Gingerdead Man

by Maya Corrigan

  Decades ago, after the chief’s father died suddenly, Granddad had taken the teenaged Earl under his wing, treating him like a son. Val remembered her first impression of the policeman. When she was a child visiting her grandparents, he’d reminded her of a gingerbread man, with his round head on a barrel-chested frame, his neck barely visible, and a big smile on his face.

  Decades of police work had worn down that smile. Tonight he greeted them grim-faced. Once they were seated at a table, the chief jotted in a small spiral notebook as Val described the costume and actions of the Ghost of Christmas Presents.

  The chief looked up from his notebook. “Anything else unusual about that individual?”

  “The ghost walked with a hitch or a slight limp.”

  “Height and weight?”

  Val conjured an image of the strange figure. “A weight estimate wouldn’t be reliable. Someone thin could wear an overcoat under the robe and look heavier. The ghost wasn’t short or very tall. The gift bag might have added a couple of inches. It rested on the ghost’s shoulders and had eyeholes at two different heights, so I don’t know where the eyes really were.”

  “Let’s narrow it down. Could the ghost have been your height?”

  “Five foot three? No. The ghost was a minimum of five inches taller than that.”

  The chief stood up. “As tall as me? I’m six foot.”

  “No, and the ghost wasn’t as big in the shoulders as you.”

  “Approximately five foot eight to ten. Medium for a man, tall for a woman.”

  Granddad spoke up, “Coulda been a shorter woman in high heels.”

  “Those can give you a wobbly walk. And aching feet.” Val was glad she could wear athletic shoes at the café and was grateful to be sitting now. She’d spent so much time on her feet that the low-heeled boots she’d put on this morning no longer felt comfortable.

  Granddad described the gingerdead man cookie Jake had unwrapped and what happened within minutes of his eating it.

  A call came in for the chief. He got up and walked across the room to take it. He returned to the table, looking even more somber than he had earlier. “That was a police officer at the hospital. Jake Smith is dead. It looks like poison.”

  Chapter 4

  Chief Yardley surveyed the table where Jake had eaten his last meal. “Please tell me who was here for tea and where everyone sat.”

  “I thought you might say that, Earl.” Granddad reached into his pants pocket for a festival flyer, unfolded it, and turned it to the reverse side. “I made you a seating chart.”

  Val peeked at his diagram as he passed it to the chief.

  The chief’s eyebrows rose. “I’ve known you most of my life, Don, but you still surprise me.” He looked at the chart and then at the table. “Which end was Jake at?”

  “He was facing the food prep area.” Val went over to it. “Irene Pritchard and I were facing the table as we assembled sandwiches and plated the food to take to the table.”

  The chief stood behind Jake’s chair. “You could see Jake from there, but you weren’t necessarily looking at him the whole time because you were working. Is that correct?” When she nodded, he said, “Did either of you notice a guest moving or removing food, dishware, or anything else on the table after Jake collapsed?”

  Granddad whipped out his cell phone. “Nope, but I took a photo of the table right after he keeled over. You can compare it to how the table looks now.”

  Val stared at him, amazed. While she’d assumed at first that Jake’s drinking explained his fall, Granddad had immediately suspected foul play. The recent murders in Bayport must have influenced his thinking.

  The chief mimed tipping his hat to Granddad. “Send me the photo.” He turned to Val. “I’d like you to give me a schedule, your best estimate, of when each person arrived for the tea. You can e-mail me that. Did Jake leave the room and come back at any time?” When Val shook her head, he said, “Was anyone near Jake’s food aside from you and Irene?”

  His question suggested he wasn’t as convinced as Granddad that the gingerdead man had killed Santa. Val conjured an image of the ghost circling the table. “The ghost leaned over the table to put down the gift bags and had the chance to drop something into Jake’s tea.”

  Granddad pointed to the teacup and sugar bowl to the right of Jake’s plate. “His wife sat right next to him, close enough to put something in his tea. If she reached for the sugar, she could have slipped something into his tea without anyone noticing.”

  Val agreed. “Especially if she did it when everyone was distracted by the ghost.”

  The chief peered into the cup. “There’s still a bit of tea there, probably enough for the lab to test for poison. I don’t see any platters on the table. Did you clear those away, Val?”

  “No, we didn’t use platters. Jake had a cold. We didn’t want his germs passed around. Irene and I made up a plate for each guest. We put exactly the same things on everyone’s plate.”

  Dorothy came through the curtained entrance to the CAT Corner. “I heard voices in here. I thought you’d be finished by—” She stopped short at the sight of the chief. “Is there a problem?” Looking nervous, she fingered her hair.

  “Yes,” he said. “We have to restrict access to this room. We’re treating it as a crime scene.”

  Dorothy’s eyes widened. “A crime scene! My bookshop.” As Bram came into the room, she turned to Granddad. “What happened here, Don?”

  Granddad went over to her. “I’m sorry to tell you this. Santa didn’t survive. He died at the hospital.”

  She frowned. “How did he die? Why is this a crime scene?”

  Bram put his arm around his mother.

  Chief Yardley said, “We’re investigating his death as a possible poisoning, but please keep that to yourself. Until we can get a team here—tomorrow at the latest—I’d like this area to remain as is. No one should come in here or remove anything from the room.” He pointed to the doorway. “Is there any way to close off this space with something more than a curtain?”

  Bram said he’d roll some tall bookcases in front of the curtained entrance to prevent access from the shop to the room. He’d also lock the back door to the CAT Corner. Then he gently led his mother out.

  * * *

  Val and Granddad trudged home along the same route they’d taken that morning. She’d anticipated an enjoyable festival. Granddad’s expectations had been lower. When they both looked back on this day, though, Santa’s poisoning would be the only thing they’d remember.

  Back home, Granddad sank into his lounge chair, a gift from Val’s mother and the only comfortable chair in the house. “This sure has been a long day. Dorothy was really upset about a crime connected to the bookshop, and she asked me to explain it. I hope she doesn’t hold what happened against me.”

  A baseless fear in Val’s opinion. Dorothy appeared to be as fond of him as he was of her. “She asked you to explain because she trusted you to give her a straight story. Why would she hold anything against you?”

  “She’s only been here a couple of months and already there have been two suspicious deaths involving groups in that back room. I was around both times. So were you. She might think we’re bad luck and avoid us from now on.”

  “Dorothy isn’t superstitious. She’s logical and level-headed.” Val crossed the sitting room toward the kitchen. “I’m getting myself a glass of water. You want one?”

  “I’d like a beer.”

  When she returned with the drinks, Granddad was reading something on his phone. For years he’d rarely even answered his cell phone. Now, after her mother had given him the latest model with a bigger screen, he was addicted—snapping photos, downloading books, and surfing for information.

  He looked up from the screen. “I think I know what killed Jake—cyanide. It doesn’t take much to kill someone with it. It acts fast, causes symptoms like the ones he had, and leaves a distinctive odor. Not everyone can smell it, but someone at the hospi
tal might have recognized it.”

  Val took Granddad’s analysis with a grain of salt. He was no expert, but the fact that the police were calling the CAT Corner a crime scene meant they didn’t think Santa had been poisoned earlier in the day. They had reason to believe it was a fast-acting poison.

  She plopped down on the old tweed sofa. “Isn’t a cyanide pill what spies carried in case they were captured?”

  “Yup, so they could commit suicide before they were tortured. I can’t see Jake committing suicide, but it’s easy to imagine someone killing him. His wife was in the best position to poison him. She couldn’t do it at home because she’d be the only suspect. She mighta got someone to play the ghost as a diversion so she could sneak poison into Jake’s tea. I wonder how much money she’s going to inherit.”

  Val put down her glass. This wasn’t the first time Granddad favored the victim’s spouse as the culprit and came up with a scenario based on little evidence. “Earlier you thought the ghost was the culprit and the gingerdead man contained the poison.”

  “I’m considering all the options.” He took a long swallow of beer. “The woman who sat on the other side of Jake, opposite his wife, had a chance to poison him too.”

  “Holly Atherson?” Val shook her head. “His cup and glass were on the side where his wife could reach them, not on Holly’s side. And she moved her chair and place setting farther from him because he was sneezing.”

  “I don’t think she did it at the table. We’re all assuming he was poisoned before he fell down. But maybe something else caused him to lose his balance—too many slugs from his flask all day long. Holly rushed to help him before anyone else could. We couldn’t see him when she was bending over him. While she was supposedly trying to help him, she could have slipped a cyanide pill into his mouth.”

  “Which she just happened to have in hand? Why would she do that? They introduced themselves to each other. They behaved like strangers. She even called him the wrong name.”

  “I’m working on opportunity now. We’ll figure out the motive later.”

  We? Val was about to dismiss his latest theory as a flight of fancy when she remembered that Holly had stared at Jake as if he looked familiar. Maybe he reminded her of someone she’d once known. But to take cyanide to the tea and use it on him required certainty about his identity, and about her ability to slip him the poison without anyone noticing. “One thing is clear—this wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment crime. Cyanide means premeditation.”

  Granddad rubbed his chin as he often did when he was pondering an idea that popped into his head. “Did you put the food on Jake’s plate or did Irene?”

  Val shrugged. “We were both filling plates.”

  “Who took them to the table?”

  “She did.” Val shifted on the sofa to get away from a spring she could feel through the worn cushion. “I know what you’re thinking. Irene could have poisoned something on the plate she put in front of him.” And it had been Irene’s idea to plate the food rather than pass it around.

  “You said she didn’t much like Jake.”

  An understatement. Irene couldn’t abide him. Val believed her capable of slipping something in Jake’s food to give him indigestion, but not to kill him. “Irene wouldn’t tamper with any food she was preparing, and she’s no murderer.”

  “I’m talking about the opportunity to poison Jake, and four people had it. The women on either side of him at the table—his wife and Holly.” Granddad ticked them off on his fingers. “Then we have the ghost and Irene.”

  “Another person had the opportunity. Jake could have poisoned Jake, committing suicide in a dramatic way.” Val jumped up from the sofa. “I almost forgot. I told Irene I’d drop off her china tonight, the stuff she supplied for the tea parties. I’d better call and tell her what happened.”

  “No! Don’t call her. Let’s go to her house. She’s expecting you anyway.” Granddad eased himself out of his lounge chair. “I want to see her face when you tell her Jake’s dead.”

  Val sighed. Fifteen minutes ago he’d crashed on the chair in exhaustion. Now he was full of energy. Nothing animated him more than the prospect of solving a murder. Murder didn’t exactly make him merry, but at least it took his mind off minor matters like playing Scrooge instead of Santa.

  Chapter 5

  As Granddad turned onto Creek Road, where Irene lived, Val looked out the window at the houses lit up for the season. One of them resembled a gingerbread house with multicolor lights framing the doors and windows, glowing candy canes lining the path to the front door, and gumdrop ornaments hanging from the trees.

  Tonight Val couldn’t even view holiday decorations without bleak thoughts intruding. Gingerbread houses had a dark history, linked to the Grimm brothers’ tale of Hansel and Gretel, who kill a witch by the same cruel method she planned to use on them. Val shivered.

  Granddad parked in front of Irene’s one-story house decorated with a single string of white lights along the eaves. The house was plain and sturdy, like Irene and her husband.

  Val rang the bell. When no one responded, she pushed the button longer, and Granddad knocked on the door.

  As Irene opened it, the sound of a roaring crowd at a football game blared from the television. “It’s hard for me to hear the bell when Roger watches TV. Have you been waiting long?”

  Val knew from having tried to carry on a conversation with Irene’s husband that he was both hard of hearing and taciturn. “We just got here. We have something important to tell you.”

  Irene frowned. “You didn’t bring my china?”

  Val shook her head. “No, and I came to explain why. Is this a good time for us to talk?”

  Irene hesitated as if trying to ward off bad news. Maybe she was afraid her antique china had been stolen. Dealing with her resembled eating a loaf of day-old sourdough. You had to work your way through the crusty exterior to get to the softer middle.

  Irene opened the door wider. “Come in. We can get away from the TV by sitting in the kitchen.”

  The front door opened directly into the living room. Val waved to Roger, who raised his hand in greeting and returned his attention to the football game. She followed Irene through the living room to the kitchen. Granddad stopped to exchange a few words with Roger, probably checking on the game score.

  Val had never been in Irene’s kitchen. Next to the new appliances, the cabinets and counters looked dated. Larger than the living room, the kitchen must have been extended to include an eating space and a small sitting area with an armchair and ottoman. From this room Irene would have a view of her side gardens and of the backyard that extended down to the creek. On a moonless night like this, Val couldn’t see the creek, only the bare branches of the trees nearest the house.

  Granddad joined them in the kitchen.

  Irene pointed to the table. “Have a seat. Would you like some tea or water?”

  He declined, but Val asked for water. Irene brought her a glass and put one for herself on the table. She sat down, her back erect, her hands folded.

  The round table had exactly enough room for three people. The third chair must have been there for Irene and Roger’s son, Jeremy, who worked afternoons at Val’s Cool Down Café and evenings at the Bayport marina’s crab restaurant. The young man probably visited and ate regularly with his parents, although he no longer lived with them.

  Val got straight to the point. “I wanted to let you know that Jake became ill after you left the CAT Corner. An ambulance took him to the hospital. He died there.”

  Irene’s eyes bugged out. “What was it? A heart attack?”

  Granddad leaned across the table, scrutinizing Irene at closer range. “The police are keeping this under wraps for now, so don’t tell anyone. He didn’t die of natural causes. They’re running tests for poison.”

  Irene looked askance. “Not by anything we gave him to eat. No one else was sick, were they?” She turned to Val for confirmation.

  “No. The others wer
e fine. The police are testing all the food in the CAT Corner. I wasn’t allowed to remove anything, which is why I couldn’t bring your china.”

  “I hope the police don’t break any of it.” Irene sipped her water. “I didn’t much care for Jake, but when somebody dies, you gotta do what’s right. I’ll let the neighbors know he passed away. They’ll stop in to make sure Jewel’s okay for the next few days. If she has family coming, we’ll pitch in and bring her some food.”

  Val was surprised. Irene wasn’t just doing what was right, she was showing generosity toward inconsiderate neighbors. “That’s good of you, Irene, especially after Jake and Jewel destroyed your plants.”

  “She wasn’t involved. He did it in June, when he moved in. She didn’t come until October.” Irene ran her finger around the edge of her water glass. “Most married people move in at the same time.”

  Was Irene implying that Jake and Jewel weren’t married? Val could think of good reasons why a woman might stay behind after her husband moved, like work or family obligations.

  Granddad said, “Maybe Jewel stayed back to fix up their old house and get the best price for it. They could have taken out a bridge loan on the place here.”

  Irene folded her arms. “Uh-uh. My former neighbors told me Jake bought the house with cash. His name was the only one on the sales contract.”

  Still not proof they weren’t married. Val picked up her glass. “They might have separated and then reconciled.”

  Irene raised a skeptical eyebrow. “After he chopped down the bushes between our houses, he could see right into our living room and kitchen. That works two ways.” She pointed to the side window. “From there I have a view of the bedrooms in his place. His windows have curtains, but with the lights on at night, I could tell who was in the room. Those two slept in separate rooms, and I heard them arguing when they were sitting on their back patio.”

  Val wished she had a dollar for every married couple who argued and slept apart. She could pay for all the needed improvements in Granddad’s house and take a really nice vacation. “Where did Jake and Jewel come from?”