I shrugged. “Krystal didn’t have a proper mother. Maybe Ethel kind of filled in for that.”
“Sad,” Quinn said. “What are you up to, by the way?”
“We’ve got a cookie exchange this afternoon.”
“The one at the Marburgers’? I wanted to go, but I’ve got too much to do before the market. Maybe you can ask Teena if she knows anything.”
“I still haven’t figured out that flower comment she made,” I said. “Maybe she was talking about the datura in the poisoned bread? But that isn’t right; she said to look under the flowers.”
“Maybe she’ll have more info today.”
“Even if she does, I doubt it will hold up in court,” I said. Evidence provided by psychics generally didn’t.
“She might at least be able to point you in the right direction,” Quinn suggested.
“It’s worth a shot. I’ll take what I can get.”
“What time’s the exchange?”
“Three,” I said.
“I’d take your mom’s rental car,” she said, wrinkling her nose again. “Unless you like gasoline-flavored cookies.”
My mother and I pulled up at the cookie exchange at three that afternoon. The Marburgers’ house was an old Victorian a block from the square, with gingerbread trim on the porch and a shingled roof that looked like it was made of slate. I could hear a happy bustle of voices inside as we rang the doorbell, and a moment later, Margaret opened the door.
“Lucy!” she said, smiling at me. “And Linda. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? I’m so glad you could come!”
“Thanks for including me,” my mother said.
“Of course!” she said. Despite the traditional house, Margaret’s personal style was very modern; she wore her graying blonde hair cut short and a chunky modern necklace around her slender neck. She and my mother didn’t look too dissimilar, actually—only my mother preferred pearls. “I’m glad you could make it,” Margaret said with a smile. “I’m so sorry about Molly and Brittany. Any word?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“And I heard you found Ethel Froehlich today,” she said, her hand going to her necklace. “So tragic. Any idea what happened?”
“Nothing yet,” I said. “Is Teena around?”
“Teena?” She looked confused for a moment. “Oh. You’re thinking she might be able to help. She’ll be home in a few minutes, I think.”
“She’s got an amazing talent.”
Margaret shivered. “I know, and I wish she didn’t. It’s unreliable, but I guess it’s worth a shot. Y’all come on in,” she said, inviting us into the fragrant house. “Everyone’s in the kitchen.” The sound of “Jingle Bells” mingled with chattering voices floated in the air, and a huge tree decorated with handmade ornaments stood in the bay window of the living room.
“Thank you,” I said, and we followed her through the house to the small, bright kitchen. The white counters were covered with colorful platters of cookies, and a throng of women in Christmas sweaters were gathered, coffee mugs and plates of cookies in hand. The voices dwindled away as I walked in, and everyone looked at me with wide eyes.
“Lucy!” Edna Orzak hurried over to me, breaking the silence. “I heard about Ethel. What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, “but hopefully the sheriff will investigate.”
“I’ll bet it was that woman, Molly, again. If it was poison, she didn’t need to be there,” Wanda Karp piped up. I resisted the urge to strangle her; we’d had enough deaths in Buttercup already.
“Good to see you again,” I lied. “I didn’t know you knew Margaret.”
“We’re in a knitting group together,” Margaret supplied. “Wanda brought the gluten-free almond crescents.” I glanced over at the platter she pointed at; the almond crescents looked more like concrete chunks than cookies, and I made a mental note to avoid them. From the large pile on the platter, it looked like I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
“You were friends with Ethel, weren’t you?” I asked Wanda.
“Yes,” she said, her face drooping. “I still can’t believe she died. Do you think it was more of Molly’s poisoned bread?” My stomach twisted.
“What did she put in the bread?” Edna asked.
“Jimsonweed seeds, from what I hear,” Wanda said. “I’ve been trying to remember who had some growing in their yard last year.”
“I guess we should steer clear of poppy seed cookies,” Ursula Mueller joked, but there was a brief, uncomfortable silence as we all looked at the home-baked goods. Molly might not have poisoned Krystal—and possibly Ethel—but someone had.
“You don’t think Molly did it?” Wanda said, looking at me. “She wasn’t very happy with her daughter hanging out with that girl. Maybe Brittany disappeared so she wouldn’t have to testify against her mother.”
“There’s something funny about that church,” Edna Orzak said. “Two parishioner deaths in a week now. I can’t believe they’re filming a television show there.”
Wanda’s mouth puckered, but she didn’t say anything.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Betty Zapp chimed in. “I think there’s some kind of investigation going on.”
“Investigation?” Wanda asked. “What kind?”
“My daughter works for the network in Dallas. She told me the company got burned a few shows ago, and now they’re being super careful,” Betty said.
“What do you mean, burned?” I asked.
“Big scandal with the priest—apparently he had a second wife up in Arkansas. The show went under after only about four episodes; the network pulled it. So now they’re being extra careful.”
“They’re investigating Pastor Matheson?” I asked, thinking of the family’s low-key response to their missing child . . . and Mindy’s interest in Word of the Lord Church. Was she the investigator? “Do you think the network knows the pastor’s son has run off with Brittany?”
Betty nodded. “All of Buttercup knows. It’s not exactly a state secret.”
“True,” I said, feeling a twist in my stomach at the thought of Brittany. Where was she? Was she safe?
“Pastor Matheson is beyond reproach,” announced Wanda, who was clutching a gingerbread cookie and looking as if we’d just told her the church would be replacing the communion wine with vodka shots. “You seem to have something against Pastor Matheson,” she said, looking at me.
She wasn’t wrong. Not only did the good pastor seem totally unconcerned about the disappearance of his son with my friend’s daughter, but from what I could see, he was using his charisma to get pensioners to sign over their checks and fund his lifestyle. But I decided not to share that. “I don’t really know him,” I said. “I’m mainly worried about my friend’s daughter—and my friend.”
Wanda’s nostrils flared. “The girl who tempted his son?”
“We all know how young love is,” Margaret said, stepping between Wanda and me.
“Speaking of love,” Wanda added in a tone of voice that could have burned holes in her almond crescents, “I hear your boyfriend’s ex-wife is looking for a place in town.”
What did this woman have against me? The rest of the women had quieted down again and were watching us intently. I didn’t know what to say. I turned to Margaret. “When does the cookie exchange start?”
“We’re just waiting for Faith,” Margaret said. “She should be here any minute.”
“We’ll ask her about the house hunt, then,” Wanda said with a malevolent look. “I hear Mindy’s been spending a lot of time with Dr. Brandt lately.”
“Wanda,” Margaret said sharply. “Let’s remember the reason for the season.”
Wanda pursed her lips tightly, but she kept them shut. I reached for two coffee mugs, wishing there were something a little stronger available. Thankfully, the conversation had started again, although I could feel a few curious glances darted in my direction.
“What did you bring, by the way?” Edna asked.
&nbs
p; “My mother’s Lebkuchen,” my mother said, taking the wrap off the tray. “And Lucy made some pecan brown sugar fudge balls.”
“Ooh,” Ursula said. “Lebkuchen with the icing? My mother used to make that; I haven’t had it in years!”
“Why don’t we head into the dining room?” Margaret suggested, herding Wanda and the other ladies away from me.
A moment later, Teena burst into the kitchen, cheeks pink from the chill outside. Thankfully, my mother and I were the only two still there. “Oh. Hi, Ms. Resnick—and Ms. Resnick,” she added, looking at my mother.
I smiled at her. “Hi, Teena.”
Her mother came back in. “Teena!” She gave her a proud smile and said, “How did your chemistry final go?”
She groaned and reached for a cookie. “Don’t ask. But the worst is over; all I’ve got left is English and PE.”
“I’m sure it went better than you think,” her mother said.
“Let’s hope so.” She took a bite of cookie and turned to me. “You’re here about Brittany, aren’t you?”
“Well, officially I’m here for the cookie exchange, but . . .” I nodded. “Yes.”
“I can’t believe she missed finals,” Teena told me. “It’s not like her at all.”
“I know. We’re all worried about her.”
“Ms. Resnick was wondering if you had any inkling of where she might be,” Margaret said.
Teena pursed her lips. “Actually, every time I think of her I get an image of a fireplace.”
“A fireplace?”
She nodded. “I don’t know what it means, either. I don’t get the feeling she’s in danger, though. I get a sense of . . . confusion.”
“Not in danger is good. But you have no feeling for where she might be?”
“She’s not far, but she feels very far away,” she said, and pursed her lips. “I wish I could be more helpful. That’s the frustrating thing; I have no control over what I see or don’t see. My great-grandmother had the sight, too.”
“Anything about Krystal? Or Ethel?”
Teena was silent for a moment; I got the impression she was far away, somehow. “There’s love,” she said, her eyes looking blank. “Secret love. Hidden for a long time. It was going to come out . . . that’s why they both died.” Her brow furrowed. “But there are two loves, not one.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“One feels passionate, tortured. The other . . . protective. Like an umbrella. I see lots of hearts.”
Hearts. I thought of the paper on Ethel’s desk. “Do the initials ‘BK’ mean anything to you?”
She was quiet for a moment, her eyes still staring into the middle distance. “Nothing, I’m afraid,” she said. “Just a feeling of love and loss.”
I stifled a sigh. “Thanks, Teena. If anything comes to you, will you let me know?”
“Of course,” she said, and turned to leave the kitchen. “I hope you find Brittany soon.” She cocked her head as if listening. “And don’t forget the flowers.”
“Flowers? What does that mean?” Was Teena talking about the Jimsonweed seed?
“Whatever it is, it’s under them,” she told me. “I think it’s your grandma who keeps bringing it up.”
I glanced at my mother, whose hand was at her throat. “My mother?” she said in a soft voice. “Can you talk to her?”
“I can try,” she said.
“Tell her I love her,” my mother said, her eyes looking misty. “And that her granddaughter’s doing a great job with the farm.”
My own eyes stung a bit as Teena smiled and said, “I’ll do my best to pass it on.”
I squeezed my mother’s hand, but then Ursula called from behind me, “Do you have the recipe for these fudge balls? They’re amazing!”
We turned to face the throng. “I’ll get you a copy,” I said, still thinking of Brittany—and of my mother’s kind words.
I had no idea what to make of the flowers my grandmother seemed so insistent on telling me about, though—or the bit about two loves. Not for the first time, I wished the spirit world, or whatever it was that gave Teena her inside info, could be a bit more specific.
Despite the smell of mulled wine and the crisp, fresh air, the Christmas Market felt much less festive that night when I swung by to drop off another batch of mistletoe. I’d called Molly before; she was finally home with the kids. “Alfie had to empty our retirement fund to pay bail,” she said.
“We’ll get everything figured out,” I said.
“How?” she asked, sounding miserable.
“I used to be a reporter, remember?” I reminded her. “We’ll figure it out. Hey . . . did Brittany tell you she’d gotten a poison-pen letter?” I asked, thinking of the handwriting I’d seen at the church.
“What? No,” she said. “Why?”
“There have been a lot of them going around,” I said. “And the writer just turned up dead—I found her in her house today.”
“What? Who? We’ve been so caught up in the bail thing that I haven’t talked to anyone today.”
“It was Ethel Froehlich,” I said.
“Poor thing,” she breathed. “I met her a few times, but I didn’t really know her. I’m so sorry to hear it.”
“Me too. I’m hoping she died of natural causes, but . . .” I shivered, thinking of her claw-like hand. “She was pretty prolific. Krystal got one, Quinn got one, Brittany got one, and so did I.”
“How do you know she sent them?” she asked. I told her about the handwriting we’d seen on the wall—and what I’d found at her house that afternoon.
“Very Christian of her,” Molly said tartly. “Of course, that doesn’t mean I wanted her to die.”
“I know,” I reminded her, hoping Rooster wouldn’t accuse her of murdering Ethel Froehlich, too. “Anyway, Quinn and I are planning to visit the church again and see what we can find out.”
“Do you think someone there might know where Brittany went?”
“I’m hoping,” I said. “I did talk to Teena, though. She said something about a fireplace—and that Brittany’s not far away. That she’s safe, but confused.”
“Not far? She didn’t have any more information than that?”
“I’m afraid not,” I told her. “She said she’d tell me if anything else came through.”
“I hate this,” she said. “Brittany’s gone, and I don’t know where to find her, the police believe I killed that poor girl . . .” She let out a small sob. “Last week, I was worried about getting Christmas cards out on time, and now . . .”
“I know,” I said. “We’ll get Brittany back, Molly. And we’ll find out who did this.”
“I’m beginning to think we’re going to need a Christmas miracle,” she said.
Now, as I arranged more mistletoe along the front of the stand, I realized I was afraid she was right.
My parents were doing the rounds of the stalls, my mother catching up with old schoolmates and doing a little bit of Christmas shopping. Over the past few days, she’d given me her expert advice on field rotation, fence building, and the condition of the farmhouse—which I knew could use a paint job—and to be honest, I was glad to have a break.
Unfortunately my mind kept turning back to Brittany—and Molly.
The picketers were still in force at the far end of the Christmas Market, and my eyes drifted to them. I felt a pang not seeing Brittany and her boyfriend among them. Where could they be? And why was the pastor so determined to keep their disappearance quiet? Either he knew where they were and was trying to convince them to come back quietly, or he was too worried about the impact on his church—and his upcoming TV program. Would the network think twice about inking the deal if they knew the pastor’s son had run off with an underage parishioner? And was Mindy in town to investigate Pastor Matheson—or was she really looking for property, possibly with an eye to rekindling things with Tobias?
I scanned the small group again. Wanda stood on one side of the pastor, looking e
ven more self-righteous than usual, with his wife on the other. In the front were a few young people I didn’t recognize and two families that must have been from La Grange.
Quinn and I had just sold another two Christmas cakes when Fannie walked up to the stall, looking remarkably merry. “Hi, Fannie,” I said. “Any word on the coins?”
“Buster came and met with the appraiser and brought one of the coins with him,” she told me. She was a thin, energetic woman with bright brown eyes and close-cropped hair. Her antique store drew tourists from Houston to Austin, and she was a pro at discovering valuable finds at estate sales. “If he has as many coins as he says he does, it’s looking like Buster’s got a fortune on his hands.”
“And he’s claiming he found them on his property?”
“He said he was using a metal detector on his twenty acres, and it went absolutely haywire. He dug, and turned up a jug full of Confederate coins. I think it’s worth thousands. Maybe tens of thousands.”
“That will help with Christmas shopping,” I said.
“It does look like it’s going to be a great Christmas . . . despite all the tragedies,” she said, her face falling a bit. Then her eyes lit on the pile of vánočka bread, and she looked at Quinn. “Ooh, speaking of Christmas, can I have a loaf of that bread?”
“Of course,” Quinn said, handing it over to her. She paid, and as she drifted away, Quinn said, “I don’t think he found those coins on his property.”
“And I don’t know why he’s still looking if he’s already found a jackpot.”
“Maybe it is someone else.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“If it weren’t for the fact that he didn’t have access to Molly’s friendship bread starter, I’d put my money on Buster.”
“He did, though,” I said. “Father Mikeska’s cutting out sugar; he gave his loaf and starter to Buster.”
“Really?” Quinn said. “So he’s in the running after all.”
“He and Dougie Metzger. And the Mathesons.”
“You think?”
“I’m not ruling it out,” I said. “I really think the pastor was Krystal’s mystery boyfriend, though, which puts the Mathesons at the top of the list.”
Fatal Frost (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 2) Page 19