The Mistletoe Murders

by Laurinda Wallace

  “You’re probably right, but you’d better tread carefully. Leon, Sr. can be a difficult guy. Well-meaning, mostly, but difficult. If you’re wrong, that could set Leon, Jr. back too.”

  Jim sat despondently, considering the advice. “I need to help find Josh in any case. Maybe if the two boys can be brought together, we’ll get at the truth.”

  “Good luck, my friend. Sounds like a job for King Solomon to sort out.”

  Jim gave her bleak smile. “You’re right on that. If people would just tell the truth.”

  “Ah, truth. Isn’t that a variable these days? Everyone has their own version.”

  Gracie’s cell phone rang as she watched Jim’s truck disappear down the road. A roiling sky filled with ominous clouds brought a quick end to the afternoon light. She prayed that Josh would be found safe and sound. It looked like winter had arrived with a vengeance. She caught the call just before it went to voicemail when she saw it was Marci.

  “Hey, are you all right?”

  “So far, but I need to ask you something.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Sheila was cleaning the carriage house and found something—uh—maybe incriminating.”

  “What?” Gracie asked impatiently.

  “Well, it’s probably nothing, but I’m—”

  “What did she find?”

  “Ipecac syrup. A half-empty bottle was stashed in the linen storage over there. Should I call that investigator?”

  “That stuff makes you throw up, doesn’t it?”

  “Right. I don’t know what an overdose would do to someone.”

  Gracie leaned against the kitchen door. “Make the call.”

  The wind had picked up, and snow fell thick and fast on the windshield of Gracie’s RAV4. The wipers slashed at the flakes as she and Marc made their way back to the B & B. They found Investigator Newman in the carriage house along with a crime scene tech and Marci.

  The contents of the chef’s suitcases were on the stripped bed, and the linens in the hallway closet were stacked on the floor. No other medications had been found, other than some prescription bottles in the bathroom previously identified and logged.

  “Still waiting for the Monroe County lab to call me,” the investigator said, poking through Flambeau’s shampoo and hair products on the bathroom counter.

  “They’re backed up all the time,” Marc commiserated. “Nothing changes.”

  The investigator’s phone rang, and the man perked up as he listened to the caller.

  “Good. Excellent. Thanks for calling.” He stuck the phone back in the holder on his belt. “We have news, and it isn’t ipecac. It’s tetrahydrozoline poisoning.”

  “What’s that?” Gracie and Marc asked in unison.

  “The stuff in some eye drops. We need to search the house again.”

  Gracie found herself trying to keep the restless pack of humans content while confined in the library. Marc, the investigator, and the tech began another search through the house.

  Marci and Kristin had brought in platters of scones and muffins, along with coffee and tea. Ward and Stephanie sat next to Neema. Ethan paced the room like an indignant cat.

  “I know this is another inconvenience, but—” Marci began.

  “Yes, it is another inconvenience,” Ethan complained. “It’s ridiculous at this point. Carl killed Rush. Carl may not make it himself. I can still book a flight out tonight. Another search of my personal belongings is going too far.”

  “I agree,” Ward said, leaning against his cane. “Stephanie and I have had it. I’m sorry, Marci, but we’ll be leaving as well. That is, if we can get a flight.”

  Marci quickly exited the room, which left Gracie on her own.

  “You know, folks, none of this is Marci’s fault,” Gracie started.

  “Oh, we know that. If she’s worried about a bad review, I’m not writing one,” Neema said.

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Gracie felt the tension ease a touch.

  “None of us will,” Stephanie assured her. “There won’t be any reviews, and I’m afraid no endorsements either.”

  “There are things we can overlook, but winding up as murder suspects isn’t one of them,” Ward added.

  “It stinks for Marci, but she should be glad we’re not going to torpedo the ship here; that is, if the police stop harassing us, we won’t.” Ethan threatened.

  Gracie felt some heat flare in her cheeks and bit her tongue. Anything she added would be met with resistance. Kristin began pouring cups of tea and looked at Neema, whose long legs were stretched out comfortably.

  “You like two sugars, right, Neema?” she asked, picking up a lump of sugar from the bowl with silver tongs.

  “Yes, you remembered. You’re a doll.” Neema stood, taking the tea from Kristin, and plucked a warm scone from the platter. “Mmm,” she said after taking a bite of the pastry. “Lemon. Good choice.”

  “Thanks. I try.” Kristin delivered cups to Stephanie and Ward. Ethan shook his head and continued to pace. Finally the sound of multiple footsteps on the stairs turned everyone’s attention toward the door. Ethan rejoined the group, but he stayed near the bookcases, running his hand across some of the leather-bound volumes.

  The investigator popped in, his face somber. “I’m sorry to tell you, but Mr. Flambeau passed away at the hospital. Unfortunately, he didn’t fully regain consciousness and didn’t give us a statement. In order to eliminate you from this murder investigation, I’ll have to ask you to stay another day or so. There are several things we need to clear up.”

  “Ridiculous,” Ethan snapped. “I have a flight out tonight, and you can’t keep me.”

  “That’s true, but wouldn’t you rather leave without any cloud of suspicion over you? I’m sure the press would make an event of you coming back for questioning later on,” the investigator said calmly, his formidable eyebrows drawn together. He looked quite sinister to Gracie.

  Ethan stared at the man, weighing his options. “You’re probably right, but I’m still leaving. If you’re finished with my room, I’m packing. Come on, Neema.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It wasn’t more than half an hour later that the four travel gurus were packed, leaving suitcases at the door. A curtain of snow fell outside, and phones began chirping. Flights were delayed. The Adamses elected to spend another night in view of their three-hour delay, but Ethan and Neema decided to chance it at the airport and drove off.

  Gracie found Kristin in the kitchen, crying into a dish towel. She placed a comforting hand on the distraught woman’s shoulder. She snuffled and wiped her face with the towel.

  “I’m so sorry, Kristin,” Gracie said. “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now.”

  Marci brought in the leftover scones and muffins, setting them on the island. Her mascara had run down her face, her eyes red and puffy. Gracie felt her own eyes prick with tears. What a disastrous weekend!

  “Kristin, if there’s anything I can do to help …” Gracie said, as she tucked the remaining pastries in a plastic container.

  “No thanks. I need to keep busy. Carl would want me to,” she answered, still sniffling.

  “No one expects dinner tonight, Kristin. You should get some rest,” Marci said.

  “I’m all right, but if I could just lie down for a little while …” Her voice quavered, and she began to slide to the floor.

  Marci rushed to catch her without success.

  “Marc!” Gracie yelled. She reached the woman and began rubbing her hand. “Wake up, Kristin. Come on, wake up.”

  Marc and Investigator Newman flew through the doorway. Stephanie and Ward followed behind, worried glances exchanged between them. Kristin stirred and finally came around as Marc helped her into a chair. The exhausted chef was escorted to her bedroom by Marc and Gracie, who made sure she was safely tucked under the fluffy comforter. They returned to the library where the Adamses, the crime scene tech, and investigator waited.

  “She ok
ay?” Investigator Newman asked.

  “I think so,” Marc responded. “She needs some sleep.”

  “Agreed,” the shorter man acknowledged. “We’ll be on our way.”

  “Do you have any more questions for us?” Ward asked stiffly. “We do intend to leave tomorrow.”

  “Right, Mr. Adams. You did say you’d known Mr. Flambeau well over ten years. Do you know if he had an eating disorder?”

  “What?” Ward Adams looked flabbergasted. “No. Of course not. He’s a chef and definitely a lover of food.”

  “So, not bulimic then?”

  “That’s ludicrous,” Stephanie piped up. “Carl loved cooking and eating. He wouldn’t make himself throw up.”

  “What about playing a joke on one of you—like adding a substance into someone’s food or drink?”

  “As in poisoning someone?” Ward was indignant. “Absolutely not. Neither he nor Kristin would do such a thing. Food is their livelihood.”

  “Have you ever used ipecac syrup, either of you?” Investigator Newman looked at the couple, his hand poised over his small notebook.

  “No. What is that anyway?” Ward answered for both of them.

  “It makes you vomit,” Stephanie said sharply to her husband. “No. I’ve never had it around, Investigator.”

  “How about Mr. Cleaver? Do you know if he had an eating disorder?”

  “Rush ate like a horse. He never met a meal he didn’t like until he got here,” Ward sneered.

  “Why is that?”

  Gracie decided to make herself comfortable in a reading nook away from the fireplace to observe this interesting discourse. Marc glided toward her, watching the couple as well. He picked up a magazine from a small end table and began absently thumbing through it before sitting down on a large leather hassock.

  “I don’t know. Do you, Stephanie?” Ward turned to his wife, who ran thin fingers through her blond-gray hair, separating the strands as if she were going to braid it.

  “Search me. He said he was suddenly allergic to a bunch of foods. He was angry at Carl too. I don’t know. Excuse me, but I need to go to my room for a moment.”

  Stephanie rushed from the room, an uncomfortable silence left in her wake.

  “While we wait for Mrs. Adams, I’m also wondering why Mr. Cleaver was invited to this event. The owner says the B & B Association recommended it and gave her his information. I understand that your organization didn’t email her about him. At least that’s what you and Mrs. Adams told Marc earlier.”

  Ward shifted uncomfortably on the loveseat, flexing his knee before answering.

  “I don’t know how Ms. Drummond received Cleaver’s email, but it certainly didn’t come from us.”

  “How about an employee or even Mr. Thomas or Ms. Chun?”

  “You’d have to ask them.”

  Marci entered with her tablet. “I couldn’t help overhearing, so I’ll have you look at this email. It came from the Association.”

  Ward scowled, his rugged face taking on a granite-like appearance. “All right. Let me look at it.”

  He snatched the tablet from Marci and squinted at the bright screen. “This isn’t our email. It’s similar, but it’s not our email.” He handed the device back.

  Stephanie reappeared and took her place next to Ward. “What did I miss?”

  “Please take a look at an email on Ms. Drummond’s tablet. Let me know if you’re familiar with the email address,” Investigator Newman instructed.

  She rose and studied the screen for a moment. “No. It’s not our address. It’s very close, but not ours. Is it one of those fake accounts?”

  “That’s what we need to find out. Could you try to send an email to that address?” The investigator looked at Marci, whose mouth was in a firm line.

  “Sure.” Marci began tapping on the screen. “There. I sent it. Hey, it’s been kicked back.” Marci perched on the arm of the nearest chair and opened the message. “No such email.”

  The investigator took the offered device to read it for himself. A tiny smile curled his mouth upward. “All right. That’s some good information. Thank you for your cooperation. I have your phone numbers, so if there’s anything else, I’ll be in touch.”

  “It’s about time,” Ward said. “I think Stephanie and I will take our chances on a local restaurant tonight. We’ll see you later, Marci.”

  The house quickly emptied with the exception of Gracie, Marc, and Marci.

  “This entire scenario was set up,” Marci lamented. “A fake email sent to me to get Cleaver here. Intentional murder, no accident. First–degree murder.”

  “I’m afraid that’s how it looks,” Marc agreed. “They all have motives. Cleaver made nasty comments about every one of them in his blog or in magazine articles. On TV, even. Everything is on YouTube.”

  “But where does the ipecac fit in?” Marci bit at her fingernail.

  “Apparently the investigator thinks someone has an eating disorder. I was just looking it up on my phone, and bulimics use it to purge,” Gracie said. “Have you noticed anyone running to the bathroom or slipping away after meals?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I haven’t noticed.”

  “What about Stephanie? She left while the investigator was questioning her. Did she have something to eat—any scones?” Marc took a seat on the couch, stretching his legs out comfortably.

  “She did have a couple of scones,” Gracie said. “I saw her eat them.”

  “But why was the ipecac found in the carriage house? Someone hid it away.” Marci bit at another nail.

  “No fingerprints on it either,” Marc added.

  “Interesting,” Gracie mused. “Women are much more likely to have eating disorders. How about Neema or even Kristin?”

  “I don’t know, Gracie. I have been so stressed about everything that I can’t think straight.”

  “We’re not going to figure this out tonight. We’d better go home and take care of the dogs,” Marc said.

  “How about some muffins for the road?” Marci managed a smile.

  “Sure.” Gracie trailed after her friend into the kitchen. “Do you have a plastic bag or something?”

  “Look in the drawer next to the refrigerator,” Marci said.

  Gracie opened the deep drawer and quickly found a box of storage bags. She yanked a bag from the box, which snagged and then gave way. Two objects tumbled to the floor.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jim had traveled for miles on back roads, then through the streets of Deer Creek and Castile searching for the old pickup. He had run out of ideas. It was almost dark, and the headlights automatically came on as he turned toward the kennel on the outskirts of Deer Creek.

  The old pickup was sitting in the Milky Way Kennels’ parking lot next to Cheryl’s vehicle. Jamming his truck into park, he jumped from the cab and sprinted into the office. He could hear Cheryl giving instructions on feeding and watering the dogs down the hallway. Jim removed his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his short hair. He needed to calm down and not alarm Josh. Who knew what was going on with him after disappearing for over twelve hours? He was glad he’d mentioned Josh to Cheryl. That was a stroke of genius at the moment.

  He took his time in walking down the long passageway full of barking dogs, most jumping against the gates for attention. Cheryl turned and smiled when she caught sight of him.

  “Hey, Jim. Josh is a quick study.”

  Jim forced a smile. “Good. I had a feeling he would be. So, Josh, how’s it going?”

  The well-built teen looked at his shoes and then finally met Jim’s gaze. “I guess I need to talk to you.”

  After a call to the Damons, Jim sat down with the young man in the office. Josh’s knee jiggled nervously as he began to recount the events leading up to his disappearance.

  A call from Leon, Jr. had triggered it all. The relationship between the two was complicated and controlled by Leon, Jr., who needed a vehicle from time to time. He also needed Josh�
��s muscle. Leon was permanently grounded after being suspended from school right before Josh had been moved to the Damons. His parents had made sure their son couldn’t get his hands on their vehicle keys. Leon had enough information on Josh to keep him from squealing or withholding the old pickup. Josh admitted to stealing the money from the church, stashing it in the church’s shed where he’d retrieved it later. Josh insisted it was to help his younger brother, who was also in foster care. He wanted to put enough money together to rent a place for the two of them once he was eighteen. Josh had stolen from others in school to add to the nest egg.

  “You know this isn’t going to work, right?” Jim asked.

  “I do now.” Josh hung his head, rubbing at his eyes.

  “So, what did Leon have you do with the truck?”

  The story spilled out of the boy, who tripped over his words, relieved of his burden. Leon was an accomplished thief with an eye for easily transported tools and electronics. They’d been storing them in the Damons’ barn, which was seldom visited by anyone. The renovation had been on hold for some time. Using the remote warehouse, Leon sold the items and gave Josh a small cut.

  “What about the nativity? Were you involved?” Jim set the empty mug on the desk, leaning forward for the answer.

  “Well, sort of.”

  “Come on, Josh. This isn’t a small deal. The reverend told me the value of the nativity. Its theft is a felony.”

  Tears welled up in Josh’s eyes, and he angrily swiped them away. “Yeah. I helped Leon take it all. He had the key to the church and everything. It was easy.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “Leon took it to another place. Not the Damons’ barn. It’s near Letchworth Park in an old shed.”

  “Can you take me to where it is?”

  “I think so.” The teen dropped his head again, dark-brown hair falling forward over his face.

  Marc came running at Gracie’s yelp from the kitchen. She pointed to the white tile when he burst through the swinging door.