Christmas Waffle Caper

by Carolyn Q. Hunter

  Sonja hesitated on the next phrase which was poised on the tip of her tongue. “Actually, I think I did see something.”

  “Wait, what?” she exclaimed.

  “Marie, I think I saw that girl in the woods near here just an hour or two ago.”

  * * *

  After giving Marie a detailed description of everything she’d seen that evening that related to the missing girl and confessing that she believed the family they were staying with were the parents to the institutionalized woman, she hung up and headed back to the study.

  Standing outside the door, she thought of the open veranda doors. She supposed this was meant to imply the murderer had come in from the outside. If the girl really was a family member, it seemed all too likely that she’d returned, came in through the back door, and killed her own grandfather.

  Of course, what reason could she have for killing him? Was there a deep-rooted motive there or was it just a random killing from the fever-dreaming woman?

  She just couldn’t know for sure.

  On the other hand, could the murderer be someone else entirely? Was she on the wrong train of thought?

  The murder. The word got Sonja’s thoughts swirling. She glanced over her shoulder at the family members in the living room. Still, Bethany wasn’t with them. What could it mean?

  Worse yet, what if one of them was the murderer and they were using the girl’s escape as a cover?

  Shaking from fear, she rapped on the door.

  “Come in,” Frank called.

  Opening the door, Sonja took a single step in and placed a hand on her hip.

  “Did you get through to the station?”

  “I did, but things just got more complicated than we first expected.”

  “What do you mean?” he said, straightening up from his investigative work, a scowl appearing on his tilted mouth.

  “There is possibly a crazy woman on the loose.”

  “A crazy woman?” he raised an eyebrow.

  “A patient from The Rocky Mountain Institute of the Mind escaped last night. I believe that she’s the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Devonworth,” she said quietly, motioning back to the living room across the hall.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  She nodded. “I am. Marie confirmed it.”

  Both Frank and Sonja glanced over at the open French doors. “She may be our murderer,” Sonja whispered.

  CHAPTER 11

  * * *

  “Mr. and Mrs. Devonworth, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” Frank asked, taking a seat in a chair near the fire, facing the couple. Sonja stood over in the corner near the fireplace, drinking in its warmth while she listened in on the conversation.

  She was surprised that Frank didn’t order her to head upstairs to the guest bedroom so as not to disturb the inquiry. However, she supposed that since the chef was still in the room as well—laying back in the chair, her open eyes peeking out from beneath the cold cloth on her forehead.

  “Why do you need to ask questions?” Mrs. Devonworth protested.

  “This is simply normal procedure, ma’am, if you don’t mind.”

  Corrine looked over at him with a grim furrow of her brow. “You’re darn right, I mind. Isn’t this traumatic enough already without you poking and prodding us, Sheriff? Just do your job and catch the killer.”

  Frank narrowed his eyes at the woman, unamused with her demeaning attitude. “Mrs. Devonworth. This is a murder case, and while I am very sorry for the loss, I also have to ask questions to figure out more about the situation. That is my job,” he corrected her.

  She hesitated but finally gave a silent nod. “Fine, then. Let’s get this ordeal over with already.”

  “Firstly, where were you and Mr. Devonworth between when we arrived and when the body was found?”

  Corrine gasped loudly, placing a hand on her chest in a sign of offense. “I can’t believe you, Sheriff. How dare you accuse me or my husband.”

  “I haven’t accused anyone,” he stated firmly.

  “But you just asked for an alibi for both of us.”

  He nodded. “You are correct. I did. I’d appreciate an answer, too, unless you’d prefer to go without an alibi.”

  Corrine’s lower lip moved up and down silently as if she were stumbling over her internal words. Finally, she huffed. “Fine. I was upstairs in the bedroom, getting ready for bed.”

  “Was Mr. Devonworth with you.”

  “Yes, he was,” she insisted, poking her nose high up into the air.

  “No, I wasn’t,” Pritchard cut in through a sniff of his runny nose, correcting his wife.

  “Pritchard, of course, you were with me,” she argued, trying to cover up her little white lie.

  Frank glanced at the woman and then over to her husband. “Mr. Devonworth?”

  Pritchard sat up from where he was curled on the couch, suppressing his mournful tears for the first time since the body was found. “I wasn’t upstairs with her.”

  “Where were you, Mr. Devonworth?”

  “I was in the basement.”

  Frank raised an eyebrow. “The basement.”

  “H-He likes to go down there to think sometimes,” Corrine jumped in again.

  “Corrine, will you let me speak for myself,” he snapped at his wife.

  Her mouth hung open in shock, and it was a wonder that a bug didn’t fly in with how wide it was. “Fine, go ahead and incriminate yourself for something you didn’t do.”

  Pritchard rolled his eyes and looked back to the Sheriff. “My apologies, but I was in the basement. I have a hobby of building model trains, and I’ve been working on a new Christmas village.”

  “And that’s what you were working on after Sonja and I headed up to the guest room?”

  “That’s correct, Sheriff. I’ve been eager to get the project done before Christmas day, you know.” He swallowed hard, causing his whole throat to move. “You see, I was going to take some pictures and video of it for my daughter.” He was starting to get choked up again.

  “Pritchard,” Corrine scolded again.

  “Your daughter?” Frank asked, ignoring Mrs. Devonworth outburst.

  “She doesn’t live here with us, you see.”

  The sheriff nodded knowingly, already aware of where this may be going.

  “Don’t say another word, Pritchard. Don’t you dare,” Corrine threatened.

  “Mrs. Devonworth, I need to know everything pertaining to the case.”

  “Pritchard,” she scolded again, ignoring the sheriff’s warning.

  Mr. Devonworth looked at his wife, and then back at Frank. “She’s been institutionalized for the past ten years, ever since she was thirteen years old.”

  Frank clasped his hands. “I see.”

  “I love to see her, to take pictures and videos of our lives so she doesn’t miss out. She used to love building trains with me, so I often do entire sets in her honor.”

  “We haven’t seen our daughter in years,” Corrine cut in. “The doctor’s told us it was detrimental to her mental health.”

  “At least, I try and write to her and send her things,” Pritchard admitted.

  “And, at which institution is she located?”

  The man swallowed again. “The Rocky Mountain Institute of the Mind.”

  “And am I to understand she recently escaped,” he asked, finally coming to the point at hand.

  At this assertion, the couple looked at each other nervously.

  “That is correct,” Pritchard finally agreed.

  “Sheriff, if you already knew all that, why take us through the charade?” Corrine barked.

  “I needed to be sure I wasn’t mistaken, Mrs. Devonworth.”

  “Y-You don’t think that Annabeth had anything to do with this murder?” Pritchard asked, his voice wavering.

  “That’s what we intend to find out,” he said standing up. “For the time being, and for the safety of everyone in the house, I must insist that we lock up every single
door and window to the outside. If you see your daughter approaching the house, do not let her in. Come and get me first.”

  “I can’t sit here and listen to this anymore,” Corrine exclaimed, jumping up and stomping out of the room. “You won’t pin this murder on someone in this family,” she screamed as she disappeared up the stairs.

  “I’m so sorry,” Pritchard sighed, placing his head in his hands.

  “It’s no problem, Mr. Devonworth. We’re just trying to figure this out while keeping everyone as safe as can be.” Frank walked over and patted the man on the shoulder comfortingly. “That’ll be all for now. Why don’t you walk me through the house so we can make sure everything is secure?”

  Pritchard nodded, standing up.

  “I have one more question,” Sonja chimed in, causing all eyes in the room to turn on her.

  Frank raised a curious eyebrow but didn’t stop her.

  “Where is your mother, Bethany Devonworth?”

  CHAPTER 12

  * * *

  “My mother is in early stages of dementia. Sometimes she is completely fine, and other times she can’t even remember simple things like where her bedroom is,” Pritchard informed them in a low voice as they mounted the stairs to the second floor.

  “Really? She seemed totally fine when she answered the door tonight,” Sonja noted, remembering seeing Bethany when she first tried to deliver the waffles.

  “Yes, she was doing okay earlier this evening, but then got a little lost after all the excitement with your car accident and you staying overnight.” They came to a door, which Pritchard opened to reveal another stairway.

  “The attic?” Frank asked.

  “Yes. Whenever she starts to have an episode, she always comes up here. The first time she did it, we had no idea where she had gone. We were frantic but eventually realized that there was someone moving around up there. You know how cabins can be, the floors just creak like mad.”

  “So, you found her up here?”

  He nodded. “We aren’t sure why exactly she always comes up here, but this is where we know to find her.” He motioned for them to follow starting his ascent up the old steps.

  As they moved over the musty stairs, plumes of dust kicked up with each step, and an ugly groan creaked out of the wood—almost as if the cabin were speaking back to them, foretelling of the horrors that awaited them the rest of that chilled winter night.

  Shaking off the odd sensation creeping along the skin of her spine, Sonja took a deep breath and mounted the top of the stairs.

  A dim lamp with a cream-colored shade sat on a circular side table near the window, illuminating the woman in the rocking chair nearby. Bethany faced away from them, staring out the small circular window into the continually building storm outside.

  A cold wave of realization washed over Sonja as she looked at the woman. Had anyone told her about her husband yet or was she sitting up her completely oblivious to the fact that Terrance was laying in the study downstairs with a letter opener sticking out of his back?

  “Mom?” Pritchard called, walking over and placing a hand on her mother’s shoulder. He gave it a gentle and affectionate squeeze.

  Turning to look at who was standing behind her, she smiled. “Oh, hello Pritchard. I was just watching the snow falling outside.”

  “Mom, the sheriff is here. He wants to ask a few questions.”

  “The sheriff?” she pressed, twisting farther in the rocking chair to look at Frank.

  He waved in return, putting on his best smile despite the difficult situation.

  “Oh, is this about Terrance’s murder?” she asked matter-of-factly, not a hint of sadness passing over her eyes.

  Frank and Sonja gaped with their mouths hanging open. Glancing at one another, they were shocked that the older lady seemed well aware of her husband’s demise. What could that mean?

  If Bethany truly was in the early stages of dementia, could it indicate that she simply didn’t fully comprehend the situation at hand? Did she realize that her husband was gone for good, not coming back? Worse yet, did she realize he’d died a violent death?

  Even darker thoughts invaded Sonja’s mind next, things she didn’t want to dare consider. However, it was true that she’d heard news stories of older people losing their minds, not realizing where they were, who their family members, were and finally just snapping.

  One gentleman who was receiving in-home care from family members had set the whole house on fire and burned everyone to a crisp in their beds. Another woman thought her husband was a random intruder who’d climbed into bed with her in the middle of the night and had strangled him to death.

  Was that what had happened here?

  She prayed that it wasn’t true.

  Pritchard blinked a few times, clearly surprised by this response as much as Frank and Sonja were. “Mom, you know about Dad?”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Of course, dear. How could I not with all the screaming and commotion going on downstairs?” She jabbed a thumb toward the dusty stairway and smiled. “After all, the noise in this house carries like nothing you’d believe. I can hear most everything from up here,” she declared proudly.

  Pritchard gasped, being dumbfounded for a few moments before finally being able to speak. “B-But you don’t seem upset, Mom. Are you okay?”

  Bethany made a tisking noise in the back of her throat, irritated by such a silly question. “I’m just fine, honey. Stop your worrying about me.”

  Pritchard nervously licked his lips, crouching down to be closer to her. “Mom, do you understand what is happening? Dad is dead,” he said, putting the largest emphasis on the word dead, drawing it out like he was talking to a deaf person.

  The grandmotherly figure slapped his hand away from her shoulder. “I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. Of course, I know what it means. Terrance is dead and gone and I never have to see him again.”

  If Sonja’s jaw could drop further open, it would. Had she just heard the woman say that?

  “Mom, how can you say that?”

  She shook her head. “Oh, he was such a tiresome old fool, always asking how I was doing, asking me math problems and forcing me to do those tediously boring word searches.”

  “H-He was just trying to keep your mind fresh. You know that. The doctor said that activities like that would help keep the dementia from getting worse so fast.” His voice was somewhere half in between scolding and horrified.

  She turned to him with a huff, her nose in the air. “I don’t care about any of that. I have no desire to putter away my final years over those revolting puzzles.”

  “Aren’t you the least bit sad?”

  “Dear, he was my husband, not my cat,” she replied.

  “W-What?” he mumbled.

  “I had a lot of good memories with him, and happy moments, but it’s high time one of us finally kicked the bucket. We are both just getting far too old.”

  Pritchard’s eyes were awash with tears again, clearly wounded by everything he was hearing.

  Finally, Frank decided it was his duty to step in. “Mrs. Devonworth, do you mind telling us where you’ve been most of this evening?”

  “I have no problem with it at all,” she insisted. Bracing herself on the armrests of the rocking chair, she stood up away from her crying son and faced the sheriff. “I’ve been up here all this time, ever since you and the young lady arrived.” She motioned toward Sonja.

  “You never went into the study downstairs at all this evening?”

  She shook her head. “Not once.”

  “Hold on just a darn minute,” Pritchard boomed, standing up.

  “Sit down, dear, before you wear yourself out,” Bethany ordered.

  “I’m simply following up on all possibilities,” Frank responded.

  “How dare you,” Pritchard cursed.

  “Oh, quiet down,” Bethany ordered, waving an angry finger at the young man. Turning back to Frank, she clasped her hands together in front of her
. “If you must know the details, Sheriff, I’ve been up here the whole time talking with Annabeth.”

  The room suddenly went deathly quiet as each member of the group turned their gaze closely on Bethany’s face, trying to assess if she was telling the truth.

  “A-Annabeth was here?” Pritchard gasped, his face pale as the snow outside and his body shaking with a fresh found nervousness.

  “Of course. She’s been here all evening,” Bethany declared.

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  “We need to search this cabin from top to bottom,” Frank ordered as they marched back down the stairs in a hurried fashion.

  “She’s not right in the head, Sheriff. My daughter probably isn’t anywhere near this house,” Pritchard argued as they came to the top of the upstairs landing. “I mean, how else can you explain the way she’s behaving about this murder? It’s just utter nonsense.”

  “That may be, but I hardly think it’s worth taking a chance if Annabeth is in this house.” Frank continued down the main staircase with Sonja and Pritchard in tow.

  “I must insist that we don’t go through with this,” he demanded, still trying to talk Frank out of it.

  Pausing mid-walk, and almost causing Pritchard to completely run into him, Frank pointed a finger at the man. “You and your wife both admitted that your daughter is unstable. On top of that, both you and I are well aware that’s she has run away from the institution that has been helping her. Finally, when we found the body, the back doors to the cabin were wide open. Therefore, I think it’s worth checking out.”

  Pritchard paused nervously, biting his lower lip.

  “You know he’s right,” Sonja cut in, seeing that the man was still hesitating.

  “Fine,” he spat, giving in to their demands. “You’re right. I guess I’m just a little freaked out. You don’t know just how dangerous she can be.”

  “Don’t worry, no one will be searching alone. Come on.”

  * * *

  Starting in the basement, they went through every nook and cranny of the house bit by bit. Corrine Devonworth sat the event out, choosing to stay in her bedroom the whole time. The chef, as well, remained safely in her chair near the fire.