"Oh, man. That explains it."
"What?"
"She said she was in the parking lot the night Randy died," I said in a low voice. "I wondered why she'd be here; now it makes sense. She told me she was calling her sister."
The young woman rolled her eyes. "She was here to meet him, I'll bet. They used to make out in his truck, she told me. Sometimes in the restaurant, too." She made a face. "It's kind of gross, really. She had a nice boyfriend, but she really had the hots for Randy." She teared up again. "I always thought he was a jerk, but she just didn't see it. Do you think that's why she died? Because she got involved with him?"
"I don't know," I answered, but I thought the odds were pretty good. "Did she ever say anything about him?"
She bit her lip. "Only that he drank a lot," she said. "And that he was a good kisser."
"Anything else?"
"He talked a lot about how he was going to run the ranch," she said. "How it was all going to be his one day. His sister was trying to drive him out of the business, but he needed it more than she did. That he deserved it."
"I heard she has an MBA."
"I heard that, too."
"What about Randy?"
She shook her head. "Not that I know of." As she spoke, a crowd of people came through the door behind me. Camille gave me a faint smile. "I'll let you know when your table's ready," she said, and turned to help the next people in line.
I retreated to a seat close to the door and waited, thinking about what she had just told me. Who wasn't Randy Stone seeing? I wondered. I only knew about the women in Buttercup. Were there more in Katy, where he and Isabella had a house?
I knew one thing for sure: The more I found out about Randy Stone, the less I liked him.
My waitress was nice, but not particularly forthcoming with juicy details. When I got my table, I ordered a papas, egg, and cheese taco, and ate it with some of the restaurant's famed Salsa Doña, then excused myself to visit the ladies' room, which was next to the kitchen.
I was about to go in when the door to the kitchen opened. I glanced inside and spotted something I hadn't seen before; hanging over the tortilla maker was a sprig of mistletoe. And it looked as if a piece of it had been torn off.
The door closed again, leaving me wondering.
Had Randy and Julie had an assignation here before he died?
And had Julie died because she'd seen Randy’s murder?
15
I was still unsettled when I swung by the Honeyed Moon Mead Winery a half hour later; I needed to pick up some more beeswax for candles.
Serafine was busy wrapping gifts when I arrived, listening to jazzy Christmas carols as she worked.
"Come in, come in!" she invited me. "I was just wrapping up a couple of things for Aimee.... She went out for a few hours, so I grabbed the opportunity." I stepped into her home, which was filled with memorabilia from her native New Orleans, along with a variety of unusual handmade things that looked distinctly magical. She was, in fact, a practicing witch, so they probably were.
"What did you end up getting her?"
"Some handmade earrings I found at the Market last night," she said, "and a beautiful hand-painted silk scarf. I wrapped the scarf, but these are the earrings. You think she'll like them?"
"They're gorgeous," I said as she lifted two chandelier earrings. They were silver filigree with ruby-red crystals that glowed and sparkled in the light.
"You think? I hope so."
"I'm sure she will," I said. "What are you two doing for Christmas?"
"We're heading home to visit family," she said. "We're leaving tomorrow."
"I guess you don't have livestock to take care of."
She grinned. "Nope. The bees kinda take care of themselves, thank goodness. Speaking of bees, the beeswax candles are really selling fast, eh?" she asked. Her hair was done up in a gorgeous blue and green scarf, and with the crystals sparkling at her throat, she looked like an enchantress of sorts.
"They are," I said. "I won't have time to cure the new ones completely, but I can tell folks how to care for them. I'm just about out of stock."
"Maybe you'll need more than one hive, then," she suggested.
"I'm going to start small," I told her. "I don't want to get in over my head. Or more over my head."
She laughed. "We're all in over our heads. Sometimes I think I'm crazy for moving to Buttercup. Other times, I wonder what took me so long."
"I totally get that," I replied, smiling.
"Come with me," she said, slipping on a pair of rubber boots that looked out of keeping with her skinny jeans and loose, sparkly top. Together, we left the house and headed for the barn where she kept her beeswax and made mead. "I've got several blocks left; someone got in touch online and asked if she could buy a huge bulk order the other day, but I knew you'd need more, so I saved some back."
"Thank you," I said. "Before I leave, remind me; I brought you a bit of fresh arugula and some radishes; I'll have another batch of lettuce ready next week." I'd harvested some and put it in a bag in the truck before heading to Rosita's.
"Oh, that sounds divine. I love winter arugula; it's got a bit of a bite, but nothing like hot-weather greens." As we walked to the barn, she gave me a sidelong look. "You're upset about something."
"Is it that obvious?"
She nodded. "Completely. It's about those deaths, isn't it?"
"It is," I said. "Randy Stone just seems like a horrible guy; he was entangled with women left and right," I said. "And now Julie, too. I found out she was seeing him on the side; they met at Rosita's the night he died."
"No wonder he had mistletoe in his hair," Serafine said.
"Is that bit of info out and about?"
"It's Buttercup, buttercup. Not a lot of secrets. Although Randy Stone did a good job of it. And boy, did his momma and daddy name him right." She grinned as she unlocked the barn. Most folks didn't lock their barns, but with teenagers in town and cases of mead inside, Serafine was cautious.
I laughed despite myself as she opened the door, letting out a waft of honey-sweet, warm air. "I just wish I could figure out what this was about."
Serafine got a misty look and froze, her hand still on the barn door. "It's not about love," she said suddenly.
A chill rose up my spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. "What is it, then?" I asked.
"It's... it's dark. And angry."
"Couldn't that be a jilted lover?"
"I do have the feeling of betrayal," she said. "But it doesn't feel like a crime of passion. Not that kind of passion, anyway." She was quiet for another moment. "There's something old in there, too. Something unresolved, from years and years ago."
I thought of Randy's disappearing brother. "Does it have something to do with Randy's missing older brother?" I asked.
She narrowed her eyes. "Yes. And no." She stood motionless for another moment, then shook herself. "It's gone," she said, and her whole manner changed.
"You can't call whatever it is back?"
"That's not how it works, unfortunately," she said, opening the barn door the rest of the way. Together, we stepped inside, and she flipped on the light. The room was filled with brewing equipment, glass containers of honey-colored liquid, and hundreds of bottles.
"I've got to tell you, the spirit world could stand to be a little clearer."
"Tell me about it," she said.
"So, it's not a jilted lover," I said. "Which rules out Rhonda's husband, assuming we can count on the spirit world, that is. But it is about betrayal... and something to do with his missing brother."
"He disappeared a long time ago, didn't he?" she asked. "I got a feeling of tragedy. I don't think he's alive anymore."
"I don't know if that would be good news or bad news for his parents," I said. "It's got to be awful living without closure for all those years."
"Yes," she said. "I feel like his mother in particular has suffered a lot. So sad," she said with a sigh. "And now t
wo more deaths."
"Any word from the other side on Rhonda Gehring?" I asked. After all, why not?
"No," she said, shaking her head. "Only that I don't think she's passed."
"Good," I said. I didn't share that I had a feeling I knew where she was.
"There's something else about her, though… I can’t put a finger on it," she said a moment later.
"Well, she did just lose her lover and is probably about to get divorced."
"That, too, but I'm getting something different. Something's starting for her. Something she's not sure about." I thought about the venture Sadie had thought sounded "fishy," and wondered if that was what Serafine was referring to. I waited, hoping for more, but my friend's shoulders drooped and she shook her head. "It's gone again, I'm afraid. But it's a big ol' mess. And there may be more death waiting."
"More? We've already had two deaths and one missing person. How much more can there be?"
"You'll just have to solve it, then," she said, giving me a smile. "I think that's why the spirits spoke up. They're counting on you."
Terrific. Not only was Mandy counting on me, but now everyone on the other side was, too. "I moved to Buttercup to get away from investigative reporting," I complained.
"Unfortunately, it followed you, it seems," Serafine said. She waited a moment, head cocked, looking as if she was listening, then shrugged. "Nothing else, at least not today."
"You'll call me if you get anything?" I asked. I might be an investigative reporter, but I wouldn't say no to a bit of guidance, whether it came from this world or the next.
"I will," she said, "but I get the feeling they're done for the day. Anyway, let's get you that beeswax," she said, suddenly all business again.
"Thanks," I said, but my thoughts were still with that weird interlude. Betrayal, but not in the context of a love affair. And something to do with an old tragedy.
This case was getting stranger and more convoluted by the minute.
It was almost noon by the time I pulled into the driveway to Dewberry Farm, a box of beeswax on the seat next to me and a few bags of groceries I'd picked up at the Red and White Grocery. I'd remembered to give the veggies to Serafine, who planned to take them home to New Orleans with her, and had decided that I needed to get going and make some fudge for my many friends in Buttercup. I still wanted to try the recipe Tracy had given me for candy cane fudge, so I decided to stop at the store to pick up the ingredients and spend the afternoon making a massive batch. My friends and I usually exchanged food gifts or homemade items rather than store-bought stuff, but I was a bit behind this year and needed to get on the stick.
I put the box of beeswax on the counter and said hello to Chuck, who was wagging so hard his whole body was rocking from side to side, and then headed back out to get the groceries. As I unloaded the bags from the truck and then pulled a big pot out of the cabinet, I reflected on everything I now knew about Randy's murder.
The mistletoe in his hair had probably come from Rosita's, I now knew, and he more than likely had had an assignation with Julie that night. Had Isabella come and interrupted them? Was that why she was so loath to say where she'd been? Had she, in fact, killed Randy out of anger and jealousy?
But if so, why hadn't Julie said anything about it to the police? She had a boyfriend, but she wasn't married, so she didn't have that much to lose. Still, if Isabella had walked in on them, it certainly gave her a motive to murder both Randy and Julie.
But Isabella was in jail when Julie was murdered.
Was it Mandy who'd done it?
As I put the white chocolate chips and the sweetened condensed milk into the pot on the stove, I reflected once again on what Serafine had told me. The deaths had been about betrayal, not passionate love. Was it possible Isabella had killed Randy out of anger, and Julie was murdered by Mandy to protect her sister? Mandy hadn't been around when the body was found, which was weird for the editor of a paper. Was that because she was responsible?
I didn't like anything about this case, I decided as I lined two pans with foil and sprayed them with cooking spray. And Randy cheating on his wife had absolutely nothing to do with his missing brother, which Serafine had intimated had something to do with the present-day murder. I gave the pot a stir, then unwrapped some candy canes and put them into a Ziploc bag before gently tapping them with a mallet.
I crushed candy canes and stirred the pot until the contents had melted into a sweet, white liquid, then checked the recipe card. I took it off the heat and added the peppermint extract, some of the crushed candy canes, and a dash of red food coloring. , I poured it into the pans, trying to make it even, and then sprinkled crushed candy canes on top.
The fudge looked beautiful and smelled enticing; I couldn't wait to try it. I took a little sample from the side of the pot, hoping it wouldn't be grainy; to my relief, it was smooth and minty and delicious. I cleaned out the rest of the pot with a spatula, nibbling on bits of half-cured fudge as I cleaned, and then started the process over, only with the semisweet chocolate.
Twenty minutes later, I had four pans of beautiful fudge, two white chocolate mint and two milk chocolate mint, and had snacked my way to being almost full. It was an amazing recipe, creamy and minty, with a nice crunch from the candy canes. I'd have to thank Tracy when I saw her.
As I dried the pot and put it up in the cabinet, I spotted the copy of the ticket; I'd stuck it to the fridge with a magnet. I took it down and examined it. It was a movie theater ticket from Houston... which was where the paintings had been stolen from.
I looked at the date, and an idea popped into my head. I opened my laptop, pulled up the museum's name, and typed in "Art Theft." Sure enough, three articles on the missing paintings turned up; they'd disappeared the day after the date on the move ticket. Then I pulled up the Buttercup Zephyr website. Mandy had been having back issues scanned to cut down on storage, which made things convenient for me; right now, I wasn't sure I wanted to go ask her for anything.
I input the date on the ticket. There was nothing that day. An update on the courthouse renovations, which I hadn't realized had been going on for coming up on two decades, a small article about a herd of escaped cows mowing down the flowers in front of the Red and White Grocery, which made me feel much better about my own occasional wayward livestock—and an article predicting a droughty summer. Some things never change, I thought, and flipped on the previous week's edition.
And that's when things got interesting.
Five days before the date on the ticket we'd found in the back of the painting, Chad Stone disappeared.
Which gave me a very bad feeling about the bones beneath the courthouse.
16
I read the article twice. There was a photo of Chad, who resembled his brother but with longer hair, that looked like it had come from a high-school yearbook. Chad Stone had been a member of 4-H and a bit of a track star in Buttercup, specializing in hurdles; it read more like an obituary, in some ways, than a missing persons article. Apparently, he'd started school at the University of Houston, studying management, but I got the feeling he hadn't completed his studies.
There was a picture of Linda and William Stone on an inside page. Linda Stone had aged tremendously in the past fifteen years... probably the toll of grief. William looked much the same, stoic and solid, his mouth a grim line. "I just want my boy back," he was quoted as saying. "I haven't slept in days. He was going to Houston for a job, and then... he just never called." According to the article, Chad had checked out of the hotel he was staying in and just disappeared. No phone calls, no nothing.
"We're offering a reward," William Stone said. "Anyone who knows anything about what might have happened to our son, please let us know."
I took one last look at the photo of Linda and William, standing in front of their house, looking bereft, and my heart ached for them. They'd lost both their sons. That wasn't how things were supposed to happen.
I scrolled through the next few weeks of t
he paper, looking for more information. There were a few update articles, but no new information on Chad, and despite the generous reward information—they were offering $50,000 to anyone who could find their missing boy—the story just kind of faded out as time went on. At least in the paper. I was sure it was just as current for the Stones as it was when their son had first disappeared.
I leaned back, staring at the computer. If I was right about what had happened, how had Chad Stone gotten involved in an art theft? And if he had, were those his bones that had been found in the courthouse? I flipped back to the article on the renovation. They'd ripped up part of the floor because of a water leak, apparently, and taken out some rotten drywall. What had made Chad decide to come back to Buttercup to stash the paintings? And who had done it with him?
And then, I thought to myself, probably done him in?
I picked up the phone to call Tobias. He answered on the second ring. "Hey, Lucy. What's up?"
"I was wondering if you'd been out to check on the Stones' cow yet," I said.
"I scheduled the recheck for this afternoon. I take it you'd like to come with me?"
"I would," I said.
"I'll pick you up at noon, then," he told me.
"Looking forward to it."
Tobias showed up just before twelve. I'd finished packing up the fudge and watered all the greens, which were thriving in the cooler weather. Texas had two growing seasons: the hot season, which involved cucumbers, tomatoes, eggplants, and peppers, and the cool one, which was when leafy greens, beets, radishes, and cruciferous vegetables flourished. I'd planted onions and potatoes this year, too, and was looking forward to freshly dug new potatoes with homemade butter.
"Wow," he said when he saw me. "I keep forgetting about your haircut; it really does look great on you!"
"Thanks," I said, blushing. "I'm still getting used to it."
"You know I think you're gorgeous no matter what your hair looks like, don't you?"
My heart just about melted in my chest as he gave me a kiss and ran a hand through my hair. "Feels silky, too."
Mistletoe Murder (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 4) Page 12