Deadly Holiday (Georgia Rae Winston Mysteries Book 2)

by Marissa Shrock

  “I’d be happy to.” I forced enthusiasm into my tone.

  “Wonderful! Come to the church tomorrow morning at nine sharp. We’ll discuss my creative vision, and you can pick up the program binder.”

  “How about ten?” I wasn’t exactly a morning person in the winter when I had fewer farming responsibilities.

  “Nine works better for me.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Sure. I’ll see you at nine. Have a good night.” I disconnected the call and blew out a breath. What’d I gotten myself into?

  The next morning, I arrived at my church and turned onto the west entrance’s winding drive. Through the years, we’d grown by drawing people from all over Richard County, and we’d added on to the one-hundred-year-old brick building. There’d been some talk lately of tearing down the old church, but the prospect of seeing a piece of my childhood turned to rubble saddened me.

  I made it inside at exactly nine o’clock. Mona Pletcher typed at her computer behind the desk that’d been my hideout on Monday night. A plate of Christmas tree shaped cookies rested on the counter.

  She looked up and smiled. “Good morning, Georgia. How was Thanksgiving?”

  I decided to focus on the positive. “My mom knows how to cook a great feast. How was yours?”

  “Not bad, even though my kids are with their dad until tomorrow.” Her perfectly shaped brows and berry-colored lips reminded everyone she sold cosmetics. She’d taken the extra job when her husband had left her for a newer—though definitely not prettier—model. She motioned over her shoulder. “Ruby’s in the greenroom.”

  “Thanks.”

  “We appreciate you stepping up.” Mona was also singing in the Christmas choir.

  “Happy to help.” I think.

  I rounded the corner and waved at Pastor Mark in his office. “Morning!”

  “I hear you’ve been recruited.”

  “I should apologize in advance.”

  He scoffed. “Nah. You’ll do great.” He put on his reading glasses and picked up his Bible.

  Zach walked toward his office. Had he and Pastor Mark made up after their fight?

  “Hey there,” he said.

  He probably had no clue what my name was because we didn’t run in the same circles, though he’d hung out with my cousin J.T. Simms a few times. He sported a red, long-sleeved T-shirt made to look like an ugly Christmas sweater.

  “Nice shirt,” I said.

  “Thanks. Gotta get in the spirit.” He gave me a thumbs up and shoved a Christmas tree cookie into his mouth.

  I entered the greenroom, which led to the auditorium stage and housed Ruby’s desk, but she was nowhere to be seen. “Ruby?”

  “I’m coming.” Holding a pile of biblical costumes that towered against her chest, she lumbered in and dropped them on the couch. “You wouldn’t believe how musty these things get in the basement closet.” She heaved a sigh. Though her face was splotchy, it didn’t hide the fact that she’d used a heavy hand with her bright pink blush.

  “How was your Thanksgiving?” I asked.

  “My family isn’t celebrating until Sunday.” She motioned toward her desk. “See that binder? That’s the key to the kingdom. It’ll be your life for the next two weeks.” She tucked a strand of her chin-length gray hair behind her ear.

  Oh boy. “The program’s already cast?” I picked up the binder and flipped through it.

  “Yes.” She clasped her hands. “I’m taking care of all of the drama.”

  I didn’t doubt that for one minute.

  Doug Brockwell, the custodian, walked in from the auditorium. “The lights are good to go, Ruby.”

  “Yay! You’re my hero.” She clapped. “Doug and his wife Ella are Mary and Joseph, so their little Lyla can play baby Jesus. It’s providential because they sing beautifully.”

  This time Ruby wasn’t exaggerating. Doug had been two years ahead of me at Wildcat Springs High School, and we’d both been in show choir. He had a gorgeous tenor voice.

  His face reddened. “Hey, Georgia.” He looked at Ruby and shoved his hands into his brown Carhartt overalls. “I’m going to head out and finish setting up the nativity scene.” He hitched his thumb toward the door and made his escape.

  How long would it be before I could make mine?

  Ruby’s nasal voice recaptured my attention. “I’m thankful you’re handling the music because I couldn’t play the piano if someone put a gun to my head, and my voice sounds like a cow giving birth.” Ruby’s expression dared me to challenge that assertion.

  Instead, I blinked. “That sounds painful.”

  “Ask my husband. When we got married years ago, he begged me not to cause a scene by singing in church, so I made peace with my lack of ability and threw my life into drama.”

  I half expected her to display jazz hands every time she said the word drama. Instead, she opened a closet door, revealing a stackable washer and dryer. “I trust our choir practice schedule works for you?”

  My phone buzzed, and I glanced at the picture and text. Mom wanted my opinion on a gift for Makayla. I wasn’t sure why she wanted to shop in all of the madness, but she and Aunt Janie loved Black Friday.

  Ruby sorted tunics by colors. “I don’t permit cell phones in my practices, so I expect that as choir director, you’ll set an example?” She flattened her lips and looked back and forth between the offending phone and my face.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I didn’t want to find out what would happen if I didn’t, so I shoved my phone in the back pocket of my jeans.

  “Now, does our practice schedule suit you?”

  “It’s fine.” I held the binder to my chest as Ruby threw a load of tunics in the washer and launched into an animated thirty-minute dissertation on her vision for A Time Traveler’s Christmas—the story of a middle school girl searching for the true meaning of Christmas. With the help of her scientist neighbor, the girl traveled back in time to witness the birth of Jesus.

  When Ruby finished, I took a deep breath. Lord, give me strength. Not wanting Ruby to regret the faith she’d put in me, I said good-bye and hightailed it out of the building before I could be roped into additional responsibilities.

  Chilly air seeped under my coat collar, so I tightened my scarf. Indiana Novembers often produced one overcast day after another, and today was no exception. I didn’t mind the short days, because early night hid the dreariness. I needed to get my Christmas tree up soon to add some cheer, and that might be a good plan for later today.

  I pulled onto the winding driveway and decided to take the south exit to see Doug’s progress on the nativity scene. A truck, with a bed half-full of sheep and shepherd figures, was parked in the grassy area between the stable and the road. As I passed, a flash of bright blue caught my eye.

  Instead of Baby Jesus, a body sprawled facedown over the pine-board manger.

  My heart plummeted, and I stomped the brakes, threw the truck in park, and jumped out.

  Only the noise of passing vehicles on the highway broke the eerie silence. I rushed into the stable and nearly wiped out on the straw spread over the ground. Flailing my arms, I regained my balance.

  I shoved the plastic Mary aside. Kneeling next to the manger, I examined the man’s flushed face and drew a sharp breath. “Zach?”

  “Help,” he whispered without opening his eyes. “Burning…so…thirsty…”

  “Help!” I surveyed the area in search of Doug, but no one was around. The truck full of figures blocked the view from the road.

  Lord, help!

  As gently as I could, I supported Zach’s head and lowered him into the straw beside the manger. His wiry frame probably weighed a good fifty pounds less than I did. He thrashed his arm and tugged at his bright blue coat as if he were trying to rip it off.

  Dodging his arms, I pressed my fingers to his neck and located a racing pulse. With my other hand, I dialed 911.

  “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” a male voice asked.

  “I’m at W
ildcat Springs Community Church and found one of the pastors collapsed in the nativity scene by the south entrance. He’s semi-conscious, and his pulse is racing. He says he’s burning—and thirsty.”

  “Do you know his age?”

  “Mid-twenties.”

  Zach moaned again, and my eyes fell on a puddle of vomit, dotted with the remains of a cookie, on the opposite side of the manger. A stainless-steel travel mug rested underneath the manger.

  “He threw up before I found him—but he was fine half an hour ago.”

  “Help’s on the way,” the dispatcher said. “Is anyone there with you?”

  “No. There are people in the church, but I don’t think anyone heard me yell.”

  “I’m going to have you place him on his side, so he doesn’t choke if he vomits again.”

  “Okay.” I put my phone on speaker and set it on the ground as the dispatcher told me how to position Zach on his side and make sure his airway was clear. “Got it.”

  “Do you know CPR if necessary?” the dispatcher asked.

  “Yes, sir—but it’s been a while since my training.”

  “I’ll stay on the line until the ambulance arrives.”

  “Thank you.” Lord, please help him. “Hang in there, Zach.” I rubbed his arm. “Help’s coming.”

  Zach’s eyes fluttered open, revealing dilated pupils. “Anchor,” he whispered before his eyes closed.

  “You’re right—God’s your anchor.” Tears pricked my eyes.

  I feared he wasn’t going to make it. I’d never watched the life drain from someone before, and it was a kick in the gut witnessing someone so young with so much potential slip away. “Come on, Zach. The ambulance is coming.” I choked back a sob.

  Keep it together for Zach, Georgia Rae.

  The wail of sirens cut through the biting wind.

  Zach opened his eyes and appeared to be looking through me. He lashed his arm around until he made contact with mine and squeezed. “Not. That. Anchor.” He drew a ragged breath, released his grip, and closed his eyes.

  Chapter Two

  I’d adopted my yellow Labrador retriever puppy a few weeks earlier, and Guster—Gus for short—was the joy of my life. As soon as I arrived home from the church, I knelt next to Gus, wrapped my arms around him, and buried my face in his neck.

  He wiggled out of my hug and licked my cheek. Then, he raced to the kitchen where he grabbed his favorite rubber ball from his toy basket by the back door, sat, and stared up at me.

  I laughed, thankful for the distraction. “I can take a hint.”

  I opened the door, and he scampered into the backyard, took care of his business, and ran a couple of laps around my lawn mower shed before dropping the ball at my feet. While I launched the ball toward the shed, I replayed the events of the last hour in my head.

  The ambulance had arrived shortly after Zach lost consciousness, and I told the paramedics everything I’d observed. The lights and sirens finally alerted Ruby, Mona, and Pastor Mark to the trouble, and they came running out of the building. After the ambulance pulled away with Zach on board, Doug returned from Richardville, where he’d gone to buy extension cords. With tears in his eyes, he told us Zach had seemed fine when he left.

  Pastor Mark assured me he’d take care of notifying Zach’s family in Michigan and would handle everything at the hospital until his family could arrive. There’d been nothing left for me to do but go home and pray.

  Lord, take care of Zach.

  Gus dropped the slobbery ball, and I tossed it again. My phone vibrated in my pocket, and Pastor Mark’s name flashed on the screen.

  “Hey,” I said. “How’s Zach?”

  Pastor Mark sighed. “I have some bad news.”

  My heart plummeted to my feet.

  “Zach went into cardiac arrest and passed away not long after he arrived at the hospital.”

  “No.” I groaned and squeezed the bridge of my nose. Though I wasn’t surprised, given the shape I’d found him in, I’d still prayed the doctors would save him. “Did they figure out what caused this?”

  “The ER doctor suspects poison—but he doesn’t know how or what kind—especially since Zach has no history of substance abuse. He notified the sheriff’s department.”

  “What?” Poison? Seriously? But when I mentally reviewed Zach’s symptoms—vomiting, dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, complaints about feeling hot—poison made sense.

  He cleared his throat. “Hopefully, we’ll know more after the autopsy and toxicology report.”

  I clenched my phone as my mind replayed details from the morning—and a big one stood out. “The plate of Christmas cookies. In the office. Zach was eating one this morning when I passed him in the hallway, and the remains of it were in his—uh—puke. What if…?” My mind whirred. “Do you know where they came from or if anyone else ate them?” I closed my eyes to squeeze out visions of tainted cookies taking out the entire church staff.

  “I’ll call Mona right now.” Panic edged into his voice, and he disconnected.

  My heart raced as I began pacing. Please, Lord. Protect everyone. No more murders.

  I’d had way too much experience with them.

  Gus deposited the ball in the brown grass in front of me, and I stooped to pick it up. This time, I heaved it toward the old red barn.

  Nine years ago, Mom had snapped my favorite picture of Daddy and me in front of that barn on his last Father’s Day—before someone had murdered him one night at a grain elevator.

  Daddy’s case remained unsolved to this day, though the sheriff’s department and I had attempted to crack it for years. Three years ago, God had prompted me to stop investigating because I’d been ruining my life with my quest for answers. Cal had recently promised to give the case a second look.

  After I tossed the ball a few more times, the sky began spitting snow. Gus and I had inhaled enough frigid air, so I coaxed him inside with one of his favorite doggie biscuits. Because I needed to do something with my hands, I started unloading my dishwasher, that I’d finally gotten around to fixing—with my grandpa’s help.

  My 1980s era kitchen needed a remodel thanks to linoleum flooring and pastel, flower-basket-print wallpaper. In spite of the fact the last update took place prior to my birth, I loved this two-story house with its original woodwork, staircase—and plenty of childhood memories.

  As I stacked the glasses in my cabinet, my thoughts drifted to Zach, and his last words haunted me.

  Anchor.

  What had he been trying to tell me? Had he suspected he’d been poisoned? Did Zach have an enemy with an anchor tattoo? Was anchor a code for something? What if Zach had been hallucinating because of the poison, and it didn’t mean anything?

  Still, he’d appeared determined to correct my misunderstanding about God being his anchor.

  My phone buzzed with a text from Pastor Mark.

  Doug, Ruby, and Mona ate cookies and are fine, which is good because they’re all gone. Beverly Alspaugh baked them.

  Whew. There was no way Beverly would hurt anyone, and it was no wonder they’d already disappeared. I’d known her for years and had eaten plenty of her fantastic cooking. She loved to make meals for our farming crew in the spring and fall when we were busy in the field.

  Though I was thankful the cookies were safe, it would’ve been nice if the source of poison had been that easy to find. I removed my owl coffee mug from my dishwasher and put it in the cabinet.

  Hold on.

  The travel mug. I’d almost forgotten it’d been lying near the manger, as if Zach had dropped it when he’d vomited. What if someone had poisoned Zach’s coffee? I should report it—in case it got overlooked in the chaos.

  If Cal weren’t out of town, I would’ve called him. Instead, I tapped the Richard County Sheriff’s Department’s number. When a receptionist answered, I asked to speak with a detective.

  “Detective Kimball is unavailable, so you’ll have to leave a message,” the receptionist said.


  “Thanks.” I flipped a strand of hair back and forth while I waited for the voicemail beep. “This is Georgia Winston. I found Zach Mishler this morning. Anyway, when my pastor called to tell me Zach died, he mentioned the ER doctor suspected poison, and I remembered seeing a travel mug under the manger when I found Zach. I thought you’d want to check it for poison.”

  I disconnected, sighed, and began dropping silverware into the drawer organizer. I’d done my duty.

  About an hour later, I’d finished dragging all my boxes of Christmas decorations out of the guest-room closet and down the stairs when my doorbell chimed. Gus beat me to the foyer and emitted a few ferocious barks.

  Peeking through the sidelight, I spotted Cal’s colleague, Detective Marvin Kimball.

  Great. Why’d Cal have to be out of town? From what he’d told me, Marvin was a thorough investigator, but he’d left his sense of humor back at the police academy in 1985.

  Grabbing hold of Gus’s collar, I opened the door. “Afternoon, Detective Kimball.”

  “Miss Winston.” His face remained expressionless. “I have a few questions about Zach Mishler and the circumstances surrounding his death.” His growly voice mingled with the cloud of cigarette smoke clinging to him.

  “Come in.” Gus was trying to escape my grip so he could give the detective a full-fledged greeting. Not gonna happen, little buddy. “Excuse me while I crate my dog. He’s friendly to a fault, and I’m sure you don’t want him jumping all over those nice black pants of yours.”

  “Thank you.” He stepped inside and stared at me without blinking, and I wished I could rocket back in time and retrieve this dude’s sense of humor.

  I woman-handled Gus into his crate in the utility room and tossed in a frayed chew toy. Hopefully, that’d be enough of a distraction.

  Brushing the hair off of my sweater and jeans, I returned to the foyer where Detective Kimball was waiting. “Did you get my voicemail?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”