Secret Santa Murder

by Karin Kaufman

  “A lot of people do that.”

  “I don’t. I can’t bear the idea of eating in the middle of the night. Do you have insomnia?”

  I scanned the counter next to the refrigerator. “Lately, yeah. But I don’t get up to eat, either.”

  “Then what do you do?”

  “Sometimes I read.” I reached up and opened the short cabinet above the refrigerator. As best I could see, there were a couple vases on the left side of the cabinet and a cardboard box on the right. I stood on my toes, stretched, and pulled the box forward with my fingertips until it was out an inch. Then I put my fingers under the bottom of the box and lifted it. When I did, metal balls rolled out from the bottom of the box, hit the top of the refrigerator, and bounced to the floor.

  “Oh, good grief!”

  “What is it?” Irene said.

  Again I stretched, and this time, as I pulled the box forward, I clamped one hand under the box. Still, more ball bearings fell, struck the refrigerator, and rolled across Norma’s kitchen floor.

  “They’re coming out of here,” I said. I cradled the box and set it on the counter. “Look, there’s a hole in the box, and ten or fifteen more ball bearings in it.”

  Irene was staring down at the box, her hand over her mouth.

  “Are these toys?” I asked, poking around.

  “They’re those fidgeting things that used to be popular—what do they call them? They spin. Kids with nothing better to do play with them, or so I’m told.”

  “Like Norma’s grandkids?” I trained my eyes on the ground, searching for the bearings. “Where did they go to?” I crouched down, felt along the floor, and then pivoted on my heels to look behind me. There, just under the rolling butcher block, were four bearings. I snatched them up and stood.

  “The fidgeting things use ball bearings,” Irene said, pointing at the torn arm on one of the toys. “Cheap garbage. Where was this made? You can see where the bearings were supposed to sit—and look, they’re all like that. Broken, torn.”

  I dropped the bearings in the box and—I could not help myself—smacked my own forehead. “Why, why, why didn’t I think to look before now?”

  “Because who could imagine that’s where they came from?” Irene said. “Her grandkids . . . oh, for the love of heaven. They were here two days before she slipped, and I knew that. They play with mind-numbing toys like that. Things that spin and jump. I didn’t even stop to think that they needed bearings. How many of those toys are in there?”

  I looked. “A dozen.”

  “The toys broke, bearings fell out, and they picked up what they could see.”

  “But they didn’t see all of them. Some of the bearings rolled under the island and then rolled back out.”

  “Norma uses this little island. She could’ve kicked them out herself.” Irene smiled sheepishly. “I started you down this idiotic path, Kate. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

  “The good news is, no one tried to kill Norma.” I picked up the toy box, plugging the hole with my hand. “Where’s her trash?”

  “Under the sink.” Irene pointed. “So the bearings have nothing to do with Phyllis’s death, but the poison in her tea was real and deliberate.”

  I carefully dumped the box into a small trash can in the under-sink cabinet. “Let’s make sure we didn’t leave any on the floor.”

  “Capital idea.”

  I got down on my hands and knees and crawled around the island while Irene started sweeping the floor. Fearing for Minette, who must have been tumbling about in my pocket, I sneaked a peak at her when Irene turned her back. She smiled up at me and I grinned. How was it that nothing fazed her? What did she weigh—three ounces? And her wings resembled fleshy, delicate rose petals. Though I’d learned they were tougher than they appeared.

  “What did the knitters talk about the last time you all got together?” I asked. “When Phyllis was alive.”

  Irene let go with a heavy sigh. “I’ve been trying to remember more. We met a week before we got our Secret Santa ornaments.”

  “Then what did Phyllis talk about?”

  “She’d been at the library, I know that. But she was often at the library.” Irene stopped sweeping. “She argued with Hazel about the law, which was a little odd for both of them. They sounded like characters on a TV crime show debating a complicated point.”

  “What point?”

  “I have no idea. We talk about so many things, and sometimes I only half listen. It might have been something about how long rules or laws stay in effect. Oh, I know!” She snapped her fingers. “They talked about the statute of limitations.”

  I struggled awkwardly to my feet. “On what?”

  “That I don’t know. I should have thought about this earlier, but at the time, it didn’t seem important, so I put it out of my mind.”

  “Give me Hazel’s address,” I said. “If she’ll talk to me.”

  “You make her talk to you. And call me here if she tries to dodge you.”

  When we were positive we’d found every bearing, Irene and I went back to the living room, where Norma was fast asleep. Irene woke her up and explained our discovery.

  Norma stared at us both. Then she started to laugh.

  “But it’s not funny,” Irene said. “It’s beyond idiotic.”

  “Irene, I know it was a stupid accident,” Norma said, “and I’m sorry you were involved in this, Kate. But don’t you see? I can sleep tonight. I believe I’ll even sleep lying down in my own bed.” She sat forward, grinning. “My friends didn’t try to kill me. That’s a lovely Christmas present.”

  Irene gave her an exaggerated eye roll. “Have a talk with your grandchildren. They’re not so young they didn’t see there was a hole in that box. It was thoughtless of them to spill ball bearings and not tell you about it.”

  “I’ll talk to them.”

  I said goodbye and headed for the front door, elated that we’d solved the mystery of Norma’s accident and glad Irene was going to stay with her for a while.

  “And make them feel guilty about their thoughtlessness,” I heard Irene say as I shut the door.

  My elation faded and was replaced by a sense of urgency as I climbed into my Jeep. Were Norma and Irene safe now? I couldn’t say for certain. I didn’t know who the killer was or what had motivated her.

  Before pulling out of the driveway, I phoned Emily to let her know about the ball bearings. When I finished, she told me Laurence had uncovered two pieces of information: none of the knitters had police records and Marvin Moretti had never been arrested, even as a juvenile. They were all clean.

  When Emily announced that she had a solid six hours left to work the case, I asked her to meet me at Thistle and Wool on Water Street. “First the yarn shop and then Hazel O’Brien’s house,” I said. “We’re starting from square one.”

  CHAPTER 14

  I parked outside Thistle and Wool and told Minette she’d have to remain inside my coat awhile longer. For a Sunday, a surprising number of women were inside the yarn shop or on the sidewalk walking past my car, and the risk of her being seen, should she pop her head above my pocket, was too great. We needed to wait for Emily to show up in her car, so sitting on my passenger seat—one of her favorite spots—was out of the question.

  I put my phone to my ear, pretending to talk, and then asked Minette what she’d thought of the knitting club get-together at Norma’s house. Not only was her hearing better than that of a human, but on occasion she was able to sense things I couldn’t in a voice: fear, resignation, hesitation, deception.

  “Norma and mean Irene didn’t kill anyone,” she said.

  “I could’ve told you that.”

  “The women didn’t send the Secret Santa ornaments.”

  “Agreed. There are some hurt feelings in that group, but they don’t keep grudges for years and decades. Well, Irene and Carla, maybe, but even Irene at her angriest wouldn’t stoop so low as to give Carla a wax-lips ornament.”

  �
�The ornaments came from outside the group.”

  I heard a rap on the passenger window, put down my phone, and unlocked the door for Emily.

  “Minette’s here,” I said as she got in.

  “I gathered that. That was the worst fake phone call ever. Is she in your right pocket?”

  “Left this time. We were just talking about the outsider who sent the Secret Santa ornaments.”

  “An outsider? You solved that too?”

  Seeing no one near the Jeep, I held open my pocket. “Minette? What do you think?”

  “It was Marvin Moretti,” she said, lifting her head just above the pocket hem.

  I let go of the pocket. “This fairy is brilliant.”

  “Thank you, Kate.”

  Emily’s mouth dropped open. “How do you know? Do you have proof?”

  “I doubt we’ll ever find real, tangible proof. Marvin knew where to put the ornaments to avoid being seen. He even knew about Joan’s house camera. He told me as much in his real estate office, only I didn’t realize it at the time. First he pretended not to know about the schoolhouse ornament, but then he said it was left hanging on the shrubbery for all to see. His mother might have told him that, but I seriously doubt it.”

  “What does he have against those women? His only connection goes back to his elementary years—and to Joan.”

  “Marvin isn’t angry about his run-in with the police when he was a child, he’s angry about how the others treat his mother in the here and now.”

  “Carla of the red lips?”

  I cast a sideways look at Emily. “That’s exactly my point. He thinks her reputation is unfair—and an albatross around his own neck, I’m sure. Even if Carla sometimes falls into the same behavior that earned her that bad reputation decades ago, she has her reasons. They might not be reasons to us, but they are to her.” I shook my head. “Sometimes it’s the people closest to us who won’t let us forget our missteps. They forgive, but they don’t forget. They tell stories, make jokes. Only it’s not funny to Carla or her son. She must have complained bitterly to him.”

  “It sounds like Marvin wanted to show the other knitters what it felt like.”

  “They bring up Carla’s old days, so he did the same. When I was at Norma’s house listening to the women talk, I realized something. When I mentioned Hazel’s husband not saving a dog and the pesticide poisoning on the potato farm, Marvin didn’t ask me what I meant. He knew. He knew about all those incidents. He’d heard his mother talk about them.”

  Emily suddenly slid down in her seat. “There he is. Marvin.”

  “Why are you hiding?”

  “Because we’re talking about him. It just feels like the right thing to do.”

  Marvin was outside the yarn shop, smiling and chatting amiably with a woman about to go inside. He lifted his wrist to check his watch, nodded at her, and started off down the sidewalk. Now was my chance. I had something to say before I lost my nerve.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t say something stupid,” Emily warned.

  “There’s no guarantee of that.”

  I caught up with Marvin two stores down from Thistle and Wool. He seemed a little perturbed to see me and kept walking, though he slowed his pace. I wasn’t going to let his attitude dissuade me from my mission, which was to make certain he never pulled a Secret Santa stunt, or anything like it, again.

  “You hurt a lot of people, Marvin.”

  He stopped in his tracks. I’d grabbed his attention.

  “How’s that, Kate?”

  “I know you sent the Secret Santa ornaments. But I’m guessing your mom doesn’t know.”

  “Are you still on that warpath? Look, lady, I told you—”

  “I’m not going to tell your mom or any of the other knitters. On one condition.” No one had been hurt by the ornaments, so the police didn’t give a fig about them, but maybe Marvin didn’t want word to get out—and it would get out through the knitting grapevine—that he’d harassed a group of elderly women in the midst of a murder investigation.

  “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ll play. What condition?”

  I stepped closer. “That you never, ever bother those women again. That includes your mom.”

  “My mom?”

  “You’re part of the reason she can’t forget her high school days.”

  “Wait just one stinking—”

  “You don’t think she knows you’re holding on to a lot of resentment? That you’re embarrassed by her? If I can see it, she can.”

  “Are we done?”

  “You need to promise me, Marvin. If you don’t, I’ll spread the word. You know what knitters are like.”

  He licked his lips. “Fine. I promise. Can I go now? I have errands.”

  I wished him a merry Christmas and walked back to my Jeep as Emily got out. Victory. I’d keep Marvin’s name out of things, but I’d let the Merry Knitters know that the nasty ornaments had come from outside the group. Eventually Carla would work it out, but that would be between her and her son.

  Marvin would no longer trouble the Merry Knitters, and Norma’s accident had truly been an accident, but there was no getting around the fact that one of the knitters had murdered Phyllis.

  “Help me talk to Elizabeth in the shop,” I said. “Fill in if I get stumped.”

  Emily shut the door, I locked it with my remote, and we headed inside.

  Fortunately, Elizabeth worked both Saturdays and Sundays. I spotted her at the register, and after she finished ringing up her customer, she took a break and invited us into a small storeroom next to the office.

  First things first. Elizabeth knew I was looking into Norma’s broken wrist and the Secret Santa ornaments, but I hadn’t told her I was also trying to find out who had killed Phyllis. It was time to be forthright.

  Elizabeth listened as I told her that Norma’s fall had indeed been an accident and that the ornaments were in fact a prank—never to be repeated, I was sure. And Phyllis, in case she hadn’t heard, had been poisoned by aconite, but her death had nothing to do with revenge for the eggnog incident of long ago.

  When I finished, Elizabeth shut the storeroom door and pressed her back to it. “I’d heard you were looking into her murder. You know the way word gets around in a small town. Phyllis was a friend and a good customer. If I can help, I’m glad to do it.”

  I felt a surge of relief. Thistle and Wool was the center of the Smithwell knitting world. If anyone had relevant information, it would be Elizabeth. “When was the last time you talked to Phyllis?”

  “About a week ago. She was a skein collector—here all the time. If she saw a pretty shade in alpaca or cashmere, she’d snap it up, pattern in mind or not.” Elizabeth left the door, dragged a stool from a corner, and sat. “We talked for about fifteen minutes that day. Is there anything in particular you need me to remember?”

  “Did she talk about doing research at the library?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “What about the law or legal rules?”

  Elizabeth furrowed her brow.

  “Anything related to the law or crime?”

  Her eyes wandered over the storeroom. “Well . . . let me think . . .” She snapped to attention. “She did say something like that. It was out of the blue, really. She said someone in her group argued that there was no statute of limitations on fraud. Yes, that was it. And Phyllis argued that there was a limit and that only serious crimes like murder had no limit.”

  “Did she say what kind of fraud?”

  “No, unfortunately. But it was strange she’d bring it up. We talked about our kids, TV shows, the latest patterns—not about legal or political matters. And like I said, she mentioned it out of the blue. She brought it up as if it had been wearing on her mind.”

  “Did she say who she argued with?” Emily asked.

  “No, just one of the ladies in the Merry Knitters. I don’t think it was a bad argument, but something about i
t troubled her. I had the impression that this fraud involved a friend, and Phyllis wanted to believe this friend was out of legal danger because enough time had gone by. Does that help?”

  I smiled. “It does, actually. Thank you.”

  There was no time to waste. I strode from the shop, and as Emily and I climbed back in my Jeep to talk, I explained that Irene had told me about an argument between Phyllis and Hazel at their group’s last meeting. “It was about the statute of limitations,” I said, starting the engine. “Though I don’t know for what crime. But we need to talk to Hazel. And Rancourt—where has that man been?”

  “We’re only two blocks from the station,” Emily said. “Let’s find out.”

  We left the Jeep and walked up Water Street for Falmouth, Smithwell’s main road. The Town Office was on the corner, and one large, imposing building up from that was the police station. At the front desk, I asked, in a firm, businesslike way for Detective Rancourt. I’d stood at this desk before, and been treated like a foolish woman for my concerns.

  The officer manning the desk greeted me with a polite but strained smile, letting me know he hadn’t forgotten our previous encounter. “Do you have an appointment?” he asked.

  “This is about Phyllis Bigelow’s murder. I have information.”

  “You can tell me and I’ll pass it along.”

  “No, this is for Detective Rancourt only. Tell him Kate Brewer is here.”

  His strained smile vanished. He punched a button on a phone, waited for an answer, then told Rancourt I was here. Emily and I stood to the side of the desk. A few seconds later, I saw Rancourt hurrying down the hall my way, his unbuttoned coat flapping.

  “Kate, I’m on my way out,” he said. “Follow me, tell me what you know.”

  I rushed after him. How a man so, well, stout—that was the polite word for it—could move as fast as he sometimes did baffle me. He was pasty and puffy, probably close to retirement age, and his diet consisted of vending-machine finds, but when he was on a murder case, some previously untapped reservoir of energy opened up to him.

  Outside the station, he slowed long enough for me to give him an abbreviated version of what I’d learned over the past twenty-four hours. I finished with Phyllis’s opinion on the statute of limitations for fraud. “Irene Carrick said she was arguing with Hazel O’Brien,” I said.