by Liz Mugavero
“He seemed fine,” Amara said. “He came in wearing his costume and nodded at me. He didn’t say much, but there was nothing about him that suggested he wasn’t feeling well. We didn’t have time to chat. But he was eating the cookies and drinking the cider and lifting things. He seemed perfectly healthy.”
“So why would you think it had something to do with the food or the drinks?”
“Because he had a lot of them. Like, two cups of cider before we got in the sleigh, and he brought one with him.”
“Did he eat anything?”
“He ate like five cookies. Almost like he hadn’t eaten all day or something. And … I don’t know, it just seemed to hit him all of a sudden when we were driving. And he grabbed his stomach, not his chest. Like he suddenly got massive pains.” She sighed and looked at Vincent. “He’s more of an expert on this than me.”
Stan glanced at him. “You are?”
Vincent shrugged modestly. “I studied a lot of science. Worked in a research lab.” He hesitated. “We researched poisons and how fast they would kill certain mammals.”
“Sounds like a fun job. But …” Stan sat back, trying to process this. “This sounds a little crazy, Amara. Weren’t there other people eating and drinking the refreshments too?”
Amara shook her head slowly. “Santa has special refreshments. Don’t you remember the committee talking about that from the meetings? They wanted to make sure Izzy did it right this year. I guess he—Seamus—has some weird thing about sharing food with strangers.” Stan had a vague memory of an incredibly long conversation about a special carafe of coffee or cider for Santa and some personalized cookies. At some point she’d tuned out.
“He gets his own plate of cookies and his own Crock-Pot of whatever he likes to drink,” Amara went on. “Just like the kids would leave him special milk and cookies on Christmas Eve. They had some bottles of water and a small tray of cookies for the elves.”
“And you’re sure no one else touched his food or drink?” Stan asked.
Amara shrugged. “I can only be sure no one did while I was there. But there was no one from the committee in the room when I got there, so who knows?”
“Are you going to tell Jessie?” Stan asked.
Amara rubbed her temples. “I have to, don’t I? But then it looks bad for Izzy. Especially since I haven’t seen her at all. She was supposed to meet me there with the refreshments, not just leave them. It was one of the stipulations the museum staff had. You’re on the committee, you know this. They wanted someone there at all times while they were letting us use the room, so it wasn’t sitting there unlocked to anyone who happened to wander in.”
Stan felt her heart sink a little. It was true. The museum people had been adamant about not leaving the room unattended. Why would Izzy blow off her duties like that? It was her food—her reputation—at stake. “We should just ask her, before she hears about this from someone else. You know how fast news travels around here.” She pulled out her phone, noticed a text message from Jake she hadn’t heard come through. She’d have to get back to him later. “Maybe she got the apples for the cider from a new farm. Maybe they were bad?” She noticed her hands shaking as she hit buttons and knew she was babbling. “And maybe something came up and she had to drop the stuff off early and just forgot to tell you?”
“I guess,” Amara said, sounding unconvinced. “But that’s not like her.”
It wasn’t. Izzy took her food very seriously. She’d worked hard to build up her reputation in town and never took for granted any event that got her coffee, chocolates, and pastries in front of a broader audience. Plus, she loved Christmas. It was unlike her to not be in the midst of all the activity. And come to think of it, Stan hadn’t caught a glimpse of her friend all night. Earlier she’d been too caught up in the McGee crowd to notice, but now it became painfully obvious.
“I’m calling her.” She pressed speed dial two on her phone and waited. Izzy’s mobile rang four times on the other end before it went to voicemail. Stan disconnected and tried the café. Jana, one of Izzy’s baristas, answered.
“Hey. It’s Stan. Izzy around?”
“Hi, Stan.” Jana sounded distracted. “She’s not. And a ton of people just came in here and they’re saying Santa died? What the heck is going on?”
Stan groaned inwardly. Of course the Frog Ledge gossip mill would be out in full force. “Have Izzy call me if you see her?” Without waiting for an answer, she ended the call and looked at Amara. “I have no idea where she would be.”
“Maybe the bookstore?” Vincent suggested. “She was distracted with all that, getting ready for her own opening.”
“Good thought.” Stan nodded, encouraged. “I bet that’s where she is. And why she’s not picking up.” But still, it’s the town Christmas celebration, a little voice nagged at her. She wouldn’t miss that.
The doorbell rang. They all looked at each other like it was the Grim Reaper calling. Finally Vince went to open it. Seconds later, he reappeared with Jessie on his heels. Jessie took one look at Stan and shook her head.
“Don’t you have a store to run?” she asked.
“It’s open,” Stan said. “Brenna’s there.”
Jessie turned to Amara. “Can we talk? Alone,” she added.
“Sure,” Amara said with as much enthusiasm as if she was going to a root canal. “We can go to my office.”
“Great, lead the way,” Jessie said.
Amara sent Stan and Vincent a pleading look, then turned and led Jessie out of the room.
Stan watched them go, then turned to Vincent. “What do you think? Is everyone just a little murder crazy lately with … all the things that have happened recently?”
Vincent chewed on his lower lip, one hand absently stroking the stubble on his chin. Lately he’d been growing just enough beard to have a perpetual five o’clock shadow. Amara said he thought it made him look more dangerous. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I mean, the guy could’ve died from a heart attack, you’re right. Or some other kind of attack. But …” He lowered his voice and looked around. “During my research years, I saw some sudden onslaught deaths … in the lab animals.” He hesitated, watching Stan for a reaction. He knew she hated any kind of research that involved hurting animals. But right now she just wanted to hear his reasoning. “Deaths like what Amara described. And they were usually the result of some fast-acting poison.”
Chapter Five
Stan scooped up Scruffy and headed out with a promise to check in on Amara in the morning. She wanted to go by Izzy’s bookstore and see if she could track her friend down. She also needed to get to her shop. It was her opening night and she was missing it. She’d waited a long time to get her shop open, and she’d like to actually be there to experience the first night.
She remembered that Izzy had also delivered all the refreshments intended for Stan’s soft opening this evening, and was seized by panic. Not that she thought Izzy had done anything, but what if someone had tampered with her food?
She shuddered a bit, thinking of what could be ahead for her friend if Amara was right about the cider. And she needed to talk to Jake. She had no idea if he’d heard yet, but suspected he would have. If people were at Izzy’s talking about it, the stories at McSwigg’s had to be even more wild given the accompanying alcohol. She felt a headache coming on just thinking about it. Plus, he was looking for her and would worry if he didn’t hear from her.
On her way, she called Brenna. “Hey. I’ll be there soon.”
“Okay. Have you heard anything else? This is crazy!”
“I haven’t. But can you put the pastries and drinks Izzy brought out in the kitchen? Don’t give them to anyone. And don’t have any.”
“I couldn’t eat anyway. But oh my God. Why?”
“I’ll tell you later. Don’t worry. Hey, is Izzy there by any chance?”
“Haven’t seen her.”
Stan hung up and hurried along down the sidewalk. Despite Tony’s ef
forts to make the situation as unnoticeable as possible, the town was in a bit of an uproar. She could feel the hum of energy in the air as people tried to piece together the events of the night and Santa’s mistaken identity. Plus the terribly disturbing fact that Santa had died. And there would be the added speculation about Ray Mackey’s disappearance, since Char sure as heck wouldn’t be quiet about it.
She turned onto Main Street, setting Scruffy down to walk beside her. Of course she felt terrible for Harold, but this had really put a kink in things.
“Stan!”
She turned at the sound of her name, sighing when she saw Cyril Pierce jogging toward her. Frog Ledge’s quirky newspaperman was on the story, from the looks of things. Scruffy sat and woo wooed at Cyril until he reached them. He bent down to awkwardly pat her head. Cyril wasn’t much of a dog person.
“Hey, Cyril. I’m kind of in a hurry.”
“I hear you. I’m on a deadline too. Were you there when the sleigh pulled up? Did you see what happened to Harold? Did you know it was Harold instead of Seamus McGee?” Cyril whipped a steno pad out of the pocket of his long black winter coat. Cyril owned two coats—a black trench coat for summer and a warmer, black wool version for winter. It was part of his brand. Tonight, he looked absolutely jazzed. Reporters, Stan had found over the years, were a different kind of animal. They had a strange balance of frenzy for news, no matter how sad or disturbing it was, and empathy for the people affected.
“I didn’t know it was Harold until everyone else did. And no, I was there but I didn’t see anything.”
He looked disappointed. “You didn’t? You always have great seats for unattended deaths.”
“Thanks for reminding me. Between you and my mother I’m going to get a complex.” Stan turned and started walking. Scruffy trotted along beside her, tail wagging.
Cyril fell into step next to them. “Big news week this week, between this, all the controversy around the new restaurant, and the breaking news out of Ireland. I’m going to have to hire more staff soon. Are you interested?”
“No. Thanks. New restaurant? Ireland? What are you talking about, Cyril?”
He looked offended. “You haven’t been reading the paper? This is your town, Stan. You of all people, as a freelancer, have a duty to be up on the news.”
“Cyril. I wrote one story for you. I’m hardly a regular.”
“Well, the offer’s always open. And since it’s your almost brother-in-law’s restaurant proposal causing all the controversy, that would be an even better reason to know. At least about that story.”
“Kyle?” Stan stopped and turned to him. Her sister Caitlyn’s fiancé, Kyle McLeod, had mentioned wanting to open a vegetarian restaurant in Frog Ledge once they were settled. They’d moved in only a month ago after Caitlyn had fallen in love with the tiny town—much to Stan’s surprise—and he was apparently moving full steam ahead. But Stan’d been so busy getting her own shop ready that she hadn’t been paying attention to any progress he’d made.
Cyril nodded. “Yep. He filed an application and the zoning board is giving him a hard time. Apparently the owners of the farmland next door don’t want a restaurant there. Since they’re already getting a bunch of condos, they want nothing to do with it. Of course, you know who the owners are, don’t you?” He waggled his bushy, untamed eyebrows at her.
She sighed. “No, Cyril. Since I didn’t even know there was a restaurant, I don’t know who the owners of the proposed land are.”
“The O’Sullivan sisters.”
She blanked for a second, then realized who he meant. “Miss Viv and Victoria?”
He nodded. “The very same.”
“Really?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you. I’m a journalist. We look for the truth.” He puffed out his chest a little bit. “Now. Maybe this will cause a rift between the Connors and the McGees?”
“Why on earth would that happen?” Stan asked, exasperated. At the same time, she was also overcome with a sudden urge to giggle at the image of a modern-day Hatfield and McCoy small-town feud.
“Well, you know. You’re almost a McGee, and so’s Miss Viv. You’re also a Connor. There could be problems.”
“Cyril. I think we all have bigger problems tonight,” Stan said.
“You’re right about that. There’s way bigger news, at least for a fellow Irish. Have you heard about the Book of Kells?”
Stan frowned. She was familiar with the treasured religious artifact featuring the four gospels of the New Testament—had even seen them once on a trip to Ireland with her dad—but couldn’t fathom what they had to do with Cyril. “What about it?”
Cyril face-palmed his forehead. “I expected more from you, Stan Connor.”
“Cyril.” Stan was slowly losing her patience. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Someone stole the Book of Kells last week.”
“What?” It seemed far-fetched. The book was housed at the Trinity College Library in Dublin, which would be hard to break into. Also, the book was really four large volumes, only two of which were on display at a time, which would make it difficult, should a thief get that far. “How is that even possible? And why are you reporting on that? You only do local news.”
“I’ve been picking up Associated Press stories that matter to us out here,” he said defensively. “I happen to have personal ties to the Book of Kells.”
“You do?”
“My father was a scholar of Irish artifacts. He did a whole series of articles about the book. And, he got to interview the last guy who tried to steal it. While he was in jail. I’m planning to republish his pieces next week.”
“Wow. I had no idea. How is your dad doing?”
Cyril’s dad, Arthur, had even more newsprint running through his blood than his son, if that were possible. He’d run the Frog Ledge Holler for nearly sixty years. Over the past year, he’d been ill and was in an assisted living community.
“You know, this has given him some new life,” Cyril said. “He’s actually engaged and following the news. I’m wondering if I should ask him to try writing a piece. He thought it could never happen, after the botched theft.”
“Well, that’s really interesting. I’ll look for the articles. I have to run, Cyril.”
“I’ll walk with you.” Cyril was not one to be deterred. “We’re going in the same direction.”
“I was hoping to find Izzy at the bookstore,” Stan said.
Cyril raised an eyebrow. “Ah. Wasn’t she supposed to be serving refreshments for the event tonight?” His tone told her he knew exactly that she was supposed to be doing that.
“Yup,” Stan said.
He let it go. For the moment. “So any idea where Seamus is?” he asked as they picked up the pace down the street.
Stan sighed. And here was the real reason he wanted to talk to her. “Nope.”
“Weren’t you with the family?”
Stan sent him a sideways look. “I was. But clearly he wasn’t.”
“Char is freaking out about Ray being with him,” Cyril said. “Have you talked to her?”
“I saw her over at the green. She’s upset, but I’m sure there’s a good explanation for where those two are,” she said, praying it was true. “Cyril, I really have to go. I need to find Izzy and go deal with some stuff at my store.”
“Okay.” He continued to walk with her.
“Cyril!”
“What?” he asked, offended. “I’m going to my office to file a story.”
“Oh.” She felt silly now. His office was in the same newly remodeled building as Izzy’s bookstore, a building in which Jake and Izzy were business partners. Which meant she and Cyril were heading to the same place.
They walked in silence the rest of the way. When they got there, Cyril unlocked the front door and they stepped into the hallway. One door led to Izzy’s bookstore, while a staircase led down to the basement where the Holler’s operations were.
Cyril paused in the foyer be
fore heading down to his cave, and nodded at her. “I’ll see you soon.”
It sounded, unfortunately, like a promise. “See you,” Stan said, and tried the door to the bookstore. It was locked, and all was quiet inside. Stan knocked on the door just for kicks, but heard only silence.
Great. Where on earth was her friend?
She turned to leave, almost bumping into Tyler Hoffman rushing in from the street.
“Sorry, Stan! Got to upload my photos,” he said, racing by her.
“Hey, Tyler. What photos?”
He paused on the stairs and turned back to her. “You know. From tonight.” He had the grace to look sheepish. “I got some shots of Santa in the sleigh. Cyril wants them online pronto.”
Tyler, Emmalee Hoffman’s son and Ted Brahm’s stepson, had taken the job with Cyril over the summer when he returned to Frog Ledge from a stint at a faraway college. He’d been running away from his hometown after the untimely death of his father last year, but had missed it more than he realized. He’d started out photographing council meetings and happy town events, but apparently Cyril had brought him over to the dark side of the news.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Stan said.
“Yeah.” Tyler’s face fell. “Harold wasn’t a bad guy. When he was drunk he could be kind of a jerk, you know? But when he wasn’t drunk he was okay. I felt bad for him. My mom used to let him help out at the farm sometimes.”
“Really? So you knew him?”
Tyler nodded. “He was only in town for the fall and winter. Those were the months he could stay at Lester Crookshank’s. He had some other gig in the spring and summer.”
“Lester? The guy who owns the tree farm?”
Tyler nodded.
Stan knew Lester from last summer, when he’d needed help with some feral cats that were living on his property. She’d helped him trap the cats and get them fixed, then set him up with food and some places where they could sleep. As far as she knew, Lester and the cats were enjoying coexisting. And he’d forever endeared himself to her by caring about them. “So Harold was kind of a seasonal resident. Did he get along with most people?” Stan asked, hoping her questions sounded casual.