The Peppermint Mocha Murder

by Colette London

  “My work isn’t that well known,” I told him, mystified by my apparent popularity. “Not to the general public, at least.”

  “But you’re working with Tansy Park on this,” Zach countered instantly. “These are Tansy Park chocolate houses! You haven’t decided to stop working with Tansy Park, have you?”

  A note of alarm had crept into his voice. I understood.

  “No, it’s just as I promised,” I assured him as I left the theater for my parked car. “Tansy will help decorate those houses with her own two celebrity hands. Don’t worry a bit.”

  A sigh flowed over the line. “Whew! That’s a relief!”

  “I appreciate your including me in the event, Zach,” I told him sincerely. Then something else occurred to me. “You said you’re publicizing Tansy’s participation in the auction?”

  “I’d assumed you’d seen it.” My B&B host sounded wounded.

  I wasn’t sure why. Or what he meant. “Seen it?”

  “Online!” I heard censure in his voice. “You’ve seen my site, haven’t you? Isn’t that what brought you to the B and B?”

  Honestly, Travis’s suggestion had brought me there. But Zach seemed so indignant that I hadn’t seen his site that I didn’t want to say so. I pictured a modest Web page featuring the B and B, homemade, with a basic template. That was the sort of thing you saw often while researching independent lodging.

  Big hotel chains might have the money to finance whizzy Web sites with all the bells and whistles, but I knew that someone like Zach might not have the resources for that.

  “I’d heard such good things from Travis and Albany,” I hedged, letting my unfinished statement suggest that I’d heard those things in addition to viewing Zach’s site. My host seemed satisfied by that. “I just hope you’re not publicizing Tansy’s participation to your readers too much.” There had to be dozens of them. “She’s trying to keep things low key here in Sproutes.”

  It wasn’t my place to mention Tansy’s stalker. But he remained an ongoing concern, especially after opening night, when the media and audience members would descend on the town.

  Zach gave a carefree chuckle. “My readers are all awesome!” he guaranteed me. “Don’t worry. They’ll be cool about Tansy.”

  “Okay.” That had to be good enough for now. I made myself a mental reminder to tell Danny about Zach’s site, just in case, then said, “Thanks for your help with Donna, Zach. I really appreciate it. I’ll stop by with some chocolate for you later.”

  After my promise of chocolate compensation, we said our good-byes. Then I pulled out into traffic. It wasn’t far from the theater downtown to the playhouse director and teacher’s modest house in east Sproutes, so I drove straight there.

  * * *

  I’d been impressed by the variety and razzle-dazzle of Josh Levitt’s Christmas decorations when I’d visited his house for our cookie-baking session. But I was reminded, as I pulled up and parked at Donna Brown’s place, that everything was relative.

  That included Christmas cheer. Donna had outdone herself with a show-stopping tableau. The herd of reindeer in her snowy front yard was lighted and animatronic; her lights were arranged in an exacting grid that encompassed her yard, her house’s front exterior wall, and her roof. She’d hung reams of lights on the eaves, twined them around each porch pillar, and spelled Merry Christmas on her garage door in huge letters.

  Every one of those lights was on and flashing as I made my way up the sidewalk. That was odd, I thought. Most people didn’t keep their lights on all day, even if they were home. I’d sort of hoped that Donna had passed by me, unnoticed, on her way to the theater, and that I’d find her house empty. The day had turned overcast, though. I reasoned that if Donna’s fancy holiday light setup was on some kind of timer or sensor, it might have turned on automatically. I couldn’t deny that it would have been nice for Donna, after a long day of teaching or playhouse directing or Christmas parade volunteering, to come home to a merry house.

  On the porch, standing atop a Christmas kitten–printed doormat that started playing “A Holly Jolly Christmas” in meows when I stepped on it, I eyed Donna’s huge wreath and rang the doorbell.

  It chimed to the tune of “Christmas Is A-Comin’,” an old Bing Crosby song. I caught myself humming along. What can I say? I’m a sucker for an old standard, especially during the season.

  As jolly as that doorbell chime was, it didn’t summon anyone. I tried again, then used my phone to try calling Donna.

  No answer. I glanced around for a neighbor I could ask for clues to her whereabouts, but the weather seemed to be keeping everyone indoors. A snowstorm was definitely threatening.

  I shivered, then peered through the door’s side windows. They were frosted liberally with fake snow. I couldn’t see a thing. I moved down the porch to the closest window; it was also artificially frosted, with a glowing border of Christmas lights.

  A third ring of the doorbell, coupled with a hearty knock on the door, drew no response. Neither did a hasty text to Donna.

  I was starting to get annoyed. I’d gone out of my way to try to defuse the situation yesterday—to mend fences between Donna and Albany. Now I felt punked by the whole experience.

  Had Donna been merely pretending to go along with me?

  Wishing I’d had the foresight to ask Danny to trail her—not that he could have, with his duties to Tansy—I tried the door handle. Nada. The door was locked tight. My bodyguard buddy had the skills to pick the lock, but I wasn’t Danny. I hadn’t once specialized in burglaries. Travis would have been appalled by my line of thinking, but my financial advisor had the luxury of access to most things. He didn’t need to break in anywhere.

  Maybe the back door? Deeming my moto boots sufficient for the job, I picked my way through the snow, carefully avoiding all the twinkling lights and decorations. It was a tight squeeze between the houses to Donna’s side gate. Thankfully, I unlatched that barrier easily with my gloved hands, then kept going.

  As I rounded the corner, I spied something in the snow.

  Someone in the snow, very close to the house. Oh no.

  With my heart in my throat, I raced over. Donna Brown lay motionless in her backyard, her body twisted at a horrible angle. I thought I saw blood pooled beneath her in the snow.

  I definitely saw her eyes staring sightlessly upward.

  No, no, no. Not Donna. My hands shook as I reached for my phone. I dialed for help. I could barely get out the words.

  I felt on the verge of hysteria as I spoke with the police. Maybe that was why I found myself feeling so angry. Given what had happened with Melissa Balthasar, I did not expect anyone to genuinely seek out answers to this. I felt embittered. Helpless.

  I blinked up at the sky, trying to clear my head. It was no use. I felt hideously aware that there was another dead body at my feet. This was the second in less than a week! There was no telling when this would stop. Donna hadn’t even been an Albany look-alike, I babbled to myself. Her death didn’t make sense.

  I hauled in a breath, then looked around. Before anyone else arrived, I needed to try to figure out what had happened.

  Okay. There was a metal extension ladder propped against the siding, just a few feet away. There were several packages of Christmas lights on the snowy ground nearby. Inspired by them, I looked up. At the peak of the roof, there was a Santa’s sleigh with lighted reindeer. Unlike the front side, though, the rest of the roof was bare . . . all except for one unplugged light string.

  It dangled there, seemingly forgotten. I imagined that Donna had been finishing her holiday decorating, with all the lights on to help her place them, when disaster struck.

  Here, there were no Christmas lights on the eaves, as there were up front. Tellingly, the snow at the roof’s edge had been dislodged. Icicles had broken off from the roofline. A few of them had probably landed in the snow moments before Donna had.

  She’d fallen from her roof, I surmised. Something akin to relief mixed with m
y shock and horror. As bad as this was, maybe it wasn’t another murder. Maybe I was getting carried away.

  I gripped my phone more tightly, then risked another glance at Donna as I tried to reconstruct the scene. On her way to the ground, she must have struck her head on her snow-shrouded metal barbecue grill. Its waterproof cover seemed to have been dusted with snow until a few minutes—hours?—ago, when Donna had fallen.

  Judging by the blood in the snow, she must have landed with considerable force, I guessed with a shudder. I was surprised none of her neighbors had come to investigate the sound . . . not to mention whatever ghastly sounds poor Donna might have made as she fell. She must have desperately grabbed her slick, icy roof shingles, I thought, while searching with her sliding feet for something to stop her fall. She must have known the danger.

  The realization made my heart pound. I felt dizzy, too. I would never become blasé about this scenario—about finding dead bodies, especially of people I’d known and liked. I felt sad and overwhelmed, sorry I hadn’t arrived early enough to save Donna.

  While I’d been contemplating picking the lock on Donna’s front door, had she been sliding to her doom back here? The thought was horrific. I didn’t think that was the case, though. I thought I would have heard something. But the idea haunted me all the same. I wheeled around, feeling queasy. When I’d come to track down Donna, I’d never expected to find anything like this.

  All those people at the theater—I’d have to tell them.

  I heard sirens in the distance. Help was coming, I realized. In a last-ditch effort to amass all the information I could while I was still alone, I tried to take in everything. There were footprints in the snow. Footprints! Those were almost as good as fingerprints, right? People’s shoes were unique. Sure, these footprints were a mess. Someone had tromped down the snow in multiple directions. But if I could compare them . . .

  I wished I could take photos of them, but I was stuck on the phone with the 911 operator. So I did the next best thing. Shakily, I took a tentative step, then compared the result of my own moto-boot print with the other prints. Some of the impressions were smaller; those were likely Donna’s. She was—she had been—more petite than me. A few prints, though, were larger.

  I examined them, trying to discern any patterns. Wasn’t that what the police did? Identify what kind of footwear had made the prints, then figure out where those shoes had been sold, then pinpoint the murderer, using that information? It was likely that situation was nothing more than a television fantasy, I reminded myself, thinking of the conversation I’d had with Zach earlier—and even the similar chat I’d had with Josh—about TV crime dramas. There was no question that TV shows sacrificed accuracy sometimes for the sake of storytelling. But I was desperate for a lead. Any lead at all.

  The sirens screamed closer. I couldn’t help wishing Donna had been even slightly less conscientious about hanging her holiday lights this year. She was supposed to have been at the Sproutes playhouse. What had possessed her to do this first?

  Trying to figure out exactly that—ideally, before the authorities arrived—I stepped toward Donna’s kitchen window. On my phone, the operator said something soothing yet businesslike. I barely heard her. I focused on placing one foot after the other, stepping inside Donna’s footprints to determine her movements. I placed my gloved hand on the windowsill for leverage.

  I peeked. Inside Donna Brown’s kitchen, something moved.

  Alarmed, I reared back. I gave a startled cry. A moment later, just as I realized it was Donna’s cat that I’d seen inside, I sensed a whoosh of air behind me. What the ... ?

  I heard a faint swishing sound, then smelled . . . milk? That was the last thing I remembered before the world went black.

  * * *

  When I opened my eyes, Danny was there.

  Typically enough, he was frowning at me. “Welcome back.”

  “Hi.” Confusedly, I blinked at him. “What’s happening?”

  His expression took on a darker edge. “You’re concussed.”

  I tried to sit up. Ouch. Pain speared through my skull. Also, something cold and clanking arrested my movements. Huh?

  Dazedly, I realized I was no longer at Donna Brown’s house. I wasn’t even outside. I was someplace fairly chilly, in a bed.

  “Try not to move, dummy.” Danny sounded aggrieved. “That’s the universal reaction to being told you’re concussed. It’s as if everyone thinks they can run away from it or something.”

  His gaze focused on me. He looked . . . tender. Clearly, I was woozy if I thought tough-guy Danny Jamieson was going soft on me. I mumbled something to him. My mouth felt papery. Yuck.

  If I wasn’t outside anymore, then where was I?

  “Huh?” Danny leaned closer. “Do you need something?”

  I needed him to listen. I must have said so, because I saw his mouth quirk. Heartened, I added, “I wasn’t running away. I was sitting up, to prove that you’re wrong. This is probably just a headache, not a concussion. It’ll go away in a few minutes. You’ll see.”

  “Nice try. It’s not a headache. The doctor’s already been here. You definitely have a concussion.” After that discouraging statement, Danny glanced at someone who stood just beyond my view. Travis maybe? “Tansy wants to know if this will affect your plans to decorate those chocolate houses of yours. She’s hoping some of them won’t be good enough for anything but eating. I’ve gotta say, she’s a beast when it comes to sweets.” He added a grin. “Worse than you, and that’s saying something.”

  I felt too foggy to keep up with his teasing. “Where am I?” He’d mentioned a doctor. I glimpsed industrial-looking acoustical ceiling tiles and dingy yellow-painted walls. “Is this a hospital? Danny, am I in the hospital? What happened?”

  I had a dim recollection of being at Donna Brown’s house. Of finding her lying there, lifelessly and tragically. Oh no.

  “You’re lucky.” Danny nodded, as though hoping to convince us both of that. “It was an outdoor Christmas Santa statue that you got walloped with. It was pretty light. It could have been worse. Probably, whoever did it thought it was heavy ceramic.”

  Yikes. “A Santa statue?” I imagined one of those decorative garden gnomes, except made to resemble shorty Santa Claus, in Donna’s yard. “Walloped with?” I couldn’t remember that at all.

  “It didn’t even smash. Your big old noggin held up pretty well,” my closest friend encouraged me. “Only a few stiches.”

  “Stitches?” I tried to put my hand to my head. No dice. Whatever had clanged before did so again. I looked down. Uh-oh.

  Danny’s breezy tone remained unaffected. That was how I knew the situation was serious. My closest friend was many things, but he was never breezy. I knew he was trying not to worry me.

  I appreciated the sentiment. However, “Where am I?”

  “The good news is”—Danny inhaled, then ducked another glance at whoever was in the room—“you’re not in the hospital!”

  As he said so, Travis came into view. At the sight of his resolute, concerned face, I nearly burst into blubbering tears.

  Did a concussion make you emotional? Maybe I did have one.

  “Hayden, you’re in jail,” my financial advisor said.

  He went on explaining, but I didn’t hear a thing. I was too busy listening to my heart pound in fear. Jail? I felt numb.

  Danny gave Travis a shove. His expression was formidable. “Don’t tell her that way!” he barked. “You’re scaring her!”

  Too late. There was no help for it now. The fact that my bodyguard buddy leaned solicitously toward me and gave me the most purely reassuring look I’d ever seen on his face didn’t help a bit. I was in jail ? How? Why? What was wrong with my arm?

  “It’s going to be all right, Hayden,” Danny told me gently. “This is only a city jail. It’s not even a county lockup!”

  He smiled, as though that was excellent news all around.

  Tears rushed to my eyes. That was when Trav
is gave Danny a shove right back. My keeper held my hand. “You’re not being charged. Not right now.” A reassuring smile made his face look twice as handsome. “Getting coldcocked really saved you today.”

  I squeezed shut my eyes, willing my tears to stop. I felt a couple of them trickle down my cheeks instead. “You two are the worst at reassuring somebody,” I cracked hoarsely. “I’m scared.”

  They gave each other identical accusatory looks. Beyond them, I now heard people talking. A door slammed. Keys jingled. I was in the slammer. That explained the clanging I’d heard.

  Handcuffs. I raised my arm to confirm I was a prisoner.

  Travis saw my rising panic and squeezed my hand. “The police found you in Donna’s backyard when they responded to your call,” he explained. “They are pretty sure, given that you were the one who called nine-one-one, that you weren’t there with criminal intentions. In fact, the nine-one-one operator heard you get clobbered.”

  I shuddered. I still didn’t remember that part clearly.

  “Since you couldn’t very well crack a decorative holiday gnome over your own head, especially from behind,” Travis said, “the police decided you were probably blameless in whatever happened to Donna Brown. Or, at worst, criminally stupid.”

  Humph. “That doesn’t explain why I’m here, locked up.”

  Travis looked even more troubled. “You don’t remember?”

  “Remember what?” I swabbed overwhelmed tears from my eyes.

  He and Danny traded wary glances. Then Travis said, “The doctor told us that you’d probably remember things gradually.”

  That didn’t help right now. “Remember what?” I repeated.

  My advisor looked trapped. He stammered, “Well, you, uh—”

  “You accused the police of not caring about ‘Donna’s murder,’” Danny interrupted brightly. There was a definite “That’s my girl!” gleam in his eyes. “You were yelling about Melissa B.’s murder, Roger’s bribe—the whole nine yards. At first, they thought you were drunk, since you were so crazy.”

  “Then they saw that your scalp was bleeding,” Travis added evenly, apparently having thoroughly briefed himself on the circumstances, “put two and two together, and called a medic.”