Murder for Two

by Louise Lynn

“You’re not getting out of it,” Mom said, placing her hands onto her hips. She looked like an older, even sassier version of my sister. “Besides, you’ll enjoy it. To the attic, now, hop to it.”

  “The attic?” I raised an eyebrow at Ivy, as we trailed through mom’s apartment after her.

  Mom didn’t answer me. Instead, she hummed and sang her way up the spiral staircase in our foyer. With every step, her voice grew louder, and I felt as though I had stumbled into a Christmas music video with her bells jingling as they so often did.

  On the second floor, we found Buttercup prowling through the hallway that stretched between the upstairs apartments. Ivy bent down and swept her into her arms. We gushed over her as we climbed the final steps leading to the attic. Once inside, I suddenly realized what Mom had brought us there for.

  “Christmas decorations,” I said.

  “Well, it is that time of year,” Ivy replied, her eyes lighting up as she set Buttercup gently on the floor. “Dibs on the star!”

  As if I’d take my sister’s precious annual tradition away from her.

  More to the point, as if she’d let me.

  Mom clapped her hands together then indicated a pile of boxes that had been stacked against the wall. “Let’s begin. We’ve a long night ahead of us, girls.”

  Cobwebs hung in wisps from the wooden rafters overhead, and a cold chill, creeping through the window embedded in the sloped ceiling, swept over me. I rubbed at my arms and my breath came out like smoke.

  “If it’s not death by putting up Christmas decorations, it’s death by cold,” I groused, looking around. “We should really get some central heating in here, Mom.”

  Ivy nudged my shoulder, and I turned to see our mom gazing at the ceiling—her eyes straying out the window. She held that same expression in her eyes that I had down in the kitchen.

  “Central heating? I don’t come in here anymore. Not after your… your father—God rest his soul—passed away. At any rate, there really isn’t much point. Everything I need is downstairs.”

  “What you mean to say is, when you’ve got two daughters who’ll do all the heavy lifting for you.” Ivy grinned at her, trying to lighten the mood. Then her features loosened, and she sighed. “I can’t believe it’s already been three years.”

  I wrapped my arms around Mom and Ivy’s shoulders, and squeezed them. “Dad always did put up the best Christmas displays, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah. He did,” Ivy agreed, sniffling into her sleeve. “Even the neighbors loved them. Remember the thirty-foot inflatable snowman?”

  How could I forget? We had even given him a name. Mr. Twinkles. “Dad used to set him in the front yard. But the wind blew him away one crazy morning. You cried for a whole week, Ivy.”

  Mom pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “Your father knew how much the holidays meant to you both. To us all. There’s not a day that goes by when I don’t think of him.”

  A couple of tears swam into my own eyes, blurring my vision. I blinked them back. Crying wouldn’t do us any good.

  “Then let’s make him proud,” I said, embracing them again. “I bet he’s looking down on us right now, wondering how on earth we’re going to manage down all those stairs. Didn’t Ivy trip last year?”

  Ivy winced at the memory, then she said, “Just you watch us, Dad. I’ve been working out.”

  “Walking to the fridge isn’t working out,” I countered, tongue in cheek.

  “It is if I’m reaching for a protein shake.”

  “Oh, Ivy.” Mom laughed and rubbed a hand through Ivy’s dark hair. “Let’s start by bringing these boxes down. Ivy, Olive, you grab the tree. I’ll start with the decorations.”

  I wiped my eyes and focused on the boxes. Some of them were old and bursting at the seams, spewing out random decorations here and there. The longest box, held together with duct tape and various strands of string, was the aforementioned tree. Mom had always been against cutting down real-life ones, which we’d wholeheartedly agreed with, even as children. Our family had recycled the same artificial tree for the best part of forty years. And, in a way, it made it more special. Every year, we decorated the tree, and every year we added even more memories to its branches.

  I paused at the box on top of the tree. Of all the boxes, this one had been handled with care.

  The baubles.

  I gently pried open the box and my fingers swept over the ornaments that had been purchased—and some even hand designed—by my parents many years ago. Some newer ones had been added over time. Some not so amazing ones—like the bauble Ivy had made in kindergarten, and the one I’d found on the streets in my junior year and had recycled against my father’s best wishes. But my dad’s favorite one—the largest, clear-spun glass bauble with our names (including Buttercup) engraved in the middle of it—glittered in the sunlight. Turning the bauble around, there was a picture of us all, too, from four years ago. Just before Dad had been diagnosed with his illness.

  It was one of the last things Dad had given us.

  Ever touched before he’d grown too sick to move.

  I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “Okay. So, Mom. You’re taking these? Ivy, can you grab the other end of the tree, please? It’s heavy, so we’ll need to be careful. No more tripping.”

  “Okay, okay. But I still stand by my suggestion of last year.”

  “Oh no. Dare you even remind me of what that was?” Mom asked over her shoulder, flitting through boxes.

  “We need a big—hunky—chunky man to help us,” Ivy winked at me, in particular, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

  “We should call Mal’s boyfriend?” I teased.

  Ivy scowled. “Ouch. Too soon.”

  “So help me, Ivy.”

  “You love me really, sis.”

  “Of course she does,” Mom said, matter-of-factly. “She’s your sister. Now stop teasing and roll your sleeves up.”

  “Yes, Mother,” I said, rolling my eyes at Ivy, who grinned and shrugged her shoulders.

  We hunched down and grabbed the bottom of the box, stabilizing our grip… after many attempts. It took several tries to actually make it out of the attic, though. Was I surprised? Not really.

  But we still had two flights of stairs to go.

  “Why do we live in a house with so many stairs?” Ivy groaned and tightened her hold on the box.

  “Just be careful, okay? Some of the steps are steep and I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to tell me that, Olive. I can see perfectly well.”

  “You’re lucky that I do love you, Ivy.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  We slowly veered down the flight of stairs and past our apartments. “Because of your snark, I might’ve just slipped on these steps…”

  Ivy gasped, glanced over her shoulder, and then laughed. She took another steady step back. “Hmm. You know, maybe you really did kill Jenny Walker.”

  The both of us giggled down the remaining steps. But I couldn’t hide how much strength the tree had taken out of me. Sweat poured down my spine, beaded on my brow, my upper lip, and my breaths had turned ragged. Ivy, on the other hand, only seemed mildly affected.

  Infuriatingly so.

  “Why are you not wheezing like I am?”

  I shouldn’t have asked that. Just as I expected, I was immediately hit with a sarcastic remark. Ivy had apparently learned too much from my mom and I, it seemed.

  “Because I’m younger and fitter than you?”

  Before I could utter my equally sarcastic retort, Mom appeared behind us, and Ivy’s eyes strayed over my shoulder toward her.

  “Are you two still on the first box? Put some elbow into it, girls. Your Grandma Darrow could lift the whole thing on her haunches.”

  “We’re trying, Mom” I said softly, descending another step. “How many more boxes are there again?”

  “Three.”

  “Three more big ones?”

  “Medium
sized, honey,” Mom replied, sweeping by us. The staircase was wide enough for us not to brush shoulders. “But the good news is that I have a nice treat for you afterward.”

  “Please, please, please say it’s eggnog,” Ivy pleaded. “I will love you forever, Mommabear.”

  “You’ll have to wait and see,” Mom said simply, hanging tinsel around our necks and then humming her way back inside her apartment.

  Once Ivy and I had finished bringing the boxes down (eventually), the three of us unloaded and began to slowly decorate the tree. We hadn’t even gotten halfway through, though, when suddenly Ivy plopped down onto the sofa and closed her eyes. Mom hummed and disappeared into the kitchen.

  I crossed over my arms. “No slacking on the job, Ivy. This means a lot to Mom and we still have presents to wrap.”

  “But I’m dying,” Ivy whined, pressing a melodramatic hand against her forehead. “Scratch that: I’m dead.”

  I rolled my eyes at her. “You’re just wanting to know what the treat is, aren’t you?”

  Ivy opened an eye. “Is it working?”

  “No.”

  At that moment, Mom entered the living room carrying a festive tray of drinks. Turned out I was wrong: her whining had worked.

  Much to everyone’s delight, the treat was eggnog with a splash of rum. And even more to Ivy’s, she fulfilled our family tradition of putting the star on top of the Christmas tree.

  Chapter Twelve

  When I reached the Maritime Teashop the morning after, my eyes widened at what had happened. Bundles of leaves and crushed twigs had been smeared all over the wooden porch, oozing shredded tinsel onto the steps and sidewalk as though it were a sickly stream. Fragments of the display had even been stuck unceremoniously to the windows.

  Taped to the panes.

  As I stepped onto the porch, I felt as if I had entered a wreath massacre, and I couldn’t help the shiver that snaked down my spine. With a killer on the loose, the sight of my shop having been vandalized was the last thing I wanted to see.

  I looked over my shoulder, but the street was empty.

  Nobody around to ask if they had seen anything.

  Carrying a tin of homemade red velvet cake, I waded through the mess and unlocked the shop. Luckily, nothing inside had been damaged. While I had no idea who kept leaving them, the wreaths had been so intricately designed that it was such a waste to see them destroyed like that.

  I’d check the surveillance once Ivy had arrived, allowing me time to disappear for a while. Until then, I’d have to clear away the mess and open the shop myself. I didn’t have any time to spare to wallow.

  Sweat beaded down my forehead, as I shoveled the last of the mess into a trash can. Once I had closed the door and carried the trash out the back, I flicked the sign to open.

  Not long after the morning rush poured through the door, I managed to snag a moment to breathe and drink a glass of water. We had our annual festive tea back in stock, and the cinnamon blend with spices and pungent mint had always been a favorite among customers.

  I was busy redesigning the menu board with our holiday drinks, when all of a sudden my polka dot apron tightened around my waist.

  “H… hello…”

  Carly tugged onto the hem of my apron, tilting her blonde pigtails at me.

  “Hey there, sweetie. Anything I can help you with?”

  The child twirled her foot on the spot and looked up at me with rosy, dimpled cheeks. “I… I was just wonderin’ where the leaf—I mean, the wreaths are, Miss Darrow. Mommy said they’re all gone.”

  My expression softened, and I placed the chalk onto the counter beside me. “I’m sorry, Carly, but something happened to them and I no longer have any.” My heart clenched at her adorable face shifting into a frown. “Don’t worry, though. Today after work, I’m going to pick up some new ones. Maybe if you’re around tomorrow, you can help me put up the first one?”

  Elena Waters, Carly’s mother, appeared behind her daughter. “I hope she’s not causing any trouble, Olivia. She’s been so excited now that the Christmas holidays are upon us.”

  “Not at all.” I smiled, wiping my hands down my apron. “Carly was just wondering what had happened to the wreath display. I told her I’m replacing them and maybe she could help me hang them up tomorrow, if you're both around.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful, Carly?”

  “Yes, Mommy! I’d love that very much!”

  “Ah, now wait a minute…” Elena leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I think it’s Jenny Walker’s memorial service tomorrow morning. Are you going?”

  “I think the whole town’s been invited,” I said, trying my best to sound less displeased than I was. It wasn’t like she ever respected anyone in San Bas. The old witch hated everyone and everything that wasn’t her puzzles or her husband. “I think Ivy and I will be going to show Matthew support, since my mom can’t be there.”

  More like mom refused to go.

  “That would be lovely of you both. Yes, I think hubby and I will be going, too, while my mother-in-law looks after Carly. Graham even took the morning off work to go.”

  Elena was an elementary school teacher and had just finished up for Christmas break. Her husband, however, was a renowned surgeon and hardly ever took a day off. For him to use one up, to attend the memorial service of a woman who despised everyone she laid eyes on, said a lot about him. About them both.

  “Going where, Mommy?” Carly tugged at her mother’s coat.

  “Nowhere, sweetheart. Now go and finish your cake before I take it home for Daddy!”

  At that, Carly bolted away from us and hunched over her cupcake, devouring it with worryingly large gulps.

  “Between you and me,” Elena whispered, “Graham never took to her.”

  “Who?”

  Elena nodded toward Jenny Walker’s seat. No matter what, I knew it would always be tainted by Jenny’s memory.

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, let’s just say he wasn’t alone.”

  “No. He wasn’t,” Elena agreed. “He was also working the day Matthew showed up to view the body on Friday. He said Matthew didn’t even shed a tear, but he’d wanted to bury her the next morning. Claimed it was for closure. But when the police explained they had to keep her body until the case was solved, he put on another scene and was escorted from the building.”

  “They kicked Matthew out?” I repeated, incredulous.

  “I thought it was odd, too.”

  At that, Elena returned to her seat with Carly, and I shuddered.

  Ivy showed up for work right on time. At noon, I watched her pause at the front door, her jaw dropping where the wreath display had been. Before I could go to comfort her, a soft accent halted me on the spot.

  “Hello there.”

  I turned to see the English gentleman from last Friday. This time, he wore a gray suit over a white oxford, slightly unbuttoned at the top, and his blond hair had been swept to the side. Not a strand out of place.

  “Welcome back to the Maritime Teashop. Can I get you anything?”

  “A peppermint tea, please, and one of your gingerbread muffins.”

  “Coming right up!”

  I got busy with his order, and as I reached for a muffin from the back of the cake display, he surprised me by continuing to talk.

  “Another business trip,” he said, holding up a leather briefcase. “I was quite looking forward to coming back here. My secretary was right. Your establishment is really quite charming.”

  I beamed at the compliment. So what if it swelled my ego. A little boost here and there never harmed anyone.

  “Thank you! It’s amazing to think I’ve only had this shop for a couple of years.” I placed his muffin onto a saucer and smiled. “I love it so much. It means everything to me.”

  His cobalt eyes flashed in the fluorescent lights. He ran a hand over his cheeks. “It shows.”

  His gaze was the kind that saw right into you, studying every tick of your brain a
nd beat of your heart. Oftentimes customers caught my attention—left an impression for longer than two minutes—and this gentleman certainly had.

  Not to mention he was on Ivy’s list.

  “I wanted to excuse my impertinence of last week. I was rather… distressed. Please accept my sincerest apologies.”

  I paused, digesting what he had said. “Honestly, don’t worry about it. So much craziness happened that day. I just hope the tea and cake managed to de-stress you a little.”

  “It did. Very much so.” He held out a perfectly manicured hand, and added, “The name’s Wyatt Edwards.”

  “Nice to meet you, Wyatt.” I shook his hand, which felt as soft as it looked. “Are you staying long in San Bas, or just visiting?”

  “With any luck, I should be living here permanently. I just have some paperwork to finalize on the house.”

  Before I could ask where in the town he had purchased, Ivy trudged up to the counter. Her normally delicate features were pinched hard together, her short hair had been tied into an uneven bun, and I could see a pencil poking out from underneath her hairband.

  She placed her hands flat onto the counter. “What. Happened? Break it to me gently.”

  I waved Ivy to the side and lowered my voice. “I don’t know yet. I got here at my usual time and the wreaths had all been destroyed. Every one of them.”

  “Who’d do such a thing? Did you check the security cameras?”

  “Not yet. I will. Don’t worry. We’ll find out who did it.”

  As if hunting for a murderer and the mystery wreath patron wasn’t a big enough task already, now I had to deal with a vandal. Still. I couldn’t just let an evidently unstable individual walk around San Bas scot-free. First, it was Christmas wreaths, and then it could be something with a living pulse. I shivered at the thought. I had to do something.

  The gentleman cleared his throat behind us. “Forgive my intrusiveness, but did I just overhear that someone had vandalized your holiday decorations?”

  I nodded at Wyatt, and Ivy whipped her gaze toward the door again, sullen.

  “I am terribly sorry to hear that,” Wyatt added, gazing between us. “Such a dreadful act of violence.”