by Tegan Maher
“He vas poisoned.” Bogdana flashed her dark eyes at her brother, who paled even more.
He lifted a hand to his throat. “Poisoned? By the gods! How?”
Hank licked his lips. “Appears to be from eating the cookies we left out last night.”
I held a finger up. “We didn’t poison them, for the record.”
Vlad’s brow furrowed. “If they were out all night, anyone could have gotten to them. Gods.” He looked like he might be sick again. “That could have been me who died!” His throat bobbed and his chest heaved. “I’m going to be sick again.”
“That’s our cue!” Iggy widened his eyes at me, and we rushed toward the door.
Hank, Iggy, and I made our way back downstairs.
I glanced up at him. “You know… I originally thought Duscha might have done this. Maybe she was angry with her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Boris.”
Hank nodded, a thoughtful crease between his thick brows. “I was thinking the same thing. But if no one knew Boris had taken his place, Vlad might have been the intended target.” His throat bobbed. “Uncle Herbert seemed upset about having to float Vlad money.”
I nodded and gave him a little grin. “You know what they say about great minds….”
He shot me a puzzled look, and I chuckled. “Never mind. Human thing.”
Suspect
Suspect
Hank and a few of his brothers magicked Boris’s body to the basement for cold storage. I sat on a faded sofa beside Hank and curled my lip as I remembered it. Something about a few grown men shoving Santa’s body into a barrel made me feel less than Christmassy. Plus, being in the company of a murderer and all.
But we were all trying to make the best of the day for the kids’ sake. They all sat on the floor or their parents’ laps, tearing open presents and playing with their new toys. A little girl used her wand to guide a magical miniature dirigible around the dusty chandelier, while Cas and Emmaline frowned over a scroll of instructions and attempted to help some of the boys assemble a child-size castle.
Duscha bustled in, a tray of steaming hot cocoa in her arms. She set it on a round table behind us, the mugs rattling, and sniffled, then dabbed at her eyes with her apron. She looked up, caught Hank and me watching, and straightened.
She threw her shoulders back. “Vee had our troubles, jes, but—” Her chin quivered. “But I loved da craggy old bastard.” She buried her face in her apron and rushed off toward the kitchen. We spun back around in our seats and watched her go. She passed by the fireplace without a glance—Hank had cordoned it off with a magical barrier to preserve any evidence.
I turned to Hank and made a face. “She seems upset.”
“Seems.” Iggy, in his lantern by my feet, shot me a significant look.
I gave him a knowing nod, then leaned closer to Hank and lifted a brow, my voice low. “Did you get a chance to talk to your aunt and uncle?”
“They say they’ll contact the authorities as soon as the snow clears enough to get to town.” He darted a quick glance around the room, and finding everyone occupied with the presents, lowered his voice as well. “They also say they were together all morning, going from room to room, waking everyone up.”
“Which gives them alibis for some of the time, but…” I raised my brows. “They were all over the house. They could’ve easily poisoned the cookies.”
Hank’s brows drew together, and I grimaced. “Sorry. I know these are your relatives we’re talking about.”
Hank blinked up at me, then waved a hand. “Oh no.” He shot me a grin. “Let’s be real, my family’s covered the gamut of crimes—this wouldn’t be anything new.”
I grinned back. “Man. This is pretty dark humor for Christmas morning.”
We gazed out over the sea of crumpled wrapping paper and glittering toys.
Iggy sniffed. “Yeah, well, Santa’s body nearly crushing us to death in the chimney really set the tone, you know?”
I sighed—he had a point—and turned back to Hank. “Alright. So if we’re considering the possibility… your uncle Herbert seemed pretty resentful of having to float Vlad money.”
Hank nodded. “They could’ve worked together. Really, they’re each other’s only alibis. So they could have had motive and opportunity.”
I bit my lip and looked up into his face. “Are we, uh—doing this then? Investigating?”
He grinned. “Well… who knows how long it’ll take till the snow clears enough to contact the local constable.”
I shuddered. “And personally, I don’t love the idea of being trapped in here with a killer. The sooner we find them out, the sooner I’ll rest easy.”
Hank slid an arm around my shoulders and rubbed my upper arm. We both glanced out the window. The wind had picked up, bushes and bare tree branches bouncing as a few snowflakes whirled past the window.
I made a face. “Man—it’s about to come down again, isn’t it?”
Hank nodded.
“Ooh!” I spun to face him. “Which reminds me. I spotted tracks this morning, out to the greenhouse and back.”
“Huh.” Hank’s gaze grew far away. “Maybe Boris went to check on the plants? Protect them from the snow?”
I held up a finger. “That’s actually a good point, and one I hadn’t considered.” I grinned. “I kinda went straight to, maybe the killer used one of the plants to poison the cookies.” I shrugged.
He grinned. “Also a good thought. That would be the means.” He glanced past me toward the window, then dipped his face close to mine. “If we’re going to check it out, we’d better go now before the storm really hits.”
“A chance to get out of this place?” Iggy peeked out of his lantern and flashed his eyes at me. “You’d better take me with you!”
The Greenhouse
The Greenhouse
“Wow. The g-greenhouse is h-hoppin’ today.” Teeth chattering, I tilted my head to my left at several sets of footprints in the snow that led to and from the glass building.
Hank frowned as we walked alongside them. “Who’d be going out here today?” He raised his brows. “Aside from the gardener, of course, and he’s—”
“Dead, stuffed in a barrel?” Iggy supplied.
Hank grimaced slightly. “Pretty much.”
Our breath fogged up the chilly air, and I used my free hand to pinch the collar of my coat closed. With the wind blowing snowflakes on my face and the snow soaking through all three layers of leggings and pants I wore, the trek to the greenhouse seemed like a marathon. I lowered my head and trudged on.
“Look.”
I glanced up, blinking snow off my lashes, and followed Hank’s gaze. A trickle of black smoke rose from the roof of the greenhouse.
Iggy peeked out of his lantern. “Wasn’t me.”
Hank’s eyes widened. “Someone’s in there now.”
We picked up the pace and finally reached the building, its walls and ceiling all made of leaded glass. The dark smoke rose from a circular opening in the top, but our view of the inside was obscured by the green and brown vines that criss-crossed the foggy panes.
We followed the footprints around the side and huddled together as Hank slowly, quietly tried the brass knob on the door. It turned, and he cast a glance back at me, his big nose bright pink with the cold. He gave me a tight nod, then pulled the glass door open.
We crept inside. I was careful to roll my boots softly over the faded brown and cream checkerboard floor. Had it once been black and white? I glanced around the dilapidated place.
Overgrown vines crept up the dirty glass, while weeds poured from flower beds and rows of vegetables rotted on their trellises. I raised a brow. Boris either hadn’t been very good at his job or had been badly neglecting his duties.
I loosened the soft scarf around my neck, the air inside warm and humid, and followed Hank further inside. We wound between tall planters and potting shelves, looking for the source of the smoke—and whoever had lit the fire that made it. Hank
came to an abrupt halt, and I nearly ran into the back of him. I slid up beside him and blinked at what lay before us.
An entire flower bed appeared to have been uprooted. Dark dirt littered the floor, and aside from a few stalks and pock marks in the soil where plants had recently been, the bed lay empty.
A crease appeared between Hank’s brows and he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Looks like this bed’s been ransacked.”
I nodded, my eyes on the mess. “And whoever did it, didn’t bother to be neat about it. They were in a hurry.” I frowned. “Do you think it could have been the yew?” If so, someone now had a lot of poison.
Hank squeezed my hand and pointed straight ahead where a large bush with green needles and red berries grew. “That’s the yew.”
I bit my lip. “So someone with access to the greenhouse poisoned Boris. Could have been anyone.” I glanced back down at the dirt on the ground. “Then what were these plants and why would someone want them so badly?”
Hank opened his mouth to speak but stopped when a noise sounded to our right. Papers rustled, and fire crackled.
We exchanged glances, and I fell in step beside Hank as we crept toward the noises. An orange glow bounced off the waxy leaves of a few plants, and then came the scuffle of feet. We slid behind a tall rack of shovels, clippers, brooms, and leather gloves and peered around it.
A bonfire blazed in the center of the floor, right below the center of the greenhouse. A hatch above had been opened, and black smoke trickled out into the chilly sky outside. I shivered as the wind howled, the open window letting in a draft. More footsteps sounded, along with some grumbling, as if someone was talking to themselves.
Hank and I peeked around the cart to get a better view.
“Ahem.”
I glanced down, and Iggy widened his eyes at me. “I want to see, too.”
I rolled my eyes, but held Iggy in his lantern to the side, so he also had a view. In the center of the greenhouse, a figure bustled about. I squinted, then gasped as I recognized Duscha, the cook. I glanced up at Hank, who’d gone pale (aside from his pink nose and cheeks).
“What’s she burning?”
I squinted back at the cook. Her long skirt and apron whirled around her as she gathered an armful of something, then dumped it on the fire. I bit my lip. “Looks like parchment.”
Iggy sniffed. “Nothing like a little evidence bonfire on a cold winter morning.”
Hank straightened and strode forward, palms outstretched and buzzing with magic. “Stop.”
I sprinted up beside him as Duscha looked up and froze.
B
B
As we neared Dushca, a battered wooden desk came into view. All the drawers were open, or had been pulled out, their contents dumped out. Scissors, twine and notebooks littered the ground, while the cook held an armful of parchment covered in messy rows of black ink—letters.
“Drop it,” Hank commanded.
The older woman’s chest heaved, and in a flash, she threw the paper onto the crackling fire.
“No!” Hank and I rushed forward, Iggy swinging in the lantern in my hand.
“You did say drop it,” Iggy added.
The letters’ edges ignited and curled inward. Hank’s palms glowed with magic, and several pages flew out of the fire, smoking. I dipped down and gingerly picked one up with my gloved hand.
Dear B,
You’ll never know how much you mean to me but—
I flipped the page over, but unfortunately the rest of the writing had already been burned away.
I kicked at the others with toe of my boot, but they’d already been burned too badly to make anything of. I shrugged at Hank, who whirled on the red-faced cook.
“What are you doing?”
She lifted her chin, strands of wild gray hair poking loose from the kerchief on her head. “I deedn’t kill heem.”
“Uh, methinks you probably did.” Iggy rolled his eyes.
I had to agree with my flame at the moment. I held up the letter for her to see. “Who’s B? And whose letters are you out here burning in a totally nonsuspicious way, then?”
Duscha wrung her hands in her apron and lowered her gaze to her feet. Twin red spots burned on her cheeks. “Dees are Boris’s letters.”
Hank and I exchanged looks.
“Not lookin’ good for ya.” Iggy shook his little flame head.
Duscha let out a shaky breath, her eyes still downcast. “A few times over da years I caught heem writing letters to dis B person. I—I taught he vas hafing an affair.” She looked up, eyes pleading. “Boris alvays kaypt a close vatch over da greenhouse and now dat he’s d-dead I yust.” She sniffled. “I yust had to know eef my suspicions vere true.”
Iggy scoffed. “So the fire was just a spur of the moment thing?”
Yeah. Good point, buddy. I raised my brows, waiting for her to answer.
She shifted on her feet. “Vhen eet came down to eet, I—I couldn’t bear to read zem. I yust had to get reed of zem.” She swung an arm towards the blazing flames. “So I burnt zem.”
Hank’s throat bobbed, and though his eyes stayed hard on her, his tone softened. “Your grief is understandable but… you’re burning possible evidence.”
Her eyes grew round.
“I’ll have to report your actions to the authorities once we’re able to send word and start an official investigation.”
She let out a shaky sigh and gave a slow nod. “I understand.”
I bit my lip, remembering the torn-up flower bed. “Why’d you ransack the plants back there?” I thumbed over my shoulder.
Duscha frowned, her forehead lines deepening. “I deed not do zat.”
I studied her hands, which were clean, as was her white apron and long skirt. She’d changed since this morning, but she didn’t appear to have been the one pulling up plants, at least.
“Do you know what was growing in that bed?”
She shrugged. “Like I said. Boris kept a close vatch on hees greenhouse. No one else vas allowed een here vithout heem. And he kept many secrets…” She glanced at the smoldering fire.
From somewhere, not too far off, a wolf howled. I shuddered, and Hank placed his hand on my lower back. “We’d all better get back to the house.” His throat bobbed. “Especially before this storm picks up.”
He reached out and closed his hand, and the fire went out, leaving behind only a thin trickle of smoke that wound its way up toward the cracked window. I stuffed the burnt bit of letter into my coat pocket and followed Hank and Duscha back outside. The wind whipped even colder and stronger around us, blowing the end of my scarf behind me like a flag.
Iggy shuddered in his lantern. “Never thought I’d say this, but I can’t wait to get back to the castle.” He made a face, and I grinned, though my teeth chattered.
I held tight to Hank’s gloved hand as we trudged through the deepening snow, my eyes on the cook’s back.
If she thought Boris was having an affair, it gave her motive for wanting him dead. But if we believed that she’d known about it for years, then why now? And would she have had the opportunity?
I mulled it over. She might have run into Boris after he’d donned the Santa costume, and she clearly had some access to the greenhouse and to the deadlier plants growing inside. She might have even already had the poison on her and saw the cookies as her chance to strike.
We certainly couldn’t rule her out as a suspect, and yet, she’d seemed genuinely distraught over his death and didn’t seem to gain much from it. On the other hand, if Boris was having an affair with this B person, there might be more to the story than we knew. And if Duscha hadn’t ripped up all those plants, then who had? And why? We reached the castle, my head full of questions and feet almost completely numb.
The Dirt
The Dirt
After we shook the dirt and snow loose from our boots and left them and our coats and scarves on hooks in the mud room, we rejoined the rest of the family in the library. The
kids were back to chasing each other around the sofas and tables, shrieking and playing, and most of Hank’s relatives were either sprawled on said couches or sitting in small groups chatting. Duscha bustled back into the kitchen without another word to us.
I glanced over toward the cordoned-off fireplace, then back around the room. One of these people had killed Boris, and I wanted to get to the bottom of it so I could feel safe again. And also because there was absolutely nothing else to do in this big, gloomy castle unless I wanted to volunteer to be a target for the kids’ next game of “monster hunting.” And I’d made that mistake once before and had the bruises to prove it, thank you very much.
Hank and I moved toward the wall of bookshelves at the back, smiling and raising hands in greeting to his various brothers and their wives. I passed Vlad, who stood over the billiards table, stick in hand, then paused and did a double take.
He practiced with the stick a couple of times, then struck the cue ball and broke up the others with a loud crack! The balls scattered, bouncing off the edges of the table. Vlad straightened and moved around to another side, preparing for another hit.
I frowned at him, a hand on my hip. “Uh, Vlad?”
He looked up, eyes no longer bloodshot, but glazed. “Hm?”
Hank hung back with me, hand in mine. “You seem to be feeling better.”
I bit my lip. Like… way better. It’d been just a few hours since he’d been bedridden. His being ill was the whole reason Boris had taken his place as Santa… and eaten those poisoned cookies.
“Oh, uh, right.” He blinked rapidly, then chuckled and winked. “I’m feeling much better now.” He bent over the table and sent a striped ball into the pocket. He thrust a fist into the air and yelled, “Yes!”
I jumped and a baby started crying, he’d been so loud.