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

by Anna Drake

  Nearing my destination, I slowed. Normally, Larkin and I parked our cars behind a decaying shed in an abandoned plot of land there. But today, the snow was too deep to pull into what had once been a farmer’s barnyard. But Larkin had reached the location ahead of me. His squad was parked across the entrance to the old barnyard. He waved me over beside his car and rolled his window down. I pulled my vehicle up beside his and followed his lead with the window.

  “Follow me,” he yelled over the howling wind.

  I nodded, and turned my car around, and lined it up behind his. He led us maybe a half dozen miles then pulled into a plowed driveway between a row of low-hanging evergreens. Our cars weren’t completely hidden, but any passersby would have to be looking hard to notice us tucked up in the driveway.

  I switched off my car’s ignition, picked up the carrier with the two coffees from the seat beside me, and exited my vehicle. Larkin swung his passenger door open. I quickly slid in out of the howling wind, and settled myself into the warm comfort of his car. After pulling a coffee cup from the carrier, I handed it to him. “I hope you haven’t made a recent caffeine stop.”

  He flipped the little tab on the lid open. “Even if I had, a man can never be too rich, too good looking, or consume too much caffeine.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. “Right. And modesty so becomes you.”

  He grinned back.

  I had to admit, when it came to looks, Larkin wasn’t too far off in his self assessment. Tall, broad, with a nose and chin a bit too prominent to rank him as handsome, he was still a man who looked good in most settings. His sandy hair and laughing blue eyes meant a lot of women wanted to spend time with him, but I wasn’t among their number. Larkin’s value to me lay in his treasure trove of in-depth information. Plus, everyone knew reporters and cops were a bad mix. We usually approached every topic from opposite ends.

  I sighed. “You should have someone open your veins and just pour the coffee in.”

  He laughed. “Then, I’d miss all this wonderful flavor.” He tipped the cup up and swallowed down a mighty portion. I couldn’t imagine slugging back a gulp of coffee while it was that hot.

  Relaxing in his seat now, he shifted his attention back to me.

  Larkin and I had gone to school together. While little, he’d chased off bullies and generally looked after me. Even in high school, I never quite outgrew his protective reach. He’d have probably continued his act through college, if he’d followed me there. But after high school graduation, Larkin had marched off with the Army.

  I never could quite figure out why he thought I still needed his oversight today. I was doing okay on my own. Or so I thought. But he’d come up trumps for me more than once. And as a news snitch, he couldn’t be beat.

  “Nasty day to be driving around out here,” he said. “What’s got you so fired up that we needed to meet today?”

  “Ginger’s stressed out over the elf’s death.”

  He chuckled and nodded. “That’s right. She’s heading up Santa’s Cabin this year. Somehow, I can’t picture her being real comfortable surrounded by all those kiddies. So what does she need help with?”

  “She’s going bonkers with Scroggins’ death. But at least she’s found a replacement for the elf. Agnes Plummer stepped up and volunteered for the job.”

  “That was quick. Scroggins was only found dead Friday.”

  “I think its grand she got a volunteer so quickly. Heaven knows Ginger’s glad for the help, but we’re both a little nervous. I don’t know anything about Agnes. Neither does Ginger. I wondered if maybe you could fill us in?”

  Larkin’s eyes twinkled. “Hmm, deep background for an elf, huh? This could be fun.”

  I scowled at him. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying this. In the meantime, Ginger’s in that cabin trying to keep the children of Cloverton safe.”

  “And you’re out driving around on icy roads trying to minimize Ginger’s risks for her.”

  “She’ do the same for me.”

  Larkin nodded. “She probably would.”

  “So,” I said, “do you know Agnes Plummer or not?”

  “Of course I know her. I’m surprised you don’t.”

  “I’ve seen her around town, okay? We just don’t happen to run in the same circles.”

  “I should hope not. She’s got a good thirty years on you.”

  “And?”

  “And…,” he shrugged, “she’s fine as far as I know. She doesn’t chase kids off her lawn. She’s widowed and has a couple of grandchildren. I’ve heard they adore her. She attends the Baptist Church on Larch Street so I doubt she’ll swear at any of your little angels.” He took time out for another swig of coffee. “What she also has is a younger son. A change-of-life-baby. He’s in his teens now. There might be a few rumbles about the kid, but nothing’s stuck so far.”

  That’s what I mean about Larkin. He knew the people of Weaver County. Even Ginger, with her wide assortment of friends, couldn’t match this man for knowing details about local residents.

  “Do you think Agnes can keep Sam Farmer in line?”

  “That’s the guy who plays Santa, right?”

  “It is.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “When I was there Friday, he stank of gin.”

  “Farmer?”

  “Yes.”

  Larkin’s mouth turned down in a look of disbelief. “That’s odd.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve never heard the man was a heavy drinker.”

  Yes! Score one for me. I knew more about someone than he did. “What about Lester Porter?”

  “What’s he got to do with Ginger?”

  “Nothing really. I was just curious about the man, that’s all.”

  “Porter,” Larkin muttered. “Now, if you want an alcoholic, there’s one. He was a good drinking buddy with Scroggins.” Larkin scowled at me. “Melanie, don’t tell me you’re sticking your nose into another murder.”

  Honestly, Larkin could be so small minded when it came to my sleuthing. He was nearly as bad as Dad. But I had no desire to tick him off, so I batted my eyes, and asked. “Who, me? When I know how you feel about that?.”

  Larkin grimaced. “Would that I could only believe you.”

  “You calling me a liar?”

  He sighed. “It’s been known to happen.”

  “Geesh. One innocent question, and you’re all over my case.”

  “Just make sure your research on this story remains innocent.”

  “Meaning?”

  Larkin sighed. “Meaning leave the murder investigation to the professionals.”

  I smiled at him sweetly. “But that’s exactly what I am doing.”

  Larkin toned down his scowl a notch, apparently trusting me to do what he considered the right thing.

  In response, my conscience reached out and gave me a sharp blow to the tummy. I really hated lying to such a good friend.

  ~~~

  After my session with Larkin, rather than heading home, I stopped by the newspaper office to track down Lester Porter’s address. The telephone directory showed Porter living on what could be called the wrong side of the tracks. I scribbled his address on a scrap of paper and stuffed it into my coat pocket.

  Being a Sunday, I knew Porter’s local watering hole would be closed. Our entire county was dry on Sundays. People wanting drinks had to drive at least thirty miles into the neighboring county to get one, or they kept a bottle at home. I figured Porter for a bottle-at-home kind of guy, so I headed straight for his house.

  His place turned out to be a one story affair badly in need of repairs. A fresh coat of paint wouldn’t have gone amiss, either. Heaping mounds of snow covered the front lawn and sidewalk, but I couldn’t help wondering if other things weren’t buried there too, like old tires or piles of rubbish. It looked to be that kind of a setting.

  I trudged through a deep snowdrift to reach the front porch and was astounded when I pushed the do
orbell, and it worked. I listened quietly to footsteps pounding their way toward me from inside the house. Then, the door swung open.

  An unwelcoming sort of man stood before me. He was tall and slender, almost scrawny. His eyes were red rimmed. His matted hair looked as though a comb hadn’t found its way through it for days.

  “Yeah?” He said, gruffly. Like Santa, the scent of gin pouring off the guy was unmistakable.

  “Lester Porter?” I asked.

  “That’s me. Who are you?” he demanded.

  I plastered a large smile on my face. “I’m Melanie Hart from the Cloverton Gazette. I’m writing a human interest piece about Barnaby Scroggins. I’ve heard you were friends. I hope you’ll grant me a bit of your time.”

  Porter grunted, looked me over, and shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” He swung the door wide.

  Looking at the debris in the room ahead of me, I had to stifle a desire to turn around and flee. But I let Porter lead me further into the small living room where he waved me toward a worn out couch. I perched along its front edge. No way was I leaning back in the thing. The sofa looked like it predated the house, and I doubted a vacuum cleaner had waived its magic wand anywhere near it in decades. The table next to the couch sported a couple of plates with dried up food and silverware.

  “Can I get you some coffee?” he asked.

  Not on your life, I thought. “No thank you. I just had some.”

  “Then let’s get to it.” Porter slapped his hands onto his knees and sank into a faded armchair. “What is it you want to know?”

  “I’m wondering what kind of a man Scroggins was. A lot of people know he was the Christmas elf. But I wanted our readers to get a sense of the real man behind that role.”

  Porter nodded and pushed a clump of greasy hair off his forehead. “Barnaby was a good guy. Helpful. He took care of his friends, too. He was gonna take real good care of me. And just my luck, now he’s dead.”

  “What was he going to do for you?”

  Porter pulled a face. “He had a real solid plan. We was gonna start a business. Earn us some money. Now, though.” He shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s all history.”

  “It takes money to start a business. I thought Scroggins was broke.”

  “Not a chance. Never. Only last week, he won big at one of them riverboat casinos over in Hadleyville.”

  “How big?”

  Porter pulled his long frame upright and grinned at the memory. “Almost nine thousand bucks.”

  “That is a lot of money.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “And he was going to pump his win into a business venture?”

  Porter’s head bobbed up and down. “He was gonna buy that old warehouse on the east side of town.”

  “Really?” The warehouse had been abandoned along with several large buildings when a small manufacturing plant pulled up stakes and moved away more than a decade ago. Even so, I doubted nine thousand dollars would come close to buying the building. This was getting interesting. “What did he plan to do with the place?”

  “He wanted rent out space to antique dealers and craft people. I was gonna toss in a couple of dollars of mine. We was both gonna get rich, see?”

  Considering Porter’s living conditions, I wondered how he could have any free cash to spare, or if he did, if Scroggins was planning to fleece this poor fellow, too. Wendy had said her cousin had done so before. I couldn’t see any reason why he wouldn’t do so again. Had Porter spotted the plan? Had he then killed Scroggins before the man could make off with his cash?

  I pushed on, “Did Scroggins have a good track record with setting up businesses? Did you check his background?”

  “Nah, didn’t need to. The thing couldn’t fail. Not with him at the head, see?”

  “Still, starting up an operation like you’ve described was ambitious,” I said. “I’m surprised Scroggins would want to take on such a large project at his age.”

  Porter chuckled, a low, oddly ominous sound. “Huh. That shows what you know. Barnaby had more energy than a teenager. Always did. He got even more ramped up after all that gambling money landed in his lap. Besides, he had that young kid to do his legwork.”

  “Who was that?”

  “A boy named Jeremy. A teenager. That’s all I know.”

  I frowned. “Still, I’m sure an old building like that warehouse would have needed a lot of work. Even if he managed to buy the place, how could he afford to fix it up? It’s been empty for more than a decade. Revamping it would take more than a can of paint or two. Where was Scroggins going to come up with that money?”

  “Barnaby said he’d have everything covered.” Porter raised a finger and tapped his noggin. “A clever man, that’s what Barnaby was.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Always. The man was rolling in cash. So if he said he could fix the warehouse up, I never doubted him. Plus, he said he was about to come into even more money.”

  This certainly didn’t fit with Wendy’s view of her cousin. She’d thought him poor without funds, barely scraping by.

  Curiouser and curiouser. “Where was the money to come from? Do you know?”

  Porter returned my frown. “Never you mind, missy. That was his business.”

  Why was it, I wondered, that so many people clamped their mouths shut just when their stories became really interesting?

  Seven

  After I returned to my car, I switched on the heater and headed home. Dad would doubtless be in the kitchen preparing dinner, which on Sundays was served at noon.

  Except for my stint at college, the house I pulled up before a few minutes later had been my home for all my life. The place was a colonial with white clapboard siding, green shutters, and a tastefully sculptured lawn, which today, of course, was snow white. As I pulled in the driveway, I thought the house looked like a scene from an old-fashioned Christmas card.

  “You’re just in time,” Dad said, as I stepped through the back door and entered his well appointed kitchen.

  Glancing over his head at the clock on the far wall. I noted it said the time was five minutes to eleven. ”What gives?” I asked. “Are we eating early today?”

  “We’re having company. He should be arriving any minute. Do you think you could handle the hostess duties while I carry on in here?”

  “Who is it?”

  “Hugh Jennings.”

  “Why wasn’t I informed about this?” Jennings was a local high school teacher. He was also my father’s favorite candidate for son-in-law. Dad had decided after my college fiance dumped me three days short of graduation that Hugh was the perfect person to take my ex-beau’s place. My father hadn’t even backed off Hugh when I’d started dating Josh Devon..

  “Well?” Dad demanded.

  “What?”

  “Will you see to his comfort while I put the finishing touches on dinner?”

  “Of course.”

  “You should have just enough time for a makeover before he arrives.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “Do I look that bad?”

  “You’re just a little too casual for a Sunday lunch, don’t you think?”

  Not in a more normal environment, I thought. But Dad had never adopted today’s casual dress codes. He still wore suits and ties to work and expected me to dress professionally, too. Normally, I didn’t mind, but this was Sunday, and for now, would be my only day off work this week.

  Turning, I set off for the stairway, leaving Dad behind with Taffy. The dog sat at his heels looking up adoringly at him. The cocker spaniel never missed a session with Father when he was in the kitchen. and she was nearly always rewarded with some special scrap or another during dinner prep. The dog was nearly as spoiled by Dad’s cooking as I was.

  A few seconds later, up in my bedroom, I slipped out of my jeans and top, and replaced them with a white silk blouse and a pair of dark dress slacks. I added a dark cardigan to help chase the day’s chill away. Taking up my position before the
mirror, I tossed on a fresh layer of blush, did a quick swipe of lipstick, and called myself improved.

  There wasn’t time to wash and re-fluff my hair, which had been flattened by my stocking cap. Maybe if I’d known I was to entertain a dinner guest, I thought, I wouldn’t have worn the hat. Then, again, why shouldn’t I have? It was disgustingly cold outside. Sighing, I drew the mess back into a ponytail and called it done. I mean what was the point of fussing? I wasn’t interested in Hugh, nor was he interested in me. Not romantically, at least. We’d privately clarified that point between ourselves about a year ago.

  Dashing down the stairs, I was almost at the bottom step when the doorbell rang. And there Hugh stood, in all his glory, carrying a large bouquet of flowers in his right hand and smiling broadly.

  He was a fine looking fellow. Copper hair, green eyes, easy manner. I’d never quite figured out why we’d not clicked. But we hadn’t, and a pleasant enjoyment of each other’s company now had sprung up since we’d clarified the romance bit.

  “Come in, come in. You must be freezing out there.”

  Hugh handed me the flowers, a gorgeous mixture of yellow daisies, crimson carnations, and baby’s breath. I beamed at him. “That’s such a cheery sight on such a cold winters day. Thank you.”

  “I’m glad you like them.” He gave me a wink. I laughed.

  After he’d unwrapped his scarf and slipped off his overcoat, I deposited them in the hall closet and led him into the living room, where a roaring fire was already burning. Dad had obviously been a busy boy during my morning’s absence.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Some wine would be nice if you have it.”

  “Certainly. Dad’s assembling a chicken dish, so would a white wine be okay with you?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Why don’t you follow me to the kitchen? Dad was close to done when I last spoke to him.. He might have finished his tasks by now. Plus, I need to get these flowers into a vase.”

  We found my father bent over the stove, where he’d apparently just slipped something into the oven.