Small Town Scary (Cozy Mystery Collection)

by Anisa Claire West

  “Dad, please! Don’t talk like that. He’s the captain of the Candlewick Falls Police Department. Besides, we need to figure out what happened to Aunt Connie. We can’t worry about that man,” I urged, leaving my relative’s cooling corpse on the floor as I hurried to stand at Dad’s side.

  As the EMT workers stormed the dining room, my mother wept in the corner, her treasured Thanksgiving meal irreparably savaged. I looked away as they covered Aunt Connie’s body with a white sheet and lifted her onto a stretcher. Mrs. Dollner was oddly composed, and I wondered if she was becoming senile. Or was she just desensitized after partaking in Mr. Blark’s homicide investigation?

  Sweeping his hand across Mom’s pathetic little beverage buffet, Captain Davis ordered, “Pack up all these drinks. Carefully. They all need to be sampled and tested at the lab to find out if one of them was poisoned. And make sure you pack up whatever the victim was drinking.”

  “None of the drinks were poisoned!” My mother shouted through tears. “Who would want to kill Connie? No one in this room! No one in any room! She was a sweetheart.”

  My eyes scanned the myriad of faces in the room as I wondered if someone present could possibly have murdered Aunt Connie. But who? And why? As the untouched Thanksgiving feast turned colder than a tombstone, I pondered the questions until my temples ached.

  ***

  Arriving on the scene was a team of homicide detectives along with several other backup officers. My childhood home turned into a cordoned off crime scene and makeshift interrogation chamber as the cops snapped photos and jotted down notes on tiny pads. Aunt Connie’s body had been removed, but the scent of death was powerful in the air. I nodded politely as one of the detectives guided me into the kitchen for an interview.

  “State your relationship to the deceased,” the long, wiry detective instructed.

  “She was my aunt. My favorite aunt,” I said wistfully as the detective frowned.

  “I’m just looking for the facts, miss. State your name and occupation.”

  “Marisa Locke. Baker and coffee shop co-owner,” I answered formally.

  “And to the best of your memory, what happened here this afternoon prior to the victim’s death?”

  Methodically, I recounted everything that had taken place, from my arrival with Mrs. Dollner and Penelope to the moment when everyone was about to take forks in hand and eat Thanksgiving dinner. Purposely, I glossed over my near fainting episode while sipping the coffee. The detective said he wanted just the facts, and I knew that my claims of psychic intuition would color the black and white data a fanciful shade of indigo.

  “Did you see anyone tamper with the drinks?” The detective asked.

  “No, I didn’t,” I replied honestly.

  “And what did you see the victim drink?”

  “She drank some cider,” I replied, biting my lower lip anxiously and omitting the detail that Mrs. Dollner had concocted the cider in her cottage kitchen.

  “What else?”

  “That’s all I saw her drink.” I shrugged, throwing my hands up in the air. Inside, I was itching to get away from the cumbersome detective and launch my own investigation. I needed to make contact with the espresso beans and see what they would communicate to me. The detective’s questions were futile. My centuries-old way of figuring out the truth was the only solution, as crazy as it seemed to disbelieving outsiders.

  “Where can I reach you for further questioning?” The detective asked as I recited the phone number of Espresso Magic.

  “Thank you, Miss Locke. I’ll be in touch if you can be of further assistance.”

  Through hooded eyes and with a Cheshire Cat grin, I watched as the detective left the room. If I can be of further assistance? The man truly had no idea who he was dealing with.

  Chapter 3

  Hours later, the group had dispersed, but Penelope and I lingered to console our parents. “I can’t believe this is real,” Penelope gulped, grabbing for a tissue and dabbing her moist eyes.

  “Me neither,” Mom whispered so softly that the words were like a passing breeze.

  “We have to get back to the city,” Dad grumbled.

  “What are you talking about? We can’t go to Minneapolis tonight!” Mom protested.

  “And we can’t stay here either!” Dad boomed. “Not in the house where my sister died. I’ll never come back to this farm again!” He vowed dramatically, though I felt that someday he might change his mind. Farming was in his blood as much as Gypsy clairvoyance was in mine.

  “You can stay at our apartment,” I offered. “You two take my bedroom and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “No! We’ll just stay at an inn,” Mom replied firmly. “You girls should get on the road now. It looks like it might snow.”

  I glanced out the window at the silver gray skyline. A chill of moisture filled the air, and I could almost smell the freshness of approaching snowflakes. “It’s a short drive. We’ll be fine even if it snows.”

  “Just listen to your mother!” Dad’s ferocious tone begged no defiance, reminding me of when I was nine years old and left the stable door unlocked causing two of our horses to run away.

  “Okay, Dad, we’ll get going. Don’t worry about us. We’ll give you one ring when we get back to our apartment, okay?” I acquiesced gently as my father nodded.

  “Be careful driving!” Mom called after us as we buttoned up our itchy wool coats and stepped outside to meet a howling wind.

  Inside the car, I turned the heat up to maximum as Penelope shivered and buried her hands in her pockets. “I have to tell you something,” I said in a confessional tone.

  “Wh-what?” Penelope asked, teeth chattering.

  “Remember what happened before? When I almost fainted after drinking the coffee?”

  “Yeah, what was that all about? You can tell me now.”

  “I’m going to,” I began slowly. “It terrifies me even to think this, but I’m pretty sure it’s true…”

  “You’re pretty sure what’s true?” Penelope pressed, reaching into her purse for a tube of strawberry Chapstick and smearing the balm over her parched lips.

  “I’m pretty sure it was the coffee that poisoned Aunt Connie,” I revealed gloomily.

  “What?!” Penelope burst out, the Chapstick flying out of her hands and bouncing off the windshield. “But Mom made that coffee!”

  “I know.”

  “So what are you saying? That our mother poisoned Aunt Connie? You’ve got to be kidding, Marisa!”

  “No, I’m not saying that at all! Are you crazy? Mom is the gentlest soul I’ve ever known. I think someone else poisoned the coffee and then Aunt Connie drank it,” I clarified as Penelope’s demeanor immediately calmed. “We only saw her drinking the cider, but she could have had coffee too.”

  “Okay, now that’s a possibility. But you’re still saying that someone at the dinner killed Aunt Connie, right? One of our relatives? Or our friend, Mrs. Dollner? Who else could it be, right? Not the police captain!” Penelope looked aghast.

  “I wouldn’t count anyone out right now,” I replied with diplomacy. “Not even Mrs. Dollner.”

  “Seriously?” Penelope squeaked. “That woman is like the female version of Mr. Rogers!”

  “More like the female version of Jack Nicholson,” I snorted. “She’s bullheaded and brash and…”

  “And one of our friends!”

  “I’m not saying that she did it. I’m just saying that she can’t be eliminated as a suspect. She seemed a little too detached after Aunt Connie died.”

  “Well Aunt Connie was a total stranger to her! Do you really expect a person to cry over someone they’ve just met?” Penelope challenged as I mulled over her reasoning.

  “Fair point. Look, you don’t have to defend Mrs. Dollner. She’s just one possibility. We also have Aunt Patricia, Aunt Louise, and Uncle Sanford as potential suspects.”

  “And our parents. And us too. As far as the police are concerned…” Penelope faded
out on a note of apprehension.

  “You’re right. To the detectives, we’re all equally capable of the crime. But first they have to get the lab results and verify that it really was poison that killed Aunt Connie,” I sighed heavily, sensing an exhausting and complex investigation ahead. How easy it would be if the espresso beans could spell out the name of the murderer in bold letters. But that’s not how the magic worked. The beans only offered bits and pieces that needed to be woven together in an intricate tapestry. And such a tapestry couldn’t be woven in one night.

  “Home sweet home,” Penelope muttered unconvincingly as I pulled into the parking space. “I just want to go to sleep.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep. Aunt Connie is going to haunt me.” I shuddered, remembering how frozen to the touch her corpse had been.

  Without replying, Penelope got out of the car and unlocked the door. Following my sister upstairs, I retreated to my bedroom as she disappeared inside hers. Throwing my coat carelessly on the carpet, I paced the small room, miles away from a restful night’s sleep.

  Slipping into a pair of flannel pajamas and wrapping a midnight black robe around my waist, I padded down the hall to the kitchen. Since I wasn’t going to be able to sleep anyway, I didn’t see any harm in putting on a pot of coffee and sipping away my sorrows. Moments later, the dark roast percolated and I poured myself a generous mug full.

  Stacking a handful of vanilla wafers from the cookie jar, I sat down at the table and munched dispassionately on my snack. My mind refused to stop replaying macabre memories of Aunt Connie’s deceased frame. Squeezing my eyes shut, I forced myself to reminisce about her in her youthful days when her hair was long and golden and her eyes were fiery with life.

  As the happier images of my aunt danced through my head, I opened my eyes and stared down into the coffee cup. My eyes narrowed as visions began to take shape and swirl around in the coffee. Blurry pictures of a house and a lockbox appeared on the smoky surface of the coffee. I squinted as the imaginary lockbox flew open, revealing a stack of folded papers before slamming shut again. The harsh metal sound pounded through my eardrums.

  Frustrated, I placed the mug on the table, wondering why the pictures had been so vague. Usually, the clues in the coffee or beans were more definitive, offering up a path to travel to reach the next step. But the magic seemed to be working in reverse this time. For some reason, I felt strongly that the house, lockbox, and papers were the solution to the crime rather than a mere clue on how to solve it.

  Wired from the caffeine and impatient with the messages, I stormed down the hall to my bedroom. From across the hall, I could hear Penelope softly snoring in her room. I frowned, wishing sleep could come as easily to me. Shrugging the robe off, I climbed under the covers, closing my eyes and seeing a thousand sheets of paper burn in a wildfire, their charred remains sparking and igniting another more potent blaze.

  ***

  The Next Morning

  Black Friday

  Espresso Magic Coffee Shop

  Completely overwhelmed, I raced back and forth between the kitchen and the storefront, trying to fill orders as fast as they were whizzing in. Apparently, the folks of Candlewick Falls hadn’t eaten their fill of pumpkin cheesecake and pecan pie just yet. No, the party wasn’t over; it was just beginning and would flow like molasses all the way through Christmas season. Then I’d have to stock up on peppermint and red velvet cake and marshmallows for hot cocoa…and just the thought made me want to scream: Go home, Santa Claus!

  “You look stressed,” Penelope observed coolly as she squirted little whipped cream flowers onto a lemon meringue pie.

  “Really? You think?” I drawled sarcastically.

  “Don’t bite my head off. I’m as stressed as you are,” she sulked, covering the finished pie with tin foil.

  “Well you don’t seem stressed,” I said tightly.

  “Right, the way you said Mrs. Dollner didn’t seem upset? Don’t be so judgmental, Marisa. People cope in different ways,” Penelope chided as I twisted my lips into a sheepish expression.

  “You’re right. Sorry. I just don’t know what to deal with first. All these customers or Aunt Connie’s murder investigation.” I puffed a wisp of hair out of my face.

  “I can take care of the orders for now if you want to get started on the investigation,” Penelope offered.

  “That’s the problem! I don’t know where to start. Last night, the coffee spoke to me, but it didn’t tell me anything specific,” I relayed glumly.

  “Well what did it say?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I grumbled.

  “Yoo-hoo!” A thin soprano voice called from the front of the shop.

  “Wanna bet 50 bucks who that is?” Penelope joked.

  “I’ll bet you a million,” I replied humorously, striding over to meet Mrs. Dollner where she stood by the cash register.

  To my surprise, she embraced me, laying a kiss on my cheek and gazing into my eyes with pity. “Dear, how are you? I’ve been worried about you girls.”

  “I’ve been better,” I said briskly, always reluctant to let anyone coddle me. If anyone would understand that fiercely independent streak, it was certainly the incorrigibly obdurate Mrs. Dollner.

  “Have you started your investigation yet?” She inquired with wide eyes.

  “How do you know I’m going to investigate?” I countered, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Well, dear, you investigated poor Henrik Blark’s death and you barely knew the man. I have no doubt you’ll work even harder to solve the murder of your own flesh and blood,” Mrs. Dollner pointed out logically.

  “I won’t rest until I do,” I vowed.

  “Can I help?” She asked eagerly.

  I paused, pursing my lips together thoughtfully. The spritely old lady had been an active participant in Mr. Blark’s murder…and she hadn’t gotten in the way. If anything, she had proven to be a bona fide amateur sleuth herself.

  “Sure,” I answered confidently. “And you can start right now.” As Mrs. Dollner rubbed her hands together in anticipation of a juicy manhunt, I hollered to Penelope, “I’m taking you up on your offer, Penny! See you later!”

  “Be careful, Marisa,” Penelope said softly, appearing in the doorway with a mixing bowl of batter and a rubber spatula.

  “Yes, chief,” I joked to my baby sister as Mrs. Dollner and I hustled out of the store.

  “Where are we going, dear?” Mrs. Dollner asked.

  An hour ago, I wouldn’t have known how to answer that question, but an idea had occurred to me while I was bickering with Penelope: I needed to search my relatives’ houses. Maybe somewhere in their rusty old abodes, I would find a lockbox and a key…and those mysterious documents. I couldn’t let them perish in a wildfire the way they had in my imagination. I needed to find them intact and read what crucial information they contained.

  “I thought we would pay my aunts a visit,” I replied nonchalantly.

  “Your aunts? You mean Patricia and Louise?”

  “Yes,” I replied crisply, reflecting on the fact that my aunts cohabitated…the way I did with Penelope. All of Candlewick Falls considered them to be hard drinking, spinster loud mouths who shared expenses in order to feed their alcohol habit. Even though Penelope and I didn’t suffer from such vices, I hoped that people didn’t think of us as spinsters. Again, I considered my looming 30th birthday and wondered if it was time to make a lifestyle change…