Spicy Christmas Murder
Carolyn Q. Hunter
Summer Prescott Books Publishing
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Author’s Note
Contact Summer Prescott Books Publishing
Also by Carolyn Q. Hunter
Copyright 2018 Summer Prescott Books
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication nor any of the information herein may be quoted from, nor reproduced, in any form, including but not limited to: printing, scanning, photocopying, or any other printed, digital, or audio formats, without prior express written consent of the copyright holder.
**This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places of business, or situations past or present, is completely unintentional.
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Prologue
Despite the heavy chill in the air, the clouds hadn’t shed a single snowflake all December. Even driving into the winding foothills, where the slate gray sky seemed like it was pressing in on the land, there was no sign of the festive white specks that every child so longed for around the holiday season.
Henrietta White, however, didn’t have snow on the mind. In fact, any semblance of Christmas spirit was absent from her thoughts completely. If anything, she was glad for the clear weather as she drove her tiny German car back and forth along the winding rural road. The foothills just outside of Culver’s Hood, Nebraska, had a habit of growing dangerously slick this time of year. However, the dry skies were a comfort to her.
Rocky outcroppings and green aspens dotted the landscape around her, and a little winding creek followed along the path of the road, guiding her toward her destination.
She hadn’t planned to make the forty-five-minute drive into the hills, but unforeseen circumstances had forced her hand. She didn’t even bother calling into work and instead climbed right into her car when she’d received the anonymous note.
Glancing down at the plastic cup holder, she eyeballed the piece of folded up paper. It had been slipped under her apartment door around six a.m. A series of loud knocks had forced her to run and retrieve the strange note. She had, of course, also checked the hallway outside to no avail.
Whoever had been so kind as to leave the threat hadn’t stuck around to be seen.
Upon reading the haphazardly scribbled lettering, she’d thrown on her winter coat, grabbed her purse, and bolted out the door. That was why she hadn’t the time to call into work or make any other preparations.
No need to raise unnecessary suspicion.
Biting her lips nervously, she wished she’d had a moment to grab some coffee before heading out of town. However, it had been completely out of the question. She needed to get this cleared up here and now before it went any further.
The last thing she needed was some foolish imbecile breathing down her neck—not when she was so close to victory, to freedom.
Henrietta grabbed the little note from the cup holder and unfolding it, she double checked the address that had been printed there. Glancing up, she checked the road signs. A small post, nearly hidden by a roadside tree, pointed the direction she needed to go.
Gripping the wheel, she pulled off and headed into a heavily wooded area. The little back road bobbed up and then down a few times, forcing her to put her car into gear. Rounding the bend, she made one final ascent toward the cabin.
Only one other car, which she didn’t recognize at all, sat parked under the trees. Pulling her own car in next to it, she turned off her engine and got out, grabbing the note in her right hand.
The greeting of mountain silence hung around her—the kind of peace only the winter season seemed to bring. If it weren’t for the stressful situation laid out before her, it might almost be enjoyable.
No time for lollygagging, she thought, putting her purse over her shoulder and making sure the envelope was still there. The building had Christmas lights in the windows which were lit up, as well as a tree. Walking up the wooden steps to the front door, each one creaking under her weight, she knocked with a heavy hand.
She waited, listening.
Footsteps shuffled about inside, heading toward the door.
Moments later, the door swung open. Her eyes widening, Henrietta nearly cried out in shock about who she saw standing there, but never got the chance.
A loud series of pops, followed by the scent of gunpowder, filled the air.
Henrietta groaned, stumbled backward, and fell dead on the cold hard ground outside.
1
Friday, December 22nd – 3 Shopping Days Until Christmas
“That’ll be twenty dollars, please,” Margo Hanratty chimed cheerily as she bagged the pre-wrapped Christmas package—four bottled hot sauce jars in a stylish red and white box with a red ribbon tied around it.
“Oh, I just know Ben is going to love it,” the woman gushed, shuffling around in her purse and pulling out her wallet. Undoing the clasp, she opened it and pulled out the bill. “I’m so glad I stumbled over this little shop. I thought for sure I’d never be able to find him a present this year.”
“Well, I’m glad you found something you think he’ll like.”
“Oh, yes. It’s perfect.” Handing the money over with a wide smile, she picked up her bag and hugged it to her chest.
Margo let out a light laugh. “I do find that most men enjoy their hot sauces.”
“Oh, I know that Ben is just like that, always dousing my cooking in some condiment or another. Sometimes, I wonder if he can taste the food at all.”
This time, Margo laughed out loud, her usual cackle ringing through the shop and adding to the overall cheer of the already Christmassy environment. “When my husband was alive, he was just the same. Of course, it didn’t help that I run a business that’s all about hot sauce.”
The woman’s eye went wide. “Oh my, so you mean you’re THE Spicy Senora?”
“That’s me!” she beamed proudly.
“Did you come up with every one of these hot sauce flavors?!” she exclaimed, motioning to the busy shop behind her and the shelves that were filled to the brim with bottles of various sizes.
“I did, indeed. I come up with every new recipe we sell.”
The woman mouthed an inaudible “wow.”
“It started about fifteen years ago. I was just whipping up some hot sauce in my own kitchen. I took it to the City Summer Barbeque and people loved it. My husband suggested to me that I should try selling it, and the rest is history.”
“That’s amazing.”
Picking up one of the business cards next to the register, Margo held it out to the woman. “Here is my card.” The drawing of a woman with full red lips, wide eyes, and hair made completely out of red, orange, and green peppers stared up from the card. “If you look at the picture closely, you can see that it’s me, just with slightly different hair.”
“Heavens, it is you!” she exclaimed excitedly, taking the card in her hands.
“That has the address of the shop here as well as our website.”
The customer looked from the card up to Margo with a giddy smile that only the Christmas season could produce. “My, dear. I just have to say, I adore your hair.”
“Oh, yes. I loved the artist’s choice to make it out of peppers, as well.”
“No, no. I mean you
r real hair. I like that a woman our age is still brave enough to show some spunk.” She clutched one hand into a fist and pumped it triumphantly.
Blushing slightly, Margo ran a hand through her short spiky doo which had been dyed a bright reddish color. “Why, thank you. With a nickname like Spicy, it only seemed fitting.”
“Well, I love it.” She held up her bag and nodded. “And thank you immensely for this. I know Ben will love it.”
“I know he will.”
“I just hope I picked out the right flavors.”
“Well, these are our signature batches. Jalapeno, Habanero, Chipotle, and Louisiana. You can’t go wrong.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“If your husband likes the Signature Gift Box, bring him on back here to the shop and try some of our small batch and specialty flavors.”
“I most certainly will,” she agreed. Giving a little wave, she headed off.
Letting out a heavy sigh, Margo leaned in on the wooden countertop, glad for a small break. While the shop was busy with customers, most of them were still looking at the items—trying to pick the perfect stocking stuffer or extra gift for the season.
The upbeat twang of Joy to the World, a popular country singer’s rendition of the famous Christmas song, played softly over the speakers. The room, mostly made up of browns and reds, with wood paneling and display shelves, was decorated with long green garlands and white Christmas lights.
Among the chaos of attempting to run a full-blown business, and up selling her newest Christmas specials, Margo found the peace and happiness in the season. Even with it being her first year without Don, her late husband, she felt blessed to have her daughter and her daughter’s fiancé to spend the next few days with.
Almost as if in response to her current train of thought, the front door’s swinging bell rang and her daughter walked in. She looked glowing behind her tightly wrapped wool scarf and knit cap. Her nose and cheeks had a cheery redness to them—a sure sign of the chilly weather and the coming snow.
“Sandra, you made it,” Margo gasped thankfully.
Stepping behind the counter and removing her scarf, Sandra smiled. “Of course I made it, Mom. I couldn’t leave you hanging high and dry during the Christmas rush, now could I?”
Not waiting for her to finishing taking off her hat, Margo embraced her daughter in a tight hug. “Oh, I love you.” A brief swell of emotion climbed its way up inside her, and she repressed the tears that were begging to get out.
“I love you, too, Mom,” Sandra replied as her mother let her go.
Completely in control of her emotions again, Margo slipped off her red apron with the Spicy Senora logo on it (the usual uniform of the shop’s employees). “You wouldn’t believe how crazy it’s been.”
Sandra glanced around the room at the people all crowded in and browsing the shelves. “I can see that.”
“This is nothing. This is literally the first break I’ve had from the register in the last three hours.” She held out the apron to her daughter.
“What happened to Henrietta?” she asked, taking the apron and slipping it over her head.
“I haven’t the slightest idea, hon.”
“Wait, she didn’t call?” Sandra gasped, her mouth falling open.
“Nope. Not so much as a peep out of her. If she was sick, you’d think she’d at least call ahead to let us know she wasn’t going to be in today.”
“That doesn’t sound like Henrietta.”
Margo sighed, her shoulders slumping and her posture withering slightly. “I know, but I can’t get a hold of her.”
“I hope nothing is wrong,” she whispered, turning toward the register and logging in with her own employee number. Henrietta, despite being about fifty—the same age as Margo—was one of Sandra’s best friends. She’d worked at the shop as a shift manager for the past ten years and been influential in Sandra’s high school days.
Holding out her hands, Margo could only shrug. “Nothing we can do about it now, hon. I’m sure everything is fine.”
The sideways tweak of Sandra’s mouth said otherwise.
“Can I check out here?” a customer with her arms stacked full of gift boxes asked, approaching the counter.
“Of course,” Sandra replied, putting on a big smile that hid any hint of worry.
“I’m gonna head to the factory and check on things if you’ve got it covered here,” Margo told her daughter.
“I’ve got it,” she gave a firm nod.
“Good.”
“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Pat and I will be a little later getting to the cabin tonight. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Thanks for telling me. I’ll keep an eye out for you two,” she confirmed as she started toward the wooden staircase that led to the upper floor of the hot sauce factory just behind the shop. “If I hear from Henrietta, I’ll let you know,” she called back.
“Thanks,” she replied as she finished scanning the woman’s items. “I just hope nothing bad has happened.”
2
The second floor of the Spicy Senora factory was made up of a balcony that went all the way around the outer edge of the building’s wall and looked down on the process of whipping up the best line of hot sauces in Culver’s Hood, Nebraska. Before Margo had purchased the large brick building in the Old Market district of town, it had stood empty for several years. Prior to that, it had been a creamery.
Coming to the top of the steps that led up from the front shop, Margo slipped into her office and sat down in her chair for a few seconds of rest. The whole morning had been trying, and there was still so much to do before she finally left for the family cabin—and her Christmas holiday—that evening.
They still had to finish getting the last few batches of hot sauce done, they needed to pack up the last-minute packages that patrons had ordered online, and there was the factory Christmas party at the end of the day. Already, the factory was decked out in festive attire. Lights and garland ran along the balconies and a large cardboard cutout of Santa Claus in his sleigh hung from the skylight. Margo had sprung for some food and drinks for the men and women who worked tirelessly under her employment. In particular, she had ordered a few pies from a new shop in town called Pies and Pages. Supposedly, they had the best pies in the city.
She was supposed to pick them up at two-thirty, and the party began at three.
Checking her watch, she saw that it was already one in the afternoon. She’d spent the entire morning fending for herself in the shop, but she still had a little time to catch up on paperwork before she had to leave.
Moving the mouse to bring the computer out of sleep mode, she didn’t even get a chance to log in before she was interrupted by shouting below.
Pushing out from the desk, she darted out the door and onto the balcony. Peering over the railing, she spotted two men at the end of the line, who oversaw the final stage of the bottling process.
“What’s gotten into you, today? You’re doing it wrong again,” Tate Hellman yelled. His work mask and goggles, which protected against the potent sting of the peppers they used in the process of making hot sauce, were both pulled aside.
Thomas Drake, the second man who was still wearing his work mask and goggles, only threw up his arms in a shrug of self-defense. He had a ball cap pulled tight over his hair to keep it from falling out and potentially contaminating any of the product.
“Are you drunk or something? That’s the fifth bottle you’ve messed up today. Are you trying to screw up?”
Thomas violently shook his head.
“Well, you’re slowing the whole line down. We have to get these done before the end of the day, dang it. Do you want to be stuck working on this when we should be having our Christmas party?”
Margo wasn’t going to stand around another second while things were falling apart in her factory below. Dashing for the stairway, she ran down onto the scene. By the time she got there, however, Thomas was nowhere to be seen. “
What’s going on?” she demanded.
“This fool has been fumbling all day. He’s ruined at least five bottles.”
“Mr. Hellman, name calling is hardly a proper response to the situation,” she reprimanded him, feeling like a school teacher with a misbehaving young boy.
“My apologies, Ma’am, but I refuse to be held up here any longer today than I need to be. I intend to be home and celebrating the holidays with my wife by six.”
“And I assure you, Mr. Hellman, you will be. However, why didn’t you inform Mr. Krimer about this?”
“He hasn’t been around at all today.”
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