Yule Log Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “No,” I admitted. “I’m here about Gwyneth Hillyer.”

  He stepped backward, putting a little more distance between us, and his friendly smile disappeared. “What about Gwyn?”

  “I’m trying to get in touch with her. I was hoping you could help.”

  He put both hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Not me. I’m the last person you should be asking. She made it clear she didn’t want to hear from me.”

  “Because she was so devastated when you broke up with her?”

  “When I broke up with her? I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but she broke up with me. Months ago. So I think she’s definitely over it.”

  Gwyn broke up with him? That’s not what the Hillyers led me to believe. “I talked to her parents, actually.”

  His wariness dissipated a bit and he smiled again. “Look, Holly and Odin are lovely people. After my mom had enough of going back to the land, and decided to go back to the city, where there are jobs and people and homes heated with fuel you don’t have to chop, Holly practically adopted me. I know the Hillyers want me to be the son they never had. But the truth is, if Gwynnie and I were going to make it permanent, we would have done so a long time ago. I love her, but I’ve never been in love with her. She broke up with me because she decided she wanted to go for it, you know, love with a capital L, passion with a capital P. The truth is, she did us both a favor.”

  We stood for a couple of moments while I absorbed what he’d said, and thought about what to ask next. “Her parents say she’s visiting a friend in Portland. Do you know who that is or how to get in touch? She’s not answering her cell.”

  The wariness instantly returned. “Who did you say you were?”

  “I’m a neighbor of a woman Gwyneth cared for when she worked for elder services.” I knew the answer wouldn’t satisfy him. How could it? And any elaboration would only make things worse.

  “When she worked for elder services? Doesn’t she anymore?” I didn’t answer and he went on. “I’m not comfortable giving you her contact information without her permission.”

  “I totally understand. But if you don’t feel you can call her, could you ask one of her friends to? Or maybe if you have a sister or someone?” I remembered the imaginary siblings Livvie had given him, Stump and Willow.

  He shook his head. “Since my mom left, it’s only ever been me and my dad, and he’s pretty useless. I don’t want to harass Gwyn or send friends to do it. Like I said, she did us both a favor. I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “I’m sure she is too.” I gave him the most reassuring smile I could muster. “One more thing, did you work on her car?”

  He smiled, relaxing again. “I gave it to her. It’s a 1971 BMW, sea foam green. Her favorite color.”

  * * *

  “You invited who?” My brother-in-law, Sonny, stood, hands on hips, staring me down.

  “I invited Mrs. St. Onge from next door to join us tonight at the Illuminations.” I held my ground. What choice did I have? The invitation had been made and accepted. I’d already called the botanical gardens and secured a ticket for her.

  “Remember when we used to be terrified of her?” Livvie asked.

  “Not helping,” I warned her, though I wasn’t sure I still wasn’t terrified of Mrs. St. Onge. Behind Livvie, Mom and Page were putting on coats, boots, hats, mittens, and scarves. Jack was already in his snowsuit. Getting ready to go out took forever at this time of year.

  Sonny sighed loudly when he saw I wasn’t going to give up. “She’s your responsibility. You need to help her around the gardens. She’s not slowing us down.”

  “She uses a cane,” I said, “but she’s in pretty good shape. The show’s in the upper gardens, which are accessible. They have wheelchairs there. If we have to, we’ll use one. Besides, it’s not a race. You’re supposed to stroll and enjoy the lights.”

  Chris moved behind me and put a hand on my shoulder, a show of solidarity. “We’ll be responsible for her.”

  The tickets had been purchased for a Tuesday night, so Chris and I could go. Gus’s Too was shuttered on Tuesdays, our night off.

  With the addition of Mrs. St. Onge, there were too many of us for one car, even Livvie’s ancient minivan. Mom went off with the four of them, next to baby Jack, strapped in his car seat, with Page in the way-back.

  Mrs. St. Onge had her wool coat and gloves on and her pocketbook in hand when she opened the door. I was pleased to see the orange candlelight glowing in all the windows. “My, you’re a good-looking one,” she said, peering through her thick glasses at Chris. I was used to the reaction. My mother had at first maintained he was “too good-looking for his own good,” though they were fast friends now. He helped Mrs. St. Onge down the walk and into the backseat of his cab. “Going in style,” she said approvingly.

  The parking lot at the gardens was a madhouse, which felt a little weird, since it normally wasn’t open after dark. Chris helped Mrs. St. Onge from the cab and we made our way toward the show, she with one hand on his arm and the other on her trusty cane.

  The rest of the family was waiting for us by the ticket desk, Jack in his pack on Sonny’s back, and everyone appropriately bundled up against the cold. The garden employees were timing people’s entrance, letting in small groups every few minutes. I hoped our family would be its own group, but when I glanced across the lobby, there was another couple obviously waiting, ready to go. Bradley Woodward’s parents. Their eyes darted around, searching the crowd. Finally Richard Woodward’s landed on his aunt. He turned and whispered something to his wife, his thick mustache brushing against her pink cheek. A suggestion to visit the gift shop, perhaps, so they could catch another group? But it was too late. Mrs. St. Onge had spotted them. He saw her looking at him and squared his shoulders, as if facing something that required all his courage. Like a firing squad. He took Mrs. Woodward by the arm and brought her over.

  “Aunt Odile,” he said when they got closer. “Merry Christmas.”

  She stared through her glasses, and for a moment I thought she couldn’t place him. He was in an unusual setting, she hadn’t expected him, and they hadn’t seen each other in a few years. But then she got it. “Merry Christmas, nephew,” she said, “and you,” she added, turning to her nephew’s wife.

  My stomach wound into a tight ball. I was scared it would come up that I had visited the Woodwards, asking questions about their son and his relationship to Mrs. St. Onge. How would I explain to her what I’d been doing? What if she tried to introduce me to them? I thought about slipping into the ladies’ room.

  But then, the man at the door to the gardens called our group, and we all shuffled forward. Neither Mrs. St. Onge nor the Woodwards seemed anxious to prolong their conversation. “Merry Christmas to you, my good sir!” Richard Woodward greeted the man at the door. “Merry Christmas.”

  We passed through into the garden. My exhale of relief was like the air going out of a balloon. Across the upper gardens hundreds of thousands of little lights winked and blinked, outlining the trees and plants in shimmering colors. As we watched, the shapes changed, moving and dancing before us. We started down the garden path and our new vantage point opened into a whole new scene. Lights bounced off the garden pond, an upside-down reflection of the scene above. I was entranced. Chris moved us along, an arm around my shoulder, the other hanging firmly on to Mrs. St. Onge.

  The Woodwards led the group; Mr. Woodward, apparently our official ambassador, greeted everyone with a cheery “Merry Christmas!”

  Couples cuddled on benches in the corners, children’s laughter echoed through the trees. The smells of kettle corn, cocoa, and pine needles filled the air. We lingered on the path, taking it all in. The Woodwards had moved ahead of us. The tension drained out of my shoulders.

  But then, as we turned the next corner, I spotted an enormous man in the group across the way from us. I could see in the reflection of the light, he wore a great white coat with lamb’s wool curling around the cuffs
and lace-up boots with lamb’s wool ringing their tops. Some kind of evergreens looped around his head, coming across his forehead and back around his long white hair. Odin Hillyer. He was unmistakable. My eyes searched the crowd and I found what I knew I would. Next to him was a petite woman in a flowing white cape, wearing the same evergreen crown over her long white locks. His wife. And next to her, Tree Smith, known around his workplace as “Clyde.”

  “Great.”

  I didn’t realize I’d said it aloud until Chris said, “What?”

  “Nothing.” I hoped it was exactly that. Nothing.

  My family continued to ooh and ahh about the lights as we shuffled along the twisting paths. Every corner we turned held a new vista, a new surprise. I relaxed again, caught up in the holiday magic. The Hillyers’ group was well ahead of us. I doubted they would even see me. And, presumably, they wouldn’t recognize Mrs. St. Onge. She was just some woman their daughter might have told them about.

  But then, as fate would have it, our paths crossed in a figure eight.

  “Hello,” Mrs. Hillyer called to me. “You’re Gwyneth’s friend.” I stole a quick look at Mrs. St. Onge. She was deep in conversation with my mother, and appeared not to have heard. I stepped forward from our little group to greet Mrs. Hillyer, but I didn’t get the words out.

  “Merry Christmas, my good sir,” Richard Woodward shouted, still in his role as our group’s official greeter.

  “Happy Solstice,” Odin Hillyer boomed back at him.

  Richard Woodward stopped so short, his wife bumped into him, and my mom bumped into her. “I said ‘Merry Christmas’ to you, sir.”

  Odin Hillyer put his hands on his hips, which spread out the great coat, making him appear even more enormous. “And I said ‘Happy Solstice’ to you.”

  Mr. Woodward didn’t move, trapping the rest of us behind him.

  His wife put her hand on his elbow and murmured, “Now, dear,” with absolutely no effect. Woodward cleared his throat. “I think, basking in the pleasure of this beautiful display”—he gestured in a circle, indicated the lights—“we should honor the reason for the season and include the name of the—”

  “Solstice,” Odin roared. “The happy day the sun begins its return to bring us longer days, warmth, and food. Every tradition you have, you stole from us”—his sweeping arm took in all the lights—“including this one. The solstice is the reason for the season.” His wife, too, snuck up behind him, muttering a “Not now, Odin,” also to no effect.

  “The lights represent the star in the East, you ignorant savage,” Mr. Woodward jabbed.

  “The lights represent the turn of the sun. The star of your show wasn’t even born in the winter, but in the spring when shepherds slept in their fields by night. Believe me, I know sheep and I know their seasons.”

  Even in the reflected glow of the LED lights, Richard Woodward’s face was crimson. “Why, why, you . . . ,” he sputtered. And then he pulled back his arm and socked Odin Hillyer right in the nose.

  There was a gasp from the crowd that had gathered. While we’d been standing there, the tour had backed up considerably behind us. Hillyer’s hands flew to his nose in surprise. Woodward was tall and fit, but Hillyer was a giant. It was like a Labrador retriever lunging at a Saint Bernard when their paths crossed in the dog park. Though dogs would never be motivated by such a stupid argument.

  Recovering himself, Odin wound his arm back, ready for a roundhouse punch. His wife screamed, “No!” and Chris and Tree jumped between the antagonists, hauling them to separate corners as they struggled to get free. In the melee, all four of them fell to the cold, hard ground, where Hillyer and Woodward continued to kick at one another.

  Sonny looked ready to jump into the fray, but Livvie pulled him backward, using Jack’s pack, reminding him he was strapped to a ten-month-old. I threw my arms around Mrs. St. Onge, who stood openmouthed watching the fight, and moved her out of the way, while Mom pushed Page behind her and away from the fracas.

  At that point, security arrived and, well, dot, dot, dot, we were all thrown out. We Snowdens protested we hadn’t been involved, but with Chris lying on the ground on top of Richard Woodward, it was too hard for the security people to make fine distinctions.

  Our group left the gardens deflated. Mom offered hot chocolate at her house in an attempt to salvage some festive feeling, but Livvie said no, they’d take their kids home. Mom rode back to town with Chris, Mrs. St. Onge, and me, while Livvie’s family took off for their house up the peninsula.

  At her front door, Mrs. St. Onge turned to Chris and me. “I apologize for my nephew. He’s always been a terrible hothead who thinks he’s the only person in the right. Someone needs to take him down a peg or two.”

  There seemed to be nothing to say to that. We said our good nights, and she closed the door and turned off the porch light before we were off the front steps.

  Chapter Eight

  I turned up on the St. Onge doorstep at the appointed time the next day. Despite the scene the night before, I was feeling more confident and centered, less afraid my Yule log cake teacher was a murderer. If anything, Richard Woodward’s aggression showed he did have issues. Perhaps his aunt was right to cut him out of her life. As long as she hadn’t poisoned him too. Or any of the others.

  The oven was already on, at a low temperature, when I entered the kitchen. Mrs. St. Onge stood over the large ceramic bowl with the broad navy stripe around it. Beside it were two large eggs. “I took them out of the icebox to bring them up to room temperature,” she said.

  Once again she separated the yolks from the whites, using that deft flick of the wrist. She added a pinch of salt to the whites and handed me the manual beaters. I understood my cue and turned the crank. When foam began to appear in the bowl, she slowly added a third of a cup of granulated sugar. I turned the beaters around so I could use my other arm and kept pumping until stiff peaks began to form. Then Mrs. St. Onge added a third of a cup of confectioners’ sugar and a teaspoon of distilled vinegar, while I wondered, once again, why we were doing this with manual tools.

  When the mixture was dense, with stiff, glossy peaks, the old woman at last said I could stop. She had me fill a pastry sleeve while she covered a baking sheet in parchment paper. Then she showed me how to make the quarter-sized dots of meringue that would be the mushroom caps. She let me work on my own for a while, with, I have to admit, mixed results. “That’s okay, dear,” she said, looking over at the sheet, “mushrooms are very irregular in nature too.” She counted the mushroom caps and then set me making the inch-long (well, they were supposed to be an inch long) cones that would form the mushroom stems. When I was done, she dusted the caps with unsweetened cocoa, using a sieve, then put the tray in the oven. “These will have to bake quite awhile,” she said, “before we can put them together. While that’s happening, you’ll make the spun-sugar moss, but first, let’s have some tea.”

  She put the kettle on while I washed the bowl and beaters. Soon we were seated at the kitchen table.

  “It was nice of you all to take me to the Illuminations last night,” she said.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t get to see all of it.”

  “My nephew has been like that since he was a boy. Never could control his temper.” I didn’t know where to go from there and was happy when she continued the conversation. “I remember when your parents moved in next door.” Behind the thick glasses she’d closed her eyes and turned her face toward the ceiling. “You were a toddler and your mother was pregnant with your sister.”

  “That’s right. I was two. Before that, we had an apartment in town.”

  “Your father was a lovely man. My Al was gone by then, and your dad always helped me out, shoveling snow from the walk or taking my trash to the dump. Once he even chased a bat out of the house for me.”

  I couldn’t recall any of these things, but they didn’t surprise me. My father had been that kind of man. I noticed she said her Al was “gone.” Only days ago t
hat statement would have confirmed my belief that he was dead. But then again, maybe he was.

  When we finished the tea, I asked, “Is there something else I can do while we wait?”

  “We’ll do the spun-sugar moss.”

  During my research phase I had watched the famous video of Julia Child making the spun-sugar moss, but it had never occurred to me that we would attempt it. I picked up my notebook, eager to document the process.

  Mrs. St. Onge was rummaging in a cupboard for a saucepan. When she found it, she combined a cup of sugar, three tablespoons of corn syrup, and a third of a cup of water in the pan. She put it on a burner on the stovetop. When the sugar had dissolved and the mixture was clear, she turned the burner up to boil and popped the candy thermometer we’d used on the first day of our baking project into the pot.

  Was it really only three days ago? It seemed like we’d been making this cake for a lifetime. Four days ago I didn’t know the Hillyers or the Woodwards or Tree Smith. I’d thought Al St. Onge was dead. And I’d thought Mrs. St. Onge was an old lady with a house I’d been afraid of as a child.

  When the mixture was caramelized, Mrs. St. Onge took it off the stove; then she took a broom from the kitchen closet. She wrapped the broom handle in parchment paper, securing it at each end with twine. She stuck a fork in the caramelized sugar and lifted it, pulling up a mass of thick, threadlike strands.

  “Come with me.” She led me out to her tiny back porch, where she balanced the broom horizontally between one of the railings and a wooden kitchen chair. She bustled back inside. I waited, not knowing what to do. I shivered and hugged myself, exhaling visible puffs of moisture into the cold air. I had a sweater on, but hadn’t grabbed my coat as we came out the door. Mrs. St. Onge returned with a white sheet and bent to spread it under the broom.