by Alex Colwell
A
MURDER
IN
CHRISTMAS VILLAGE
A Christmas Village Mystery Short
By Alex Colwell
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2015 by Author. All Rights Reserved.
Cover Design by Jimmy Gibbs & Alex Colwell
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DEAR READER,
Thank you for joining me on this brief journey into the wonderful and wonder-filled world of Christmas Village. This short story is only the first of what I hope will be many sojourns into this idyllic, enchanting burg where no one locks their doors, yet somehow 'locked room' mysteries abound. As much as I enjoy the journey, I do not like to travel alone, so I hope you will see fit to keep me company on these mysterious adventures. Before and after the story you will find those wonderful neon blue links that allow strangers to become not so strange and to keep in touch with one another. Please use them. And if you enjoy the story, I'd feel ever so blessed if you took a moment to say so at Amazon (or whichever portal from which you found this story) and spread the word of my humble musings to friends of yours whom you feel might enjoy them as well.
Your friend in words,
Alex
A
MURDER
IN
CHRISTMAS VILLAGE
It should be cooled enough by now,Maribel thought as she cautiously retrieved the pie pan from the window sill. Through the open kitchen window she noticed the warm shadows of dusk pushing through the pines and falling across the cottages of Christmas Village.
“Your timing is impeccable, Maribel,” called a voice from the street. “I’ve lived an honest life all of these 53 years, but another moment or two and that pie would have made a thief out of me. Nothing like peaches and sugar and – if my nose hasn’t failed me! - just a pinch of cinnamon.”
Maribel recognized the voice as belonging to Frank Carmody, her neighborhood lamplighter. She tip-toed up and over her sink to catch sight of him setting fire to the rustic gas lamp that illuminated the corner nearest her house. “Your nose is every bit as sharp as you are, Mr. Carmody, and twice as honest,” she called out, her words punctuated by a deep, joyful laugh. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten the last time I let you talk me out of a piece of pie. Mrs. Carmody was none too pleased. Ha ha! Not-at-all pleased, no sir. I love your Barbara dearly, but that’s a conversation I don’t intend to have twice.”
“Blasted diets,” mumbled Frank, striking flame to the lamp with his wick stick. “I swear the missus is trying to starve me, though for what purpose she ain’t tellin’ and I ain’t askin’. To keep more of my money to herself, you suppose? No, sir. No more diets for me.”
“Perhaps it’s you she wants more of, Mr. Carmody, and she’s set her sights on keeping you around a spell longer.” She touched a finger to her nose and smiled.
Carmody removed his oil-stained cap and bowed as though before royalty. “You’re the jewel of the village, Mrs. Claus. A true jewel.”
Maribel’s cell phone exploded on the cabinet next to her and she jumped. “Oh my, I’ll never get used to this gadget.” It was Angela, her niece.
She excused herself from Mr. Carmody and swiped at the screen a few times before the call connected. “Hello, dear. How is the show?”
“So much for ‘the show must go on’,” said the phone in Angela’s voice.
“What do you mean, dear?”
“There’s not going to be a show. The star went and got himself murdered.”
“Mur…are you sure?” Maribel whispered, holding the phone close as though she were protecting a secret.
“Unless Wild Willy managed to cut his own throat with just the tip of his finger, then yeah, I’d say murder’s a safe bet.”
“Is the sheriff there? Have they captured the culprit?”
“Sheriff’s here. They think they have the guy. Scratch that, the sheriff knows he has the guy. Problem is, I’m not so sure he’s right.”
Maribel wasn’t conscious of the fact that her ears had visibly perked up. “Oh? And why is that?”
“I don’t know. I mean, it all adds up, I’ll give the sheriff that. But I was there when they confronted the man and he seemed as shocked as anyone. Maybe he’s a great actor, but he reacted the same way I imagine I would if I were told someone I knew had been murdered. His reaction just seemed so natural.”
“Is that the only reason you think he’s innocent?”
“The case against him is good and that’s what’s niggling at me. It’s too good. If this guy did it, then he’s as bad at killing as he is good at acting. He all but left a signed confession at the scene. That’s why I’m calling you.”
Maribel laughed. Angela was used to this and held the phone away from her ear for the duration. “Me? What could I possibly do?”
“Oh, come on, Auntie. You know that Sheriff Fell hits every tree trying to get to the forest. He only sees the obvious. I’m sure the only reason I haven’t been kicked out of the building is my press pass and because I happened to be on the scene covering the show for the Gazette. He won’t listen to me, but he’d have to listen to you. You’ve got to come down here.”
“As much as I enjoy the good sheriff, I’m not certain that road goes both ways. Not much profit in me trekking all the way out to St. Nicholas Circle just to –“
“There’s a locked room.”
Maribel’s ears were practically walking off her head. “What was that?”
“The body, it was found in a locked room. No weapon anywhere near. And from there it only gets stranger.”
“Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt for me to drop in for a minute or two. In my capacity as a Village Elder, of course.”
“I thought that might get your attention.”
“Let’s not be morbid, Angie. A man’s dead and someone must answer for that. But I confess I do enjoy a good puzzle.”
“Awesome. Is Uncle there to bring you?”
“No, he’s down at the shop. But I believe I can muster a ride if you’ll be so kind as to let me off this thing.”
“Okay, but be sure to bring that thing with you. You might need it. See you soon.”
Maribel hung up and ran to her front door, swinging it open. “Oh, Mr. Carmody! If you’ve got room in your car and the time to give a lady a ride, I’ve got a piece of peach pie with your name on it.”
Maribel stepped from the lamplighter’s bucket of bolts and onto the cobbles in front of the Crestview Theater. Its front banners proudly proclaimed the final night of ‘Wild Willy’s Western World’.
“Enjoy your pie, good sir, and thank you for the lift.” Maribel set the tin foil wrapped plate of pie on the seat she’d just vacated.
“Anytime, Maribel. And the pie will be our little secret,” said Carmody with
a wink. “I’ll sit here until I see you’re safely inside.”
Maribel appreciated the chivalrous gesture but knew it was an unnecessary precaution. The entire Christmas Village police force – all four souls – were mere yards ahead, just behind the theater’s dark mahogany doors. Yet murder has a way of leaving its mark on a place. She had attended dozens, possibly hundreds, of performances at this theater; had even performed on its stage in her youth. However, tonight the shadows seemed longer, closer, the light just a step out of reach. She was grateful for Mr. Carmody’s presence.
At three stories high, the Crestview was one of Christmas Village’s tallest edifices, and at only 109 years of age, one of its newest. It was still referred to by locals as the ‘new’ theater in contrast to its 200 year-old competitor across town.
Maribel didn’t bother to knock.
Doc Wilcox was standing just left of the doors talking with Carlton Moore, the general manager of the theater, who looked as though he couldn’t decide whether to hyperventilate or skip straight to the fainting. Maribel thought it fortuitous that he standing with the doctor.
She spotted Angela behind the east wing ropes, deep in conversation with Deputy Bentley. Maribel noted (with no small measure of pride) that Angela was furiously writing in her note pad.
“Maribel? Is that you?” asked Doc Wilcox. He was notoriously near-sighted so Maribel assumed the question was not rhetorical.
“Yes, Doc. It’s me.” Maribel wanted to go to Angela but knew she’d want to speak with the resident medico sooner or later.
The elderly doctor shuffled her way. “May I have a word, Maribel?”
Sooner it would be then.
“I certainly didn’t expect to see you here this evening,” said the doctor as he accepted Maribel’s hand and held it briefly to his lips, as was his old fashioned way.
“My niece called and told me what has happened. Such a shame. I thought if there was any way I could help –“
“Your niece? Little Angela? How’s she mixed up in this mess?”
“She’s 26 now, Doc, and she’s standing right over there, talking with the nice, young deputy. She got a job working for Mr. Fogg down at the Gazette and was here to review the wild west show. But I suppose she’ll be writing an altogether different story now.”
“Well, I’ll be. Didn’t even see her. Not sure I like the idea of this getting on the cover of the village paper though.”
“Great, just great. I’m ruined,” spat Carlton Moore from the wall behind them. Even his words perspired.
“It’s not as bad as all that, Mr. Moore,” said Maribel. “The victim was from out of town. Achtungbury, is it not? I’d read an article on the show last summer and seem to recall that. I would wager the killer is no more local than he. Why, this could have happened at any one of their stops. It’s nothing anyone could hold against the village, nor against you and your fine theater.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Claus. Your words do offer some measure of solace. If you’ll excuse me, I should see if I’m needed elsewhere.”
“Before you go, Mr. Moore…” She stepped forward slightly, as though to block his path. “I’m curious as to how well you knew the deceased.”
“I can’t say I knew Wild Willy - I mean Mr. Wilkinson - at all. I met him for the first time just three days ago, prior to their first show with us. I spoke with him once after the show and briefly in passing yesterday. For the most part, I’ve dealt with his business manager, Mr. Dandridge, and his personal assistant, Pinky.”
“Pinky?” said Maribel, as though she had just heard a new swear word.
“Yes, and I believe she’s his wife as well. Or widow I suppose is more accurate. A very pleasant woman, actually, in spite of that garish saloon girl get-up. Poor woman is absolutely devastated. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really should check in with the sheriff. He’s locked himself in my office with the villain of this macabre little production and wouldn’t you know that’s where I left my medicine.”
Maribel pondered if his ‘medicine’ came in a glass bottle. “Yes, of course. Thank you for taking the time and I hope you feel better.”
Doc Wilcox leaned in closer to Maribel’s ear. “Now that it’s just us, do you mind telling me what you’re doing here?”
“Am I not welcome?”
“I’m not saying that, Maribel,” he backpedaled. “You know me better than that. But a murder scene is no place for a…a…”
“A lady?”
“Something like that. It’s not a pretty scene in there, I can tell you that.”
“Well, Doctor Wilcox, you’re right about one thing. I am a lady. I’m a lady who also happens to sit on the Committee of Elders for this village and whose responsibility it is to see to it that all entertainment establishments are up to safety code.”
The doctor flustered and blustered. “Of course, of course. Please, I meant no offense.”
“Chivalry is never offensive, Doctor Wilcox, so long as it doesn’t interfere with my duties or my liberties. Now, if you have a moment I’d like for you to join me in speaking with my niece and that deputy. Among the four of us, we should be able to get some answers.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for the sheriff? I imagine he has the matter well in hand.”
“I’d wager differently. But if nothing else, we can pass the time while waiting for Sheriff Fell to enlighten us.”
Maribel walked over to where Angela was standing, a chaffed Doc Wilcox in tow, and was promptly greeted by her niece and introduced to Deputy Brock Bentley: a tall, fair-haired man of an age that suggests he would have been a school mate of Angela’s had he not been born and raised in Glyn Allen, the burg just to the east of Christmas Village.
“So, what’s been learned so far?” asked Maribel. Angela and Bentley stared at each other, not sure who should start.
“Okay, I’ll go first,” said Doc, surprising the others who had forgotten he was standing there. “The body had been that of one Willard Wilkinson of Achtungbury. I’ll leave it to the sheriff to get the particulars, but he looked about forty-five to me. I’d say he was six feet long – “
“You mean tall?” inquired Angela.
“Not the way I met him. He was murdered in the property room on the second floor. Not prop storage, mind you, but where they actually build the props; sawing and painting and so forth. Every bit of the floor was covered with oak shavings. Very fine, more like dust. I learned the sawing was done earlier today by one of Carlton Moore’s men, a local who works part-time for the theater. No known association with the victim. He finished his work and left the theater well before the murder occurred.”
“What’s the saw dust tell you, Doc?” asked Deputy Bentley, his tone more that of a wide-eyed school boy than a seasoned policeman.
“I’m getting to that in due course, young man,” continued Doc. “The body was lying on its left side, more or less, about five feet into the room. Smack dab in the middle of the floor. He was dressed to go on stage in his western shirt, chaps, and fancy boots with spurs on them. A ten-gallon hat was lying a few inches from his head, telling me it was on him up until he hit the ground.”
“Hit the ground?” interjected Maribel.
“Pardon my crude English, Mrs. Claus. What I meant was –“
“I wasn’t offended by your choice in words, I was fascinated by it. Are you saying he was standing when it happened? What direction was he facing?”
“Now, Auntie,” said Angela, “how could he possibly know that?”
“You mentioned on the phone that his throat was cut.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Well, that being the case, an artery must have been severed and the arterial flow should tell the good doctor precisely what position he was in at the moment the killer struck.”
“Oh, of course.” Said Angela, swatting her hand through the air. “I knew that.”
“He was facing the door.” Replied Doc.
Maribel nodded. “I see. And could you tell if t
here was a struggle?”
Doc grinned, his cheeks wrinkling and folding like a bed sheet. “It’s funny you ask that, Maribel.”
“Funny?” asked Maribel.
“Not funny so much as strange,” said Angela.
“You don’t say.” Maribel only half-heartedly tried to contain her relish.
The doctor cleared his throat. “You’ll recall the sawdust I mentioned? It completely covered the floor. The tree that produced it had been felled locally, only three days prior, so the wood was still moist. If you so much as touched a finger to the floor the dust would have recorded the impression. There is no question that only two people walked on that floor after that wood went through the saw.”
“That makes perfect sense,” offered Maribel. “Mr. Wilkinson and his killer?”
Doc shook his head in silence for a moment as though building up to something. “No, that’s impossible. Because there’s no doubt that one set of prints belonged to the man who did the sawing. You see, his right foot is clubbed. That is to say it bends to one side, leaving a very distinctive print.”
“You must be referring to Billy Menges,” said Maribel.
Deputy Bentley suddenly stood two inches taller and pointed at the open air in the direction of the front doors. “That’s right, and I say we need to pull him back in here to explain how he’s the only person besides the victim who was in that room.”
Angela shook her head in protest. “That’s what the deputy and I were arguing about when you walked up.”
“Arguing?” said Bentley. “Where I come from we call that discussing. It’s not arguing until you get loud.” He smiled at Angela, who reciprocated. Maribel noted the exchange and grinned inward to herself.
“As I was explaining to the deputy here,” Angela continued, “Billy Menges is the salt of the earth and as harmless as a fly.”
Bentley faced Angela. “And as I was explaining to Scoops Magee here-“