creaked in protest. The lights flickered and went out for a moment. Gracie was afraid they’d be sitting in the dark sooner rather than later.

  “Don’t worry, folks. We have plenty of candles, and there’s a generator that will keep the heating system and lights going should we lose power,” Marci assured them.

  Murmurs of approval went around, and the group clustered near the dessert table. Marc nudged Gracie to the side as the rest loaded their plates.

  “Where’s the troublemaker?”

  Gracie looked around and stepped back into the hallway. “He was right behind Quentin. I don’t see him now. Where’s Quentin?”

  Marci strolled over to the doorway. “What’s the matter?”

  “That Cleaver guy and Quentin have disappeared,” Gracie said.

  “Don’t worry about Quentin. He’s changing into his costume for the presentation.” Marci went out in the hallway, looking back toward the dining room. “I thought Mr. Cleaver was
with us though.”

  The lights flickered again and then went out.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A bit of confusion ensued while guests groped their way to chairs. Gracie heard Isabelle squeak out, “I beg your pardon.” Marc used the flashlight function on his phone and snatched up the candelabra from the dining room, carrying it back to the library. He set it on the dessert table. Now that there was sufficient illumination, Marci quickly lit several candles positioned throughout the spacious room and stoked the dying flames in the fireplace before placing another log on the fire. It blazed into life, and the room took on a cozy atmosphere.

  “Looks like your generator didn’t come on,” Ward said to Marci when she bent to light two candles on the marble-topped table next to him. He was seated on the loveseat with Isabelle.

  “So far,” she said, stepping back and looking at Isabelle, who avoided her gaze. “I’m hoping it comes on soon.”

  Gracie had noticed her cousin’s proximity to Ward and looked for Stephanie, who was choosing another sampling from the three-tiered lazy Susan that displayed an assortment of tiny squares of cheesecake, carrot cake, and truffles. Ethan had selected a chair near the fire, as had Neema. The pair had displayed nothing but congeniality throughout the evening. Maybe Marci didn’t have to worry about their previous love affair that had ended in a feud. However, Mr. Cleaver was another matter. Where was he, by the way?

  “This is a perfect night for telling ghost stories.” Stephanie spoke in a spooky low voice.