Peppermint Mocha Killer

by Summer Prescott

  “Bern and I have been rattling around in this house not knowing what to do with ourselves,” the grieving widow closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the burn of good scotch going down her throat. “I just feel…adrift, you know?”

  “I can’t even imagine, dear lady. What will you do?”

  “The same things that we always do, I suppose. Bern will return to his studies after the break, and I’ll have my clubs and events, and…” she trailed off as tears choked her.

  Kel was about to stand and comfort the bereaved woman when her son, Bernard, came into the room and moved immediately to his mother’s chair, kneeling in front of her, taking her hands and reassuring her in a low voice. She dried her tears again, apologizing weakly.

  “No need to apologize, Mother,” Bern gave her a hug and went to greet Kel. “Everyone understands how difficult this is. Mr. Kellerman, good to see you again,” he shook Kel’s hand.

  “You too, Bernard, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m afraid we’re still reeling from the news,” the handsome young man blew out a sigh.

  “The entire community grieves with you,” Kel nodded.

  “With perhaps one exception,” was the dry response.

  “Bern, you shouldn’t say such things,” Babs scolded. “You have no proof.”

  “Forgive me, Mother. I can’t help but think of who the most logical person to have done this heinous deed might be.”

  “Oh? You have thoughts as to the perpetrator’s identity?” the artist asked carefully.

  Bern glanced at his mother, who was sipping her scotch before replying.

  “It seems to me that the only person it could be would be Seth Samuels,” he shrugged. “Everyone else loved, or at least respected, my father.”

  “What could possibly motivate Mr. Samuels to do such a thing?” Kel leaned forward, his scotch forgotten.

  “Well, I think it’s probably pretty common knowledge that Mr. Samuels is close to foreclosure on his home.”

  “I didn’t realize that, but, even so…it would be the bank foreclosing on the property. What could that have to do with your father?”

  “My father had received permission from the city council to raze the house and build a commercial enterprise on the property in the event of foreclosure. He already had bid paperwork drafted to buy the property for the amount of back taxes owed,” Bernard explained. “My father wasn’t a vulture. He didn’t want Mr. Samuels to lose his house, but if he had, he was prepared to inject capital into our community by building a business that would create jobs and generate revenue that would only benefit the town.”

  “And Samuels took it personally,” Kel summed up.

  “That’s my hypothesis, yes sir.”

  “Somehow, I was really hoping that, as tragic as this is, that it would’ve been perpetrated by a stranger…some random person just passing through, but you do present a compelling argument,” the artist shook his head sadly. “Seth Samuels just doesn’t seem like the sort of man who could bring himself to do such a thing,” he mused.

  “I agree. He appears to be rational and steady, if a bit bitter about his circumstances, but we never know what effect profound stress can have on people who may feel as though they’ve failed and are losing everything, Mr. Kellerman,” Bern pointed out ruefully.

  “True enough, Bernard,” Kel agreed, setting his nearly untouched scotch on a cherry side table. “I’m afraid I’ve intruded upon the two of you for long enough. Please know if there’s anything that I can do, you have only to call,” he stood to go.

  “Thank you, sir,” Bern shook his hand, and his mother stood for a fond embrace.

  “Yes, thank you, dear Kel. It may be a while before I’m up to attending events again, so perhaps you could stop by on occasion to catch me up on what’s happening in our fair town?”

  “It would be my pleasure, Babs. Take care now,” he patted her shoulder, and Bern followed him to the door, while Barbara sat back down with her scotch.

  “Thank you for coming over, sir. It means a lot to my mother to have people show that they care. My father was her world,” the young man looked down and swallowed hard.

  “She’s lucky to have a fine young man like you by her side as well,” Kel squeezed his shoulder before stepping outside. “And I meant what I said…if you need something, anything, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  * * *

  “I can’t even believe that Chas has to question Spencer about the murder of Santa Claus,” Missy shook her head as she, Echo and Izzy worked on assembling gingerbread houses with the pieces that she’d baked.

  “I hate to say it,” Izzy sighed. “But when I talked to him the other day…he seemed to be acting strangely. He wasn’t himself.”

  Missy and Echo stopped, Echo holding a piece of her gingerbread roof in the air, Missy squeezing dots of icing onto the back of the chimney so that she could stick more red licorice bricks on it.

  “What do you mean?” Missy asked softly, her eyes wide.

  “Well, you know how he’s always so sure of himself…how he never does anything without having thought through every aspect of it first?”

  “Yes,” Echo said impatiently, waiting for whatever bombshell Izzy might drop. “What about it?”

  “Well, he asked me to go to the beach with him, and it seemed like he wanted to talk about the future of our relationship and what that might look like, but then he was really sort of…confused. It was strange, I’ve never seen him like that.”

  “That is odd,” Echo nodded, pensive.

  “Well, men can be that way when it comes to matters of the heart,” Missy shrugged, sticking a piece of licorice onto the chimney. “You two are young, he probably is confused.”

  “Still, that doesn’t sound like Spence,” Echo murmured.

  “That’s what I thought,” Izzy agreed, deftly catching a wall of her gingerbread house as it threatened to tumble down onto her waxed paper foundation.

  “And actually, there’s been a lot of weirdness surrounding him lately. Just when we find out that he’s been secretly working for Chas’s family for years, protecting the heir to the Beckett fortune, and doing covert work for some shadowy government organization, the government suddenly releases him from his contract, so he’s free to do as he pleases, and he stays here. Why would he do that?”

  “Well, I wanted to think that his decision had something to do with me,” Izzy replied sadly, squirting frosting into the corner of two walls to stick them together. “But then he told me that he couldn’t be in a relationship with someone who had hurt him so badly, twice.”

  “Did he actually say that?” Missy asked, her heart going out to the lovely young woman.

  “Well, no. Not in those exact words, but that was the gist of it.”

  “So then, why did he stay here?” Echo wondered.

  “Maybe because he has a family now?” Missy sounded vaguely offended. “We love him like a son and he loves us. Not to mention that he still works for Beckett Holdings as sort of a bodyguard or security person for Chas.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. But if you had his kind of qualifications and could go anywhere, would you stay her and be a security guard and handyman?” Echo persisted.

  “You think he’s hiding from something?” Izzy’s eyes narrowed.

  “Or someone?” Missy chimed in.

  “I would like to think that he wasn’t, but maybe we should consider the fact that everything we thought we knew about him turned out to be a lie,” Echo’s eyes were downcast.

  “Hiding his position with the government and Beckett Holdings was what both entities wanted, that wasn’t Spencer’s fault,” Missy pointed out.

  “Do we even know if that’s his real name?” Izzy murmured.

  “Does it matter? Listen to the two of you!” Missy scolded, frowning at her friends. “You know and love Spencer. This isn’t some stranger that we’re talking about. He’s not hiding som
e deep dark secret, and he certainly didn’t kill Santa Claus.”

  “Who would kill Santa Claus? And why?” Echo changed the subject, seeing her friend’s obvious distress at the thought of Spencer being involved.

  “Well, let’s just remember, he wasn’t really Santa Claus. He was a human being, and as we all know, human beings can hide some pretty ugly secrets. Secrets that can get them killed,” Izzy said as she finally completed all four walls of her structure without it falling in.

  “OH!” Echo cried out suddenly, inadvertently squeezing a blob of icing out of her tip, as she clutched the bag in her hand.

  Missy and Izzy froze, staring at the very pregnant woman.

  “You okay, darlin?” Missy asked, finding her voice.

  Echo nodded, her face a rictus of pain. “If this is any indication of the kind of pain that I’m going to have to endure during labor, I may use drugs after all,” she hissed between clenched teeth.

  “Is it that bad?” Missy asked softly. “Do we need to take you to the hospital?”

  “No, it’s not time yet, but maybe we should start timing things just to be safe,” her friend replied when the moment had passed.

  They watched the clock for a full ten minutes, and when Echo still hadn’t had another contraction, everyone relaxed and went back to decorating their gingerbread houses. Kel came in shortly thereafter and sat with the three while his wife finished her gingerbread house.

  “How’s Scott handling the holidays?” Missy asked the artist sympathetically.

  Kel had only recently discovered that he had a sixteen year old son, by an ex-girlfriend who had gone missing. The boy had found him, hoping to enlist his help in finding his mother, and the duo had instead discovered that the poor woman had been kidnapped and murdered. Kel had immediately taken Scott in, bringing him to Florida and enrolling him in school, trying to make his life as normal as possible after the death of his mother. The polite young man fit into Echo and Kel’s happy home, and the three of them had bonded wonderfully.

  “He’s doing very well, all things considered. He dealt with a bit of bullying at school, but he handled it with maturity and class, and now he’s quite popular with the other kids. He talks to me about his mother sometimes, but he fully realizes that she would want him to go on and to do well, so he gets up every morning and faces the world, usually with a smile,” Kel’s affection for the teenager was more than evident.

  “Sounds like you’re raising a pretty special young man,” Missy smiled.

  “It still seems surreal. I went for years not knowing that I was a father, and now suddenly, not only do I have a teenager, but I’ve got a little one on the way,” he put a gentle hand on Echo’s tummy and got a kick for his trouble.

  “And he may be here soon,” Izzy informed him. “Echo has been having some pretty strong contractions.”

  The artist immediately sobered and gazed tenderly at his wife. “You okay, love?”

  Echo nodded, then stifled a yawn. “Yes, I’m fine, but I think it’s past my bed time.”

  “Then let’s get you home,” he stood.

  “Absolutely not,” she declared. “I haven’t finished my gingerbread house and you haven’t told us what you found out on your little “fishing” expedition.”

  Kel kissed his wife soundly before retaking his seat, then recounted his conversation with Arthur Beringer’s family, his news bringing a sense of relief to all of them. Echo carefully crafted her gingerbread house, nibbling on various candies along the way, until she was finally satisfied with the result. Her eyes were puffy and she looked strained.

  “You need to get some rest, darlin,” Missy observed, carefully lifting the house and putting it on the kitchen island to dry. “I’ll bring this over to you tomorrow, once it’s had some time to set up.”

  Echo hugged her and then Izzy, yawning hugely behind her hand as Kel put an arm around her and led her to the car. Izzy and Missy stood in the doorway and waved until the tail lights were out of sight.

  “I hate to say this, but did Echo look like she didn’t feel well?” Izzy asked, once they were back inside.

  “You noticed it too? I just thought that I was being overprotective, as usual,” Missy said ruefully.

  “She was too quiet, and seemed a bit out of it.”

  Missy shrugged. “Maybe that’s just normal for someone who is as pregnant as she is.”

  “I sure hope so. Well, I should probably get going, too. I’ve been ignoring texts from my publisher all night,” Izzy chuckled.

  “Shame on you,” Missy teased. “She probably just wants to wish you Happy Holidays.”

  “With her, it’s never that simple,” the author sighed. Her micromanaging publisher was one of the reasons that she’d moved to Calgon. “Thanks for a fun girls’ night, I enjoyed it.”

  “Me too,” Missy smiled, giving her a hug at the door. “Drop by anytime.”

  “If you insist,” the young woman joked. “Keep me posted on when we become aunts.”

  “You’ll hear shortly after I do,” Missy promised.

  The owner’s quarters of the inn seemed so quiet after her friends left…too quiet. Not knowing when Chas would be home, Missy poured herself a glass of wine and curled up on the couch with her sweet furry babies, a golden retriever named Toffee, and her spunky maltipoo friend, Bitsy. The “girls” were glad to have their human all to themselves, and promptly fell asleep as soon as Missy started watching a movie.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  Arthur Beringer lay on a stainless steel table in the morgue, an identifying tag tied to his cold, dusky blue toe. Timothy examined the mortal wound on his throat with great interest, poring over the area with a magnifying glass, illuminating the former Santa Claus with his head lamp. Fiona was, as usual, standing nearby, peering at the body with keen professional interest.

  “Notice anything different?” her boss and mentor asked, inviting her to take a look through the magnifying glass with a single inclination of his head.

  Brow furrowed, she examined the wound underneath the microscope.

  “It doesn’t look like a typical cut for some reason,” she observed. “I can’t tell why, but it’s almost as if…” she trailed off.

  “As if…?”

  “Well, as silly as this sounds, it looks to me like this wasn’t made by a blade. I don’t know why, I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s definitely different.”

  “An accurate, if uneducated, observation,” Tim nodded his approval. “The reason that it looks like it wasn’t made by a blade is because it wasn’t.”

  “But, how on earth could someone make a cut like this if not with a blade of some kind?” Fiona was mystified.

  “Looks like the work of wire to me. That’s why there’s a significant amount of pre-morbid bruising along the edges of the wound,” he touched the tip of his forceps to a spot of obvious bruising.

  “And look,” she exclaimed, having spotted something. “There’s a faint line of abrasion,” she pointed.

  “Almost as if the wire slipped,” Tim mused.

  “I didn’t know that throats could be cut using wire,” Fiona pursed her lips.

  “It has to be very thin wire, and the person using it has to have either speed or strength or a combination of the two. The wound doesn’t have to be deep, just deep enough to cut the artery, there,” he indicated the severed artery which had caused Santa to bleed out rather quickly.

  “What about the blunt force trauma to the back of his head?”

  “Either someone was really lucky, or they knew precisely where to strike in order to knock him out but not kill him. It undoubtedly made cutting his throat easier, because he was unconscious.”

  “What do you think they used to hit him with?”

  “Hard to say, it’s a shape that I’m not terribly familiar with, so I took an impression of it to see if that helps.”

  “So, we don’t know what to tell the police to look for as far as a murder weap
on? That’s unusual,” she frowned.

  Fiona was nearly as much of a perfectionist as Tim when it came to accuracy and analysis, and it frustrated her to no end to not be able to figure out what the murder weapons were. She could tell by the look on Tim’s face that he, too, was stumped and having a difficult time accepting that reality.

  “Well, let’s see what other weirdness we can find that might give us more clues,” she suggested.

  Her boss didn’t reply, merely continuing his examination.

  **

  Chas tossed his pen down on his desk in frustration. He had two persons of interest currently cooling their heels in holding cells while he tried to piece together exactly what had happened to Arthur Beringer before the awards ceremony, and he kept running into nothing but dead ends and contradictory information. He’d had a conversation with Barbara Beringer long before Kel had arrived to offer his condolences, and the only person she’d been able to think of as a possible suspect was Seth Samuels. The detective knew that he didn’t have enough evidence, even circumstantial evidence to keep either man in holding overnight, but he hated the thought of letting Seth walk out when he didn’t have any other leads to pursue. His next move would be to begin questioning city council members and Arthur Beringer’s employees, to see if there were any grudges that he hadn’t yet heard about, despite Mrs. Beringer’s assertions to the contrary. Sighing, he grabbed his keys and headed for his unmarked sedan.

  **

  Chas entered the cool, contemporary foyer of Beringer, Inc. and strode to the front desk, where he was greeted by a young male receptionist who wore a perfectly-tailored navy suit and an earpiece.

  “Welcome to Beringer,” the young man gave the detective a cool, professional smile. “How may I assist you?”

  Chas flashed his badge and the receptionist seemed to sit up a bit straighter.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. I’m here to speak with anyone who may have had contact with Arthur in the past few days. Who might have that information?” he asked casually, carefully assessing the young man’s response.