Marc’s eyebrows furrowed, and he looked down at the pale visage of the celebrity chef. “Great. Do you have any first aid training?”
“Yeah. I’ve had some. I know CPR,” Devon responded.
“Good. Check his pulse every couple of minutes until I get back. Come on, Marci. I need you to open up all the bedrooms.”
The hasty search of the upstairs bedrooms came up empty. Rush Cleaver was nowhere to be found. Stephanie and Ward returned to their room while Marc, Gracie, and Marci checked the rooms on the first floor. Neema and Ethan, uncertain of their role at the moment, huddled in the doorway of the kitchen. Sheila busied herself with making coffee.
“Did he leave?” Marci asked, panic in her voice as they scanned the parlor.
“I don’t see how he could,” Gracie said. “I’ll check the parking lot for his car.”
The sleet and snow had stopped, leaving a sparkly covering over every surface. The vehicles were all there. Rush had to be somewhere on the property.
Marc returned to the kitchen, squatting next to Devon. “How’s he doing?”
“Okay. His pulse is pretty steady now, and his breathing seems to be all right.”
“Good. We’ve got a couple of other problems though. Cleaver isn’t on either floor. I don’t know if he left the house or if he’s hiding somewhere in here, like the cellar or in the barns. It’s also pretty cold. Anything you can do?”
Marci stacked fresh wood and kindling in the ashes of the previous evening’s fire in the library. After the yellow flames crackled brightly, she put her hands out for warmth. The temperature inside the house continued to drop without the promised generator. The household had straggled back to their rooms to get dressed at Marc’s request. Neema and Isabelle returned to the library first dressed in slacks, sweaters and winter coats finding seats near the fireplace.
Marci continued her fire-making duties in the parlor, the flames quickly licking the dry fatwood kindling. She walked back down the hallway, joining Gracie who stood just inside the kitchen. Devon reappeared through the kitchen door as Marc tended to the chef, whose eyes had fluttered a few times.
“No go with the generator,” Devon announced dispiritedly. “It should automatically come on when the electricity goes off. I don’t know enough about the system to fix anything.”
“Thanks anyway,” Marc said, standing up to flex stiff back muscles. “We need to move him off the floor to the library to at least get him warm. He looks like he might come around.”
With an assist from Ethan and Quentin, the men carefully slid the blanket under the chef and carried him into library, depositing him on a long couch near the fire. Marci called 9-1-1 again and was told the ambulance hadn’t been able to leave Deer Creek. Downed power lines had cut off the village until utility workers could clear them.
“We need a plan, Marc,” Gracie whispered to her husband as they watched the chef.
“We need to find Cleaver.” He looked down at his bare feet. “And I need to get dressed. I’m freezing.”
The alluring fragrance of coffee and bacon wafted from the kitchen into the library and heads turned toward the doorway.
“Hurry up, because it smells like breakfast is on the way. I’ll go see if I can help,” Gracie told him.
Sheila already had a tray loaded with a coffee pot and mugs. Kristin was cooking thick slabs of French toast, a pile of bacon already on a platter. She had a spatula in one hand and a tissue in the other. When she turned around, the sous chef’s eyes were red and puffy. Marci carried a stack of plates toward the dining room.
“Can I help?” Gracie asked, pulling back thick auburn hair from her face.
“You can help me finish setting the table,” Marci instructed. “Silverware is in that drawer on the right.”
The group crowded into the dining room, eager for breakfast. Conversation was non-existent while Marci presided over the subdued table. Gracie took a plate into library to wait for Marc. Flambeau had groaned a couple of times. Maybe he’d be all right.
Marc, outfitted in jeans and heavy sweatshirt, strode into the library. “Why are we eating? We need to find Cleaver.”
“Everybody’s hungry. I know I am.” She finished off the last bite of French toast and set the china plate on an end table. “Cleaver has to be by now. He can’t hide out forever.”
“We’ll see.” Marc walked toward the couch and watched Flambeau’s even breathing. “He seems more stable. Have you checked his pulse?”
“A couple of times. It’s steady, and he’s made a few noises.”
“There’s not much we can do for him except wait and hope the ambulance can get through this morning.”
Marc enlisted Quentin to search the cellar with him. Devon and Ethan were assigned the grounds and barn. Devon and Ethan hurried to finish the remaining bits on their plates and left through the back kitchen door.
Marc gulped down some coffee and motioned to Quentin. “Let’s go.”
Gracie rose, as if to join the search. Marc shook his head. “We can handle this. You need to watch the chef.”
Gracie sat back down, scowling at her husband. “You know, maybe Cleaver hitched a ride with the snowplow crew and is long gone.”
“It’s possible, but I still need you with Flambeau.”
Ten minutes hadn’t passed until Marc was back with Quentin, who looked like he’d encountered a ghost.
“We found him.” Marc looked gravely at his wife.
“Where was he hiding?” Gracie asked, leaving her toasty seat on the arm of the sofa.
“In plain sight in the wine cellar.” Marc took a deep breath and then released it slowly. “He’s dead, Gracie.”
She followed her husband down into the gloom of the basement with a battery-powered lantern in her hand. Mark shone a flashlight into the excavated alcove. Cases of wine and other spirits were arranged on a sturdy wooden table next to the area. Rush was curled up on his side, a puddle of drying vomit near him. Gracie pulled her sweater up to cover her nose from the smell, feeling her own stomach lurch.
“Look at his neck,” Marc directed, pointing the beam toward the man’s collar. Bruising was visible on his neck and face.
“Oh, I see it,” Gracie said, maintaining a judicious distance from the body. “What about the vomit?”
“That’s a good question. He drank quite a bit after dinner last night. He might have gotten sick from over-imbibing, or …” Marc hesitated. “It could even be poison.”
“Like Stephen Mistletoe,” she whispered.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jim texted Gracie, but hadn’t received a response. She must be having too good a time to worry about the business. Or it was possible cell signals weren’t working. The power had gone out around midnight. A tree behind the kennel had toppled over but hadn’t hit the building. He was glad of the decision to stay in the office overnight, although the sleeping-bag accommodations with two dogs near him and random barking throughout the night hadn’t given him any amount of sleep.
He’d told the rest of the staff to stay home. It was doubtful any of them could safely make it in. He could take care of feeding and watering. Just as he finished running fresh water into bowls for Corridor “C” boarders, his cellphone rang. The hesitant voice of a male teen greeted him. Jim thought the boy might have been crying. Josh sounded stuffy over the crackly connection.
“I know the weather’s really bad, but could you meet me?”
“It is bad, and you shouldn’t be driving anywhere.”
“Right,” Josh answered stiffly and ended the call.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Jim hit the redial, and the call went to a voicemail box that hadn’t been set up. Why had he answered that way?
Once Marc had broken the news to the rest, the solemn gathering moved into the warmth of the library. Kristin ran from the dining room in tears. An uncomfortable silence prevailed until Devon and Ethan returned a few minutes later, noses and cheeks red from the frosty temperatures. Their jaw
s dropped and eyes widened at the news. Gracie put an arm around Marci, who trembled uncontrollably.
“Come on, let’s get you a cup of tea,” she whispered.
They returned to the kitchen and found Kristin sobbing. Marci attempted to comfort the young woman while Gracie hastily heated water in two cups using the microwave. She herded the shaken women back to the library, each with a steaming cup of strong black tea. The sous chef sniffled, attempting to collect herself as she found a chair near the sofa. Her eyes were glued on the chef. Isabelle had found some playing cards and was coaxing the Adamses and Neema to play gin rummy.
Marc looked around, studying the frightened and worried faces of the group. He needed some privacy to make a call to the sheriff’s department, crossing his fingers that a deputy could make it out to them. He went to the parlor and stood near the fireplace, using a cast-iron poker from a rack of fireplace tools to stoke the fire while he waited for the call to go through. The murderer had to be in the house. Was it Flambeau, or had someone else executed a vendetta against the unlikable Cleaver? The possibility of poison was a disturbing aspect. Had the man just been sick, or had someone slipped something in his food or even a drink? The dispatcher put Marc on hold while she contacted the lead investigator.
“Marc? You still there?
“Yeah. I’m here, Sharon.”
“The sheriff says to hang tight and keep everyone out of the basement until someone can get there. We don’t know when that’s going to happen. You wouldn’t believe the mess we have going on.”
“We’re still waiting on an ambulance for a guy with a pretty bad head injury.”
“How’s he doing?”
“I think he’s stable, but he’s still unconscious. We need some serious help here.”
“I know and I’m sorry, but there are a lot of trees and power lines down all around Deer Creek. That area was hit the worst from the reports. I have no ETA for either an ambulance or a deputy.”
“All right. We’ll do the best we can. Let the sheriff know that I have a murderer in this group. It couldn’t have been an outside job.”
“Sure. Oh, be careful.” The dispatcher’s voice quavered.
“Yeah. I will. Call me when you know something, okay?”
“Wait a second, Marc. The sheriff is here and wants to talk to you.”
Eyes were immediately trained on Marc when he reentered the library. He stood for a moment, deciding how best to begin the interviews. His status as a reserve deputy had been on the sheriff’s mind when they’d talked. He’d joined the unit when he left the sheriff’s department, still keeping a presence in local law enforcement. Although out of the ordinary, she’d decided to give him authority to take statements from the disparate band of guests and employees. He was also to search their rooms and the body for any clues. He motioned Gracie to him and stepped out into the hallway.
“What’s going on now?” she asked.
“I’ve been given authority to start the investigation. I need you to keep an eye on things here while I do the interviews in the parlor.”
“Everyone is a suspect?”
“Yes. Except for you and me. Well, and Isabelle. At least for the time being.”
“Quentin didn’t do this, and neither did Marci.”
“Probably not, but everyone has to be questioned. You know that. I’ll start with Marci and the staff first.”
Gracie pulled a face, biting her lower lip. “All right. But what do I do if someone makes a run for it?”
“Yell for me and don’t try to stop them yourself,” was his stern reply.
Marc went to the kitchen and found Sheila and Marci making sandwiches and a salad.
“Marci, I need to see you for a couple of minutes in the parlor,” he said quietly.
Sheila looked up from slicing tomatoes, her face pale, dark smudges under her eyes.
“I’ll be right back,” Marci assured her.
Marci was eager to let Marc in on everything she knew about her guests. Their reputations and connections within the B & B world were well documented. She pulled out her cellphone to let Marc look at the emails she’d received, especially the one from Stephanie Adams recommending that Rush be included.
“I don’t know why she sent this to me after Kristin told me about the animosity between Cleaver and the chef.”
“It’s pretty strange. Looks like you were set up for something to happen.”
Marci huffed in disgust. She paced to the front windows, brilliant sunlight now pouring in. Ice on the trees was beginning to melt, and the cracking and snapping of branches broke the lull in conversation.
“Walk me through your movements from after dessert last night to this morning when you found Flambeau.”
Marci’s account was straightforward. She’d locked up after guests were going to their rooms and then had collapsed in her apartment. She hadn’t returned to the first floor. Because of the chill in the house, she’d awakened early and had gone down to make coffee, finding Flambeau out cold on the kitchen floor.
Sheila and Devon’s statements were similar. Both had been exhausted and fallen asleep almost immediately. They hadn’t awakened until they heard Marci’s call for help. Neither admitted to knowing any of the guests previously, but both had relocated to Deer Creek in the last year—Sheila from Pennsylvania and Devon from Maryland. Marc wasn’t sure what to make of the two, who had both left good jobs to settle in Deer Creek about the same time. How odd they’d ended up at the Mistletoe B & B.
Devon fidgeted and appeared anxious for the interview to end, his eyes looking toward the closed door as Marc composed another question.
“Did you know Sheila before you came here?”
Devon’s expression flickered with uncertainty just for a second. “No. I met her here.”
“Did you ever see her in town before you got the job at the B & B?” Marc probed again.
Devon hesitated. “I guess I could’ve, but I didn’t know her.” He looked at the doorway again.
“Sorry this is taking so long,” Marc apologized. “Routine stuff though.”
“Sure. I understand. I’m kind of concerned about the horses. I should check on them and make sure they have enough water.”
“Good point. Well, that’s it for now. I’d appreciate it if you came straight back to the house as soon as you’re done. Trying to keep everyone together for safety.”
Devon looked relieved and stood. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Neema had a warm smile for him as she took a seat across from Marc. She was nervous, picking at a sweater sleeve.
“Anything I can do to help,” she started.
“Thanks. I appreciate your cooperation.”
Marc motioned her toward one of the ornate armchairs. He nonchalantly rose and walked to the windows before turning to face her. She was well composed and confident. Her voice never faltered as she recounted her movements from the evening before. Although she’d been one of the first to go to her room, she’d had company a bit later. Ethan had joined her, and they’d been together until Devon pounded on the door.
“You didn’t hear any arguing or talking last night?”
“No. I was listening to music on my phone. I had my earbuds in.”
“How did you get invited to this opening?”
“I’ve known Stephanie and Ward forever. I got an email back in October from Stephanie to see if I’d be interested in coming. I was.”
“Did you know Rush Cleaver would be here?”
“No. I had no idea. Whoever set that up wasn’t thinking. He’s, uh …” She stopped and looked away from Marc.
“You have history with Mr. Cleaver?”
Neema frowned and bit at a fingernail. “Sure. He’s a colleague of sorts. We see each other at travel events. That kind of thing.”
“What about personal interaction?”
The woman stood and drew closer to the fire, stretching her hands out for its warmth. “Rush Cleaver is, well, was a despic
able human being. There I’ve said it.” She whirled about to face him with blazing eyes. “So sue me.”
“I pretty much figured that out last night,” he replied blandly. I also figure you select group of travel folks have known each other for quite some time.”
“Right. And Rush has done some dirty dealing to each of us over the years. Especially after his own B & B went down in flames—financially, that is. That’s when he and Carl really had it in for each other.”
“How so?”
“Oh, Rush wrote terrible reviews on Carl’s first restaurant after their business breakup. He appeared uninvited at events, usually when Carl was judging cooking contests to cause a bit of heartburn. His mouth and his writing were as sharp as any of Carl’s knives. He liked the power he had over all of us, calling us amateurs, uninformed, pedestrian, even stupid. People like that kind of mean-spirited drivel these days.”
“Did he damage your career?”
“Who’s to say? I do all right. I have a niche market for the most part. Exclusive vacations for exclusive people.”
A rap at the door stopped further conversation.
Gracie announced that lunch was available whenever they were ready.
The power flickered back on at the kennel, and Jim breathed a sigh of relief, hoping it would remain on. Max and Haley were whining at being cooped up in the reception area, so he decided to go up to the house with them to find something to eat. One stale doughnut left over from Friday’s employee party wasn’t going to cut it.
The dogs ran headlong for the house while he checked the trees that lined the road and along the driveway for damage. Small branches littered the white ground. He was surprised at the amount of snow that had fallen just this morning. The sky was clear for the moment. No serious cleanup needed, but he should try and plow the driveway. The ice buildup had to be taken off, or the driveway would be impossible to navigate.
His phone rang again, and he quickly answered, hoping it was Josh. A male voice responded, but the caller was older.
The Mistletoe Murders Page 12