The Mistletoe Murders

by Laurinda Wallace

  “I’m not fond of ghost stories,” Isabelle stated, looking over her shoulder toward the dark windows. “I’ve seen the ghost in this house and want nothing to do with her.”

  “Really? You’ve seen a ghost here? When was that?” Neema angled herself toward Isabelle, drawing up her knees, her stocking feet on the chair.

  Before Isabelle could respond, Quentin appeared with a candlestick in his hand.

  “Sorry I’m late. Technical difficulties. Dressing in the dark is a challenge.” He smiled, standing before them in a black cutaway coat with tails and black-striped pants. His vest was a red-and-gold paisley print completed with a black cravat.

  “Sorry, I should’ve thought of that,” Marci said.

  “No worries. Any time you’d like me to start.”

  “We’re all ready,” Neema piped up. “I love the outfit.”

  They all settled in to hear the history of Mistletoe Mansion, except for Marc, who slipped away. Gracie knew he had his antennae up to find the absent Cleaver.

  Most of the property’s history was familiar to Gracie. After her two evenings of research online and a stop at the Deer Creek Historical Society for a couple of hours one afternoon, she’d learned a great deal. Now if only they could identify the skeletons in the cellar and find out what truly happened to Lily and Stephen. It might be possible for this band of guests to come up with some good ideas. She tried to keep from fidgeting, wondering why Marc hadn’t returned.

  “On the evening of December 20, 1901,” Quentin began, “Stephen Mistletoe hosted his final holiday party in this house. By the next morning, he was dead, found by the housekeeper, Millicent Tyndall, on the floor of his bedroom.”

  Isabelle gasped, which drew everyone’s attention away from Quentin. Gracie noticed she gripped the arm of the loveseat, her expression uncharacteristically fearful. This house must be giving her a case of nerves.

  “Sorry, I just feel so—so strange in this room. Like there’s a presence,” Isabelle declared with a quavering voice.

  “Are you feeling all right, Isabelle?” Gracie asked.

  Ward Adams patted Isabelle’s shoulder. “Maybe a little nightcap will help,” he offered, struggling to rise without his cane.

  “Ward, use the cane,” Stephanie instructed.

  “Oh no, I’m fine,” Isabelle insisted. “Don’t get up. It’s just that I know there is at least one ghost in this house. I saw it one night.”

  “When was that?” Gracie was poised on the edge of the chair cushion. “I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned it.”

  “When I was in high school. I’ve never gotten over seeing the figure of a woman in an upstairs window here.”

  Quentin cleared his throat. “Yes. There’ve been many stories about a woman in white walking upstairs. However, most of these sightings were in the 1970s and 80s. There were a couple of local men who enjoyed keeping the mystique of the house in the public eye by using deception and imagination.” He looked directly at Isabelle, as if daring her to contradict him.

  “They rigged up something?” Ethan inquired.

  “They did, but the mysterious death of Stephen Mistletoe remains unsolved to this day. The consensus was that he was poisoned by someone in the house almost 117 years ago tonight.” He paused, as if gathering his thoughts, and then continued.

  “There was a party of twelve that night. It was a wintry evening with heavy snowfall, and the dinner guests were staying over. The menu was English fare with roast beef, potatoes, and a Yorkshire pudding. Berry tarts and mince pies were served for dessert. The house party had enjoyed sleigh rides before dinner, although Mistletoe hadn’t joined them and behaved in an extremely melancholy manner that evening. According to his guests, anyway. The entertainment provided was a young man, Hiram Jones, from Rochester, New York. He was a celebrated pianist. There was a grand piano in the ballroom where they gathered to listen. Stephen drank more than usual, which was remarked on by one of his friends. He was a particularly ugly drunk from all reports, so his drinking was a concern. This friend, William Quested, suggested they step out for some air, which led to an altercation between the men. Mr. Quested punched his host in the face, and a manservant deposited Mr. Mistletoe in his bed to sleep it off.”

  “Could he have died from the fight? You know, had a brain bleed or something?” Ethan asked.

  “The death certificate doesn’t mention it. But yew poisoning was suspected. You may have noticed the extensive yew hedges that are around the gardens. The red berries—”

  Marc entered the library, out of breath. “Sorry, Quentin. If I could have some help.”

  Gracie jumped up and ran to his side. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

  “I am, but Mr. Cleaver isn’t.”

  They rushed out like a frightened flock of sheep toward the kitchen.

  “He’s down in the cellar,” Marc said. “I need help to get him up the stairs.”

  Ethan quickly joined Marc, carefully descending into semi-darkness. A battery-powered lantern sat on the cellar floor, a pool of yellow light revealing a man’s hand. Marc and Ethan each took an arm and pulled Cleaver to his feet. With some maneuvering, they hauled the limp man up the stairs and into the kitchen, easing him onto the floor.

  “Is he—dead?” Isabelle croaked out.

  “No. He’s breathing. I think he must have fallen down the stairs when the lights went out.”

  “Why would he be down there?” demanded Flambeau, who strode into the kitchen, the flap of his chef’s jacket open and an empty wineglass in his hand.

  A groan came from the prone figure on the floor. “Oh, my head. My hip.”

  “Get him some water,” Marc said to Gracie.

  She brought a glass, getting down on her knees to offer it to Cleaver, who struggled to get up. That’s when the lights flickered again and then stayed on.

  Once the injured man was found to be in one piece, he limped into the library, piling dessert samples onto a plate before pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  “I was pushed, you know. I didn’t fall down those stairs. I was looking for a bit more to eat since my dinner was insufficient.”

  “You know, Mr. Cleaver, I’m not sure why you showed up tonight, but if you’re here to ruin my friend Marci, you’d better think again,” Isabelle spat out, her face hard, blue eyes glinting like a viper ready to strike.

  Gracie shot Marc an astonished look. Isabelle was actually sticking up for someone other than herself. An unusual turn for her cousin. The other guests looked appreciatively in Isabelle’s direction. Marci looked mortified and relieved all at once.

  “I was invited, and I intend to stay,” Cleaver lashed back. “Now someone has tried to harm me, maybe even kill me.”

  “That’s a stretch, my friend,” Ward responded. “Perhaps you wanted an advantage over the rest of us in solving the mystery of the bodies in the cellar.”

  “Maybe you wanted to plant a red herring even,” Ethan suggested. “Or something else.”

  Rush’s face flushed with either anger or embarrassment. Gracie wasn’t quite sure which it was. The man was certainly a boil on the rump of society. She still found it difficult to believe the Wards had recommended he be part of the group.

  “My review of the Mistletoe Bed-and-Breakfast will reflect my experience here. Be sure of that.” He made another trip to the dessert table, finishing off the few sweet bites remaining, and picked up the remaining glass of dessert wine.

  “Why don’t you finish your presentation, Mr. Quigley? I’m finding this house fascinating,” Neema supplied before there were any other caustic comments.

  Quentin was a bit flustered and looked at his binder full of notes before continuing. The group settled back in, and even Rush was visibly absorbed in the remaining history of the Mistletoes.

  “The clue to Stephen’s poisoning was the individual berry tarts served for dessert. Some yew berries were discovered in a refuse bucket in the kitchen, which was cause for suspicion, esp
ecially of Mrs. Tyndall, the housekeeper. Of course, arsenic was easily purchased in those days too.”

  “Was she ever charged?” Isabelle asked.

  “She was arrested at one point, but her lawyer was clever, and she was released after spending a couple of weeks in the Wyoming County Jail. There was never enough evidence to go forward with any case.”

  “The perfect murder,” Rush said.

  Quentin nodded and moved away from the fire that made the room quite toasty. “So it would seem. Fate had one last blow to deliver to the Mistletoes in 1965. After Stephen’s death, his much younger brother Edgar, who lived in Maryland, inherited the remaining property and began a horse-breeding operation here. It was discontinued in the 1920s when draft horses were replaced by mechanical horsepower.”

  “Did he meet his demise in similar fashion? Ward shifted uncomfortably on the loveseat before finally standing. “Knee is getting stiff. Don’t mind me while I walk a bit.”

  “Edgar lived until 1951. No suspicious death, just a garden-variety heart attack. He had outlived his two sons, who died on D-Day in World War II and his wife, who was killed in an automobile accident in 1934. His daughter Pamela never married and lived in the house until her death on New Year’s Eve, 1965 or actually the wee hours of 1966. Although money wasn’t as plentiful by then, Pamela liked to throw large parties. She was also a woman of rather unique pursuits, an avid hunter and a stock car driver.”

  “She raced?” Gracie hadn’t heard this tidbit before.

  “Yes. She drove her car at the Perry Speedway until her untimely death.”

  “Caused by?” quizzed Rush, stifling a yawn and closing his eyes.

  “A shotgun at her party. A group was shooting off various firearms to welcome in the New Year, and somehow Pamela was hit in the leg and bled to death before the ambulance arrived. Mysteriously, she was shot with her own gun well away from the others. Was it accident, suicide, or murder?” He ended with a twirl of his hand in the air. “The rest of the history will be in the booklets you’ll find in your rooms tonight.”

  “Excellent! Thank you, Quentin,” Marci gushed. “If anyone would care to retire for the night, please feel free. I know it’s been a strenuous day for many of you.”

  Sheila reappeared and began clearing away dishes with Marci’s help. Gracie guessed she needed to escape the room. Quentin said his goodbyes, promising to return in the morning for the beginning of the all-day mystery adventure in the cellar and the woods. The wind had died down, and sleet lightly pinged against the windows. Gracie wasn’t sure if Quentin would be able to drive home. She followed him to the front door to assess the weather conditions. The Christmas lights winked cheerfully, revealing a significant coating of ice on the porch pillars. The evergreens were drooping, branches encased in glimmering ice. Quentin scrutinized the wintery vista out toward the cars and groaned. Gracie hugged herself against the chill and walked gingerly to the edge of the ice-covered brick stairs. No one was going anywhere. Ice had built up around the vehicles, effectively imprisoning them in the parking lot.

  “I wonder if Marci has a room to spare.” Quentin pulled up his coat collar and turned back toward the front door.

  “She’ll figure something out,” Gracie assured him.

  A flicker of light came from the direction of the barns. A figure walked into the well-lit parking area. As the person came closer, she saw it was Devon, carrying a bag of some sort. He slipped near one of the vehicles and caught himself, hanging onto it before continuing to the porch.

  “Trying to get these ice-melt pellets on the walkways. Not that it’s going to help for long.” He tossed several handfuls on the sidewalk and the stairs.

  “It’s not letting up.” Quentin rubbed his hands together.

  “Nope. Looks like you and I are stuck here for tonight. I just got an alert on my phone. No unnecessary travel in the county, and some roads are already closed because of trees down. I went down to the road, and it’s not looking good. The sanders can’t keep up with this stuff.”

  “I don’t think I could get my car out anyway. I’d better let my wife know.” Quentin disappeared inside.

  “You might as well come in,” Gracie said. “Do you want me to let Marci know you need a room?”

  “Sure, thanks.” He tossed another generous handful amount of white pellets over the steps before joining Gracie on the wide porch.

  Marci quickly adjusted sleeping arrangements, and the lights faltered again. Most of the group went to watch the storm from the wide wrap-around porch a few minutes before the Adams disappeared into their first-floor bedroom, the Kris Kringle suite.

  Quentin and Devon were bunking in the one room with twin beds, the Balsam Room. Gracie and Marc decided they’d rather be safely in their room before the lights went out again, which might be any second from the way they dimmed and flickered. Neema was right behind them as they climbed the sweeping staircase to the second floor.

  Just as she was drifting off to sleep, loud voices from below startled both her and Marc. Male voices were arguing, although Gracie couldn’t be sure who was talking. She stuck a toe out from the blankets, and Marc hissed, “Leave it alone. Stay here.”

  “Marci may need some help if the chef and Rush are at it.”

  Marc sighed heavily. “All right. Let me check on it.”

  Before he made it to the door, the voices had quieted. He unlocked the door and stood for a moment in the dark hallway. All was still. Walking to the top of the stairs, he listened again, the faint rattle of dishes the only sound. Gracie inched up behind him.

  “Who was it?” she whispered.

  “I have no idea. It’s quiet now. Come on, let’s go to sleep.”

  She couldn’t sleep. The storm continued. Her mind raced with the possibilities of who had been arguing. Marc snored softly next to her. How could he sleep? She slid out of bed and went to the window, pulling back the drapes. The outside lights had been extinguished except for the porch light, which cast a puddle of luminance toward the sidewalk. It flickered, and then darkness blotted out her view. She found her way back to bed, settling into its warmth, wishing for sleep. The click of a door closing and an indistinguishable voice held her attention. Why couldn’t these people just go to bed?

  The bedroom was cold when Gracie awoke in the gray light of early morning. Shivering, she grabbed her robe and stuffed her feet into warm moccasin slippers. The nightlight in the bathroom wasn’t working. Apparently, the generator still wasn’t in operation. She could imagine Rush’s complaints about that. Poor Marci!

  Marc rolled over and yawned. “Why are you up so early?”

  “I’m awake, that’s all. You need to look outside.” She drew the curtain back, exposing a crystalized world and swirling snow.

  “This is bad.” Marc joined her at the window.

  “I know. I need to call Jim and make sure everything is all right.”

  “Good idea.”

  A shout for help pierced the pre-dawn tranquility.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Carl Flambeau lay still on the floor of the kitchen. Marci bent over the chef, gripping his arm and gently shaking him. A dark blotch of dried blood was crusted on his cheek and beard from a gash above his left eye. His right eye was black and blue and swollen. Marc quickly checked for a pulse, pulling back, his mouth a hard line.

  “He’s alive, but his pulse is pretty thready. Have you called 9-1-1?”

  Marci nodded. “They probably can’t make it out here. Roads are pretty bad. They’re going to try though.”

  Marc examined the gash and the chef’s head. “There’s another wound on the back of his head that’s worse than this cut. Looks like a pretty serious head injury. We need a pillow and a blanket.”

  Marci scurried away and returned with both. “Anything else we can do?”

  “No. We need to keep him still until they get here. How long ago did you call?”

  “Just a few minutes. I came down to make coffee and found him.”
Her voice caught, and she leaned against the granite counter, gripping the beveled edge.

  “Come on. You’d better sit down,” Gracie instructed her friend. “You look a little pasty.”

  Marci obliged, finding a seat on a counter stool. Devon and Quentin, along with the Adamses, stood in the doorway. Kristin, Sheila, and Isabelle brought up the rear, her cousin straining to see over Ward’s shoulder.

  “What happened?” Devon asked sleepily.

  “Someone attacked the chef,” Marc said. “Where’s everyone else?”

  “Not sure,” Devon answered, looking at the prone figure. “Do you want me to check?”

  Marc nodded, turning back to monitor Flambeau’s pulse again. “We need to find out who did this.”

  Devon took the stairs two at a time, knocking on doors. Finally, Neema opened her door, eyes heavy with sleep.

  “There’s been an accident. You’re needed downstairs,” Devon told her.

  “What? What’s going on?” Neema responded huskily. “And why is it so cold?”

  “What’s the matter?” a male voice questioned from behind her.

  Ethan sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his messy locks.

  “The chef’s been badly hurt. You need to come downstairs now.”

  Devon continued down the hall, pounding on the door labeled with a hand-painted sign—The Wassail Room.

  “Get up, Cleaver. We need you now!”

  There was no response. After pounding loud enough to wake the comatose, Devon tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. Stepping into the low light of the bedroom, he glanced around. The bed hadn’t been slept in. He checked the bathroom, which was vacant as well.

  Neema and Ethan had donned robes and slippers and were descending the stairs when Devon blazed past them on the wide staircase.

  “He’s gone,” he announced to Marc as he burst into the kitchen. “Cleaver isn’t in his room. The bed hasn’t been slept in.”