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

by Anna Drake

  “Yes. But the police say it was the leaves that were used.”

  “It’s a pity. The flowers are beautiful, but they also take some work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They don’t bloom the first year. Then, after they bloom the second year, a lot of times they don’t come back the third time. My wife’s always starting new plants to keep her garden filled. As I said, she’s mad for the things. Come to think of it, so is Wendy Cartwright. If anyone needed a supply of foxglove leaves to kill Scroggins, they’d certainly have been close to hand in her yard. She’s won awards for growing them. My wife told me.”

  Oh, great, I thought, just what poor Wendy needed — to be famous for growing foxgloves. I had an uneasy feeling Gossford had added the facts up the same way. No wonder he suspected Wendy of the murder.

  Obviously, Ginger and I needed to double down on our efforts to find the killer.

  Dang.

  ~~~

  Taffy and I hadn’t been back inside the house long before the phone rang. It was Ginger.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “How did you know to call me at home?”

  “Geesh, what is this? A federal offence? I called the paper. Betty said you were home. Paranoid much?”

  “This had better be good. My father sent me home to catch up on sleep, which you are interrupting.”

  “Betty didn’t tell me.”

  “I’m sorry. She probably didn’t know. Why are you calling anyway?”

  “Are we still on for tonight?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll see you then at my place at seven, right?”

  “Isn’t that what I’ve already said?”

  “Not directly, no.”

  “Seven. Your place. Got it.” My foot slammed the floor.

  “Good. Good. That’s all I wanted to know. See you then.”

  I trudged my way upstairs intent on working in at least a minor nap. When I reached the top of the stairs, the phone rang again. I couldn’t believe it. I grabbed the receiver and dragged it up to my ear.

  “Melanie. Is that you?” The voice was female and tentative.

  “Wendy?”

  “Yes, dear. They said at the paper your were home. Anyway, I hope you’re all right. I’ve felt so guilty about pulling you over here in the middle of the night.”

  “No problem. I was glad to help.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that, because I was wondering if you’d repeat the experience tonight?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Would you spend the night with me? I’m all alone here. I know it’s asking a great deal, but I’m terrified. Anyway, I have several spare bedrooms. Would you mind being my house guest again? At least, until I can settle myself back down?”

  My mind raced through a thousand reasons to refuse. But each time I came up with an excuse, I pictured Wendy’s sweet face and felt guilty. “I have a conflict early tonight, so I won’t be able to join you until maybe ten. Is that alright?”

  “That’s fine. I’ll still be awake. And Melanie, thank you.”

  ~~~

  Ginger was locked, and loaded, and ready for bear when I walked into her house that night. She might have established her business in the old Victorian house she inherited from her parents, but she preferred to do her living in her stretch ranch. She’d bought the house after her business proved wildly successful. That was before most of the rest of us had even graduated from college. When it came to business and finances, Ginger was astounding.

  “I read your story in the Gazette tonight,” she said. “Well done.”

  “Thank you.”

  I followed her to the kitchen which was filled with the delightful aroma of freshly brewed coffee. While I rid myself of my parka, she filled two mugs with the brew and delivered them to the table. Taking the garment from me, she hung it on a peg near the back door. “Poisoned,” she said over her shoulder. “And with flowers, no less.”

  “The leaves from foxgloves, more specifically.”

  “Who knew?”

  It was a valid question. I suspected few people were aware of the poisonous nature of foxgloves. “Until this morning, I’d never heard of the plant, let alone that it could kill people. And worse yet, Wendy is apparently good at growing the things.”

  “Does Gossford knows that?”

  I lifted my coffee cup. “Probably, he had us pull our old gardening stories and send them to him.”

  “And you did that?”

  “Sure. He wasn’t asking for any information that hadn’t been published already.”

  I took a quick sip of coffee, then asked, “Have you finalized your opinion on Agnes Plummer?”

  Ginger smiled. “Yep, she’s a keeper. I can hardly believe my good luck. I mean I was worrying how I’d ever replace Scroggins, and Agnes shows up out of the blue on my doorstep.”

  “Playing Santa’s elf may not pay much, but it comes with a certain measure of fame. Scroggins was well known around town, mostly because of his job in the cabin.”

  “I never thought about it like that before.”

  “That’s because you’re so shy and retiring.”

  She chuckled. “Yeah, right.”

  “Did you learn anything about Sparks and his disagreement with Scroggins?”

  Ginger shook her head. “I tried, but I couldn’t be too direct, and my sideways approach didn’t seem to work well.”

  “Keep at it, okay? With those gardening articles in Gossford’s hands, we need to pick up our pace.” I took a sip of coffee and swallowed. “If you need to reach me, I’m going to be sleeping over at Wendy’s house tonight.”

  Ginger scowled. “Whatever for?”

  “Last night’s break-in at the carriage house has Wendy feeling vulnerable.”

  “Sucker.”

  I winced.

  “Still,” Ginger continued, “it’s a small step toward cutting your apron cords.”

  “Strings.” I corrected. “Aprons have strings, not cords.”

  “Whatever. At least you’re sticking your nose outside your own front door. And don’t forget what I’ve told you about renting that carriage house. Obviously, Wendy already likes you. I bet she’d cut you a very good deal on the rent.”

  “Please, could we keep this discussion focused on murder?”

  “You’re the one who changed the subject. You asked me about Agnes Plummer.”

  “Yes, then I tried to change it back again, and you brought up my living arrangements.”

  We fell into an uncomfortable silence.

  “So what was up with that break-in at Scroggins’ apartment?” Ginger finally asked.

  I shifted in my chair. “Nothing appeared to be missing, but we couldn’t find any trace of that nine thousand dollars, either.”

  “Scroggins probably deposited it in the bank.”

  “Probably,” I said with a sigh. “But Wendy and I also saw his most recent bank statement. His checking account balance didn’t total up to his winnings. At least after I mentioned the money, the police agreed to make a closer search of his apartment.”

  “Maybe he stashed the cash in a lock box. That way it couldn’t be traced through bank records.”

  “I suppose the police will check that possibility out. But I doubt they’ll tell us about it.”

  “What bank did he use?”

  “First Trust.”

  “I could find out if he had a lock box there.”

  “You couldn’t.”

  “Yes, I can. I know a gal who works there.”

  “Do you think she’s allowed to give out that kind of information?”

  “I can’t see why not. All I want to know is if he had a box. It’s not like I’m asking for his bank balance. Besides, who’s going to know but the three of us?”

  Sometimes, Ginger scared me.

  “So, what else can I do?” she asked.

  “Do you know any real estate agents?”

  She raised a shoulder. �
�Who doesn’t?”

  “Maybe you could put out a feeler. Find out how much they’re asking for that old warehouse Scroggins was after?”

  “Why don’t you do it?”

  I shook my head. “Nobody would believe I was interested. I’m not exactly known to be flush with money. But you’re a successful businesswoman. Or if you think that won’t fly, you could say you’re checking for a friend who doesn’t want to be identified.”

  “Yeah, like someone is dying to buy a falling down warehouse? Really?”

  “At least your interest looks more logical than mine.”

  “So why is this important?”

  “With Scroggins expecting to come into more money, I’d like to know how much more. I figure the difference between cash in hand and the price of the warehouse would give us a clue as to the amount..”

  “Maybe he was going to take out a mortgage.”

  I snorted. “Who’s going to loan someone his age a fistful of cash? Besides, he was barely employed.”

  “Hmm, good point. Okay, I’ll get on it. In the meantime, sleep tight.”

  Ten

  The moon was up by the time I left Ginger’s house. It reflected off the snow, reminding me of that old poem about Santa and chimneys and reindeer that landed on roofs. That Santa, I thought, didn’t bear much resemblance to ours, who apparently spent most of his time pursuing young little dears in short skits.

  I shook my head and pulled my hood up. With clear skies, the temperature tonight was expected to plummet to near zero. I felt sorry for the merchants. If this cold spell continued long, all of Cloverton would be heading for a shopping mall or ordering gifts over the Internet.

  I fired up my Fiesta and sat blowing into my hands as I waited for the car to warm just a bit. Finally, I shifted into gear and drove the short jaunt from Ginger’s place to Wendy’s.

  The Victorian glowed brightly with all the lights shining from it’s many windows that night. Wendy was obviously unwilling to put up with any darkness just now. I could understand her being frightened of all those empty, unlighted rooms. I pulled my car to the curb and locked its doors behind me.

  After racing up her front steps, I pounded on the door, which instantly swung open. “I’ve been watching for you,” Wendy confessed.

  I held my overnight bag before me and grinned. “I’m here for the night.”

  “Thank you, my dear. Follow me.” She led me up the stairs and down a short hall. Nero trailed behind us, ears twitching. I suspected I had more to fear from him than any potential burglar.

  “I’ve decided to put you next to my room,” Wendy said. “I don’t know about you, but I’d feel better that way.”

  “Sounds fine.”

  She ushered me into a charming room filled with a large, four-poster bed, a beautiful old rug, and a heavy walnut dresser complete with a white marble top. The bedside light had been converted from an old oil lamp. It featured a red-glass shade that gave the room a comforting, rosey glow.

  I set my bag down on the bed and removed my parka, dumping it there also. Nero remained on the floor, his tail twitching.

  Wendy picked up my jacket, crossed the room, and hung it in the wardrobe. “I cleared this out for you. Feel free to hang whatever you need in here. In the meantime, I have tea downstairs and a poppy seed cake in case you’re hungry.”

  Of course I wasn’t. But Wendy had obviously taken special care to make me feel comfortable and welcome. How could I refuse?

  After getting me settled in, we returned to the first floor and proceeded to the kitchen. The table had been set with delicate china plates and tea cups and highly polished silverware. Glistening white cloth napkins completed the place settings. Wendy apparently liked to fuss in the kitchen and seemed to enjoy setting an impressive table. She and Dad would make a good pair, I thought.

  “This is lovely. Thank you.”

  She beamed. “It will just take me a minute to make the tea.”

  I sat at the table. Nero hopped up to the top of the fridge.

  “How are you holding up?” I asked.

  Wendy paused as she poured hot water into the teapot. “I won’t lie. I miss Barnaby. He was a rascal. But he was family to me.”

  “It takes time,” I said. I grabbed a breath and then went on, “I don’t think I mentioned what Barnaby planned to do with his winnings, did I?”

  Wendy blinked. “Plans? I thought he’d just blow it. Money easily gained is seldom valued.”

  “No, no. He wanted to buy that empty warehouse on the other side of town.”

  “Why would he want that old thing?” Wendy set the teapot on a tray which already held a sugar bowl and creamer along with the seed cake.

  “He was going to remodel it and turn it into an antique and craft mall.”

  Wendy picked up the tray and carried it to the table. “Why would he want to do that?”

  “I don’t know. He never mentioned any of this to you?”

  She placed the tray on the table and sat. “Not word one. He probably thought I’d tell him he was too old for dreams.”

  “I’d wondered about that. I can’t imagine his taking on a big project like the warehouse at his age.”

  Wendy shook her head and smiled sadly. “You didn’t know him when he was young. He’d start one business after another. They all failed... eventually. Everyone of them. But in the meantime, Barnaby enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle. I guess I could see him wanting to try his luck again. I wish he’d asked me, though. I would have gladly given him seed money.”

  “He probably thought you’d done enough.”

  Wendy sliced the cake and put a piece on my plate. “I suspect you’re right. He was a proud man when he was younger.”

  After serving herself a slice, she poured our tea.

  I stared down at the cup. Normally, caffeine never cost me sleep. I hoped my luck would hold. Including the coffee at Ginger’s, I’d consumed an awful lot of the stuff tonight. I took a bite of cake. It was delicious, and I told Wendy so.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I was so worried. I know your father is a wonderful cook. I was so nervous that you might find my offerings beneath his high standards.

  “You’re right about one thing. Dad spoils me with his cooking. But based on this cake, I’d say you rank right up there with him.”

  Wendy shook her head. “I seriously doubt that. But it must be fun to learn to cook at the hands of such a talented man.”

  “I think I’ve absorbed a lot of wisdom from Dad at the newspaper. The kitchen, though, is something else. I’ve been known to scorch a pan trying to boil water.”

  Wendy laughed. A delightful, tinkling sound. “I tell you what, you can practice here tomorrow morning. I’ll let you make breakfast.” She smiled at me as though she’d just bestowed the greatest honor she could lavish on me.

  “Mark my words,” I answered, “you’ll be sorry.”

  “Nonsense. You can make us eggs Benedict,” she replied.

  Eggs Benedict? I nearly choked on the bite of cake I’d just taken.

  ~~~

  The next morning, I woke to sunshine pouring through the bedroom window. As best I could tell, I’d slept straight through the night. I hoped Wendy had. The scent of coffee prompted me to rise. Then the thought of eggs Benedict had me wanting to crawl back under the covers.

  “Maybe she’s forgotten about the cooking deal,” I murmured to myself, as I wrapped a housecoat around me. Once presentable, I scurried downstairs and found Wendy, as expected, in the kitchen.

  “Good morning,” she chirped.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “Like a lamb, my dear. If anyone broke into Barnaby’s place last night, I have no knowledge of it nor do I wish to.”

  “Good.”

  “Now,” Wendy said, her head twisting toward the stove, “I’ve set out everything that you’ll need to make eggs Benedict.

  Drats. She’d remembered.

  “First,” she said, “we’ll tackle the
Hollandaise sauce.”

  Butterflies sprang to life in my stomach. “Isn’t that a terribly difficult thing to make?”

  “Not at my age.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “When I was younger, I made all my sauces from scratch and was proud to do so. These days, I use mixes. They come in little packets from the grocery store. That’s the one we’re using today.” She pointed to an envelope sitting on the counter beside the stove. “Pick it up and do whatever the directions tell you to do.”

  So, after melting half of a stick of butter, I whisked in the the dry mix. When it was well blended, I removed the pan from the stove and poured in a cup of milk. Once that was done, I returned the pan to the stove and simmered the resulting mixture for one minute while watching it nervously.

  “Relax, Melanie. It’ll be great.”

  I bet my lip. “Sure.” The timer rang. I took the pan off the stove. “Does this look right?”

  Wendy peeked into the pan. “Perfect. Now, let’s get the water going.”

  I did as ordered, and Wendy shoved another pot at me. “I’ve put the water in here. What I want you to do is add vinegar and salt.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Until it comes to a soft boil, yes.”

  “What does a soft boil look like?”

  “I’ll tell you when the water’s doing what we want.”

  I pulled in a deep, deep breath and wiped my sweating palms on my housecoat. “Okay.”

  The vinegar went in as did the salt. I placed the pan on the stove and fired up the burner. From there, Wendy introduced me to the toaster, where I ed two halves of an English muffin. “But don’t push the button down yet,” Wendy said. “We don’t want to let the muffins get cold while waiting for the eggs to cook.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re doing very well.”

  “Right.”

  “Now check your water.”

  I ran back to the stove. “It isn’t doing anything yet.”

  “That’s fine. Just keep checking it.” Wendy handed me a package of Canadian bacon.

  “What do I do with this?”

  “While the eggs are cooking, you’re going to warm the bacon in this pan.” She pointed to a little cast iron skillet.