The Case of the Missing Elf: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 2)

by Anna Drake

  “That might work. You don't happen to know any, do you?”

  Our receptionist was raising three teenaged sons. I was sure one of them would be willing to help out. I told Ginger so.

  She nodded. “Having someone for weekends and after school would be a plus. But it still leaves me on my own when school is in session.”

  “If you intend to hire a new elf. I’ll talk to Dad. I’m sure he’d be happy to put an ad in the paper without charge for the DBA.”

  Ginger grimaced. “The pay’s awful. The hours dreadful. I always thought we were lucky to have found Barnaby. It’ll take a miracle to get any applicants… let alone someone who might actually work out well.”

  “You won’t know until you try. And there must be someone in Cloverton who could use some extra cash. Especially at Christmas.”

  “But the costume? Who’s gonna fit into that thing?”

  “If you can’t find someone Barnaby’s size, you can always have a new costume made.”

  “At this short notice?”

  “I’ll bet you could find someone who’d be glad to stitch up a new outfit in a couple of days. In the meantime, you could pull a temporary costume together. We’re talking about kids, here. What do they know about how elves dress?”

  “You’ll write the ad?” she asked warily.

  “If I know Dad, he’ll do it up himself.”

  “That would be good. Still, this is Friday. The earliest the ad can come out is Monday. Then, mix in the time it will take me to interview the applicants... if there are any... and I could be stuck alone in this lousy place for more than a week.”

  “Beats spending all of your time here right up to Christmas day.”

  “Good point.”

  “I’ll have a word with Betty. In addition to asking after a babysitter, I’ll explain the problem with Santa. With her kids out for Thanksgiving break, one of the boys might even be able to start this afternoon.”

  “That would be wonderful. Please tell Betty I can handle Santa if one of her sons will take on the kids.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “If Santa’s such a problem, why don’t you fire him?”

  Ginger lowered her voice to a whisper. “Because he’s the husband of the DBA president, that’s why.”

  “Valerie Farmer?”

  Ginger nodded.

  “Poor woman.”

  “You got that right.”

  A noise from the far end of the cabin caught my attention. It sounded suspiciously like snoring. Apparently our Santa had fallen into a blissful, gin-induced sleep.

  I thought about Ginger struggling through the next six weeks with a drunken Santa Claus and wished her luck. From what I’d seen so far, I figured she was going to need it.

  ~~~

  Once I made it back to the newspaper, Dad behaved exactly as I’d known he would, volunteering to run a free ad for the DBA. “I’ll work one up right away. Tell Ginger it will be in Monday’s paper.”

  Dad’s promise of a Monday publication date might sound like an unnecessary delay. But ours was a small newspaper. We only published on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. There wasn’t any way we could get the ad out sooner. I said goodbye to Dad. With my first mission now completed, I headed to the reception desk, where I dropped Ginger’s babysitting problem on our receptionist’s lap.

  “What happened to Barnaby Scroggins?” Betty McCracken asked. “I thought he adored playing the elf.”

  Somewhere in her late forties, Betty had always struck me as the ultimate mother. She not only managed to take good care of her brood, but she also tended to minister to our needs as well. I knew she’d come through for Ginger.

  I explained about Scroggins and how he had come up missing and eventually dead.

  Betty gasped. “How dreadful, and what a shock for Wendy… not to mention you.”

  “Wendy’s devastated, but she’s strong. As for me, I’m beginning to think I’m oddly attracted to corpses. Or maybe they’re just drawn to me.”

  Betty chuckled, then asked, “So, for the moment it’s Ginger you’re worried about?”

  “Frankly, the thought of her trapped alone in a cabin with a drunken Santa Claus and Christmas-hyped kids terrifies me. I told her she should hire a teenage babysitter to give her a hand after school. Do you know anyone who could fit that part?”

  Betty smiled. “My middle son, Toby, has lots of free time. I’m sure he’d enjoy earning some money. He likes kids, too, and has lots of experience with them. He’s been babysitting for a few neighbors for more than a year now.”

  “He sounds almost perfect.”

  “I hate to brag, but I’m sure he’d do a good job. I’ll call home. If he isn’t there now, I’ll tell him to ring me when he comes in.”

  I thanked her and headed for my office. It’s a small thing, with plain white walls and a banged up desk, but most days it felt like home to me. It had one thing that was missing in most offices, a large window. That window, combined with similar ones in Dad’s and Betty’s walls, meant we could all see each other from our desks. That ability worked wonderfully well in a small newspaper like ours where many hands could sometimes be needed to get a paper out

  After settling in at my desk, I checked my email, then opened a blank screen to write an article about Santa’s Cabin and the kickoff of the shopping season. Tomorrow, I’d have to shoot the photos I’d been planning to take today. But that couldn’t be helped. Then, I’d follow that up by checking with merchants late Sunday afternoon to learn if sales were brisk or sluggish. For now, I’d write up a few tidbits about the day, the decorations, and the number of shopping days left until Christmas. It would serve as the base of my Santa’s Cabin story.

  I decided to wait to start writing up the murder report until Sunday, when, hopefully, Gossford would be able to send some additional information my way. Then, I’d double check with him Monday morning to ferret out the latest details on the killing and update the story.

  In the meantime, I scribbled notes from my discovery of the body into a small notebook. I doubted I’d use any of what I’d seen in a news story. But I wanted to record my impressions anyway.

  I hadn’t been at work long before I heard a knock on the office door. I glanced up to find Gossford filling the doorway. I was stunned. He’d never visited me in my office before. Besides, we’d only parted company a little over an hour ago.

  “May I come in?” he asked rather unnecessarily, I thought. I couldn’t imagine him not taking himself wherever he pleased.

  Gossford proceeded into the room and sat facing me in the chair beside my desk. “The coroner thinks he may and identified the poison.”

  “That sounds promising.”

  I wondered where Gossford was going with this? He rarely offered me inside information. And why the rush? He knew my story on Scroggins’ death wouldn’t be published until Monday.

  “Actually,” Gossford continued, “I’ve come to ask for your help. Doc Kirkwood has narrowed the poison down. He thinks what killed Scroggins was something called digitalis.”

  “The heart medicine?”

  “Maybe, but apparently that form of medicine isn’t as popular as it once was, making it harder to come by. Kirkwood thinks it’s more likely our killer used parts from the plant the medicine’s made from.”

  “Which is?”

  “A common garden flower called foxgloves. We think the murderer might have used the leaves, but the whole plant is poisonous, including flowers and roots. Then again, parts of the plant might have been distilled down to a super high dosage, and the resulting liquid slipped into the victim’s tea. I’m hoping the state lab report will provide more specifics. For now, the information is pure speculation, so I can’t officially say anything until it’s been confirmed.”

  “But you say you need our help?”

  “Yes, I’d appreciate it if you took a look back in your gardening stories. I’d like to know if any of them mention the names of gardeners with a passion for growin
g foxgloves.”

  Normally, when someone came requesting information from old stories, we pointed them to the microfilm cabinet and let them search for themselves. But we had at least two years worth of material stored on our computers. A few clicks and a few keywords, and we’d be able to pull the old stories up easily enough. Plus, this was a cop who was asking, a cop who was tracking a killer.

  I nodded. “We can sort through the old gardening stories in search for the words foxgloves and digitalis. We’d be happy to do it. But you and your officers will have to read through the articles to pick up the details. We have a paper to put out here.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I’ll have Betty McCracken sort out the gardening articles for you. She’ll email you copies of whatever she finds.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Good.”

  Gossford paused for a minute, then said, “I am right, aren’t I? You did say Wendy Cartwright came up with that key to Scroggins’ apartment?”

  “Sure. She kept a spare key in the kitchen.”

  “They were close? Her and Scroggins?”

  I raised my shoulders. “They were cousins. I believe she let him live rent-free in the apartment. Rumor has it she built the thing specifically for him. I doubt anyone would go to that kind of bother for someone they dislike. Why do you ask?”

  Gossford grunted. “She’s got a lot of flowerbeds on that lot of hers. Some in front of the house. Some behind. Even though it’s winter, you can still see all those dried stalks.”

  “Yes, I think she’s widely considered to be an excellent gardener. But, you can’t possibly suspect Wendy of killing her cousin. She’s seventy years old and frail.”

  “Poisoning a person doesn’t take strength, Melanie. Plus, the woman’s obviously strong enough to garden. That’s no small thing. I also suspect a good gardener knows which of her plants are poisonous.”

  “Whoa, slow down. I doubt Wendy Cartwright ever had a mean thought in her life about anyone. And I’ll never believe she’d kill Barnaby.”

  Gossford smiled. “Think you know her that well, do you?”

  I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it. This wasn’t the first time Gossford had jumped to a wrong conclusion, and pointing his errors out to him rarely had the desired effect.

  Dang. I swallowed a sigh. I hoped he wasn’t going to make more of Wendy’s gardening pursuits than was warranted.

  Gossford leaned forward in the chair, his brow furrowed. “Was Wendy with you all the time between when you entered the apartment and our officer arrived?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure? She never left your side? Never offered to double check your findings? She was never alone even when you wandered off to call police?”

  “I had my cell phone with me in my pocket, so I was able to call your dispatcher from inside Barnaby’s bedroom. Wendy was waiting for me in the living room. That’s where I left her after entering the apartment. And that’s where I found her when I left the bedroom.”

  He straightened. “Okay, fair enough. Anyway, thank you for helping with the research. I look forward to reading those gardening articles.”

  “Don’t mention it. We’ll get them to you as soon as we can.”

  He nodded and rose to his feet.

  I slumped back in my chair and watched as Gossford departed.

  Wendy, indeed, I thought. I had the uncomfortable feeling Ginger and I might become involved with tracking down a killer for the second time..

  The phone buzzed. The call was on our internal line. I snatched up the receiver. “Yo.”

  “I’ve reached Toby,” Betty announced. “He’s thrilled to help out at the cabin. In fact, he’s already headed over there. I hope that’s okay?”

  I grinned. “I’m sure Ginger will be thrilled.” While I had Betty on the line, I spelled out Gossford’s request on the gardening articles.

  “Consider it done,” she said.

  “Thank you. I don’t know how we’d survive without your steady hand.”

  “Oh, go on. Get out of here.”

  After disconnecting, I grabbed my purse from the floor and took off running. I didn’t think Ginger had ever met Toby, and I felt duty bound to handle the introductions. With everything on Ginger’s plate just now, politeness might not be among her top priorities.

  Three

  Toby had already reached the cabin by the time I arrived. Things apparently had gone well between him and Ginger even without my intervention, a fact for which I was most grateful. I found the boy on his knees in the far corner, crawling around on the floor with two little tykes. I waved. He offered up a broad grin.

  Meanwhile, a little girl sat on Santa’s lap, her face gazing adoringly at the bearded man. A young woman, who I took to be the girl’s mother, knelt before them snapping photos on her cell phone.

  Ginger hovered around the edge of the scene, her toe tapping out a brisk staccato rhythm on the floor.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Not bad,” she said, “but if I don’t get out of here soon, I won’t be responsible for my actions. Hanging out with kids is not my thing. And Santa Claus is going to give me ulcers. Maybe I’ll fire him after all.”

  I smothered a smile. I doubted she’d carry through on her threat, but I could understand her desire to. Despite her quick tongue, Ginger couldn’t bring herself to fire anyone. Plus, mix in the fact that Santa’s wife ran the DBA, I assumed firing Santa could prove a bit tricky.

  “You just need a break. Now that Toby’s here, how about you and I go for a bite to eat?”

  She looked at me with relief. “That would be super. I haven’t had anything since breakfast, and I’m here until after the shops close.”

  “What time’s that?”

  “Nine.”

  “In that case, I feel duty bound to feed you. I think we can trust Toby to handle things here for at least half an hour.”

  “He probably won’t do a much worse job than I have.”

  “Please. Have some faith. I suspect he’ll be much better at handling kids than you are.”

  Ginger shot me a dirty look. “I dare you to spend one full day in here before you criticize me.”

  I laughed.

  Soon, Ginger and I settled in at Howies. Our favorite hamburger joint was located just one block off Main Street. I took a pass on the food. Dad would be feeding me tonight. He’d been head chef at our house, since my mother’s death when I was only four. Instead of food, I made do with coffee. Ginger, however, gave way to her basest instincts and ordered up a triple-decker hamburger with a large side of fries.

  I couldn’t believe it and did an eyeroll.

  “Hey,” she answered, “this meal is gonna count as lunch and supper today, so stop making faces like that, would you? While I’m waiting for my food, why don’t you make yourself useful and grab us a table?”

  At this time of day Howie’s was normally empty. But with school out for the Thanksgiving weekend, the place was nearly packed with teens and preteens. I laid claim to a corner table away from the worst of the din.

  Ginger joined me a short time later, setting her tray down before shrugging her way out of her coat. I reached over and snagged my coffee, also grabbing up the two sweetener packets and dumping their contents into my steaming cup.

  “So,” Ginger said, sliding onto a chair, “what have you been up to?”

  “Besides snagging you a babysitter?”

  “Yeah, I’m grateful for that, make no mistake, but what else has been happening around town? I feel so cut off from everything stuck inside here.”

  “For one thing, I’ve learned what poison police think may have killed Scroggins.”

  Her large hazel eyes grew even more so. “Really?”

  “But I’m not free to share it with anyone yet.”

  Ginger, who had been focused on unwrapping her burger stopped and stared at me. “Well, aren’t you just the special snowflake?”

 
“You needn’t be so sensitive.”

  “Huh, why not?”

  “Because deep down you know you need me.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Seriously, what is your problem?”

  She set her burger down. “Maybe I’m a little annoyed. It was one thing for Scroggins to die. Given time, I could forgive him for that. I mean, as you pointed out, it wasn’t his fault. Death happens. But to be going through all of this because some selfish, no-account jerk wanted to kill the man? Now, that really ticks me off.”

  “See, that’s what makes you so special.”

  “What is?”

  “The size of your heart.”

  “Horse pucky. I’ve put hours and hours into planning this project. I’ve cleaned that drippy cabin, I’ve managed to get it moved from the storage barn to the square. I’ve dry cleaned the the blasted costumes. I’ve knocked myself out till I’m half dizzy over this, and now I’m having to scramble to save all of my hard work from falling apart due to the death of an old man?” She shook her head. “Somebody needs to pay for this. And we’re just the pair to find out who.”

  “Forget it. Last time we tried that, I almost ended up dead.”

  “Stop exaggerating, would you?”

  “Trust me. You weren’t there. I’m not exaggerating.”

  “This time around would be different. We’re seasoned veterans now. We’d be more careful.” She opened her mouth wide and bit off an enormous hunk of burger.

  I watched her chew and reconsidered my position. Gossford was eyeing Wendy for the murder. I knew that was a waste of his time. Besides what kind of friend would I be if I let Wendy go undefended? I grabbed a deep breath. “You may have a point,” I said.

  Ginger swallowed her burger. “About what?”

  “About sticking our investigative noses into Scroggins’ death.”

  Ginger grinned and nodded. “Oh, goody. Here we go.”

  ~~~

  That night, after Dad had fed me on chicken breasts, potatoes, cheese, and cream, I put together a container of coffee and a can of pop for Toby and scurried back to Santa’s Cabin. When I arrived things appeared to be going well. Children were where they belonged and were behaving as good children should. Santa sat on his throne and mumbled to the little kiddies without slurring his words. Meanwhile, Ginger had pulled together a makeshift costume for Toby.