A Murder in Christmas Village (Christmas Village Mysteries Book 0)

by Alex Colwell

  “I agree that’s suspicious,” said Sheriff Fell, “but lack of communication is hardly proof of murder.”

  “The proof of murder is the corpse, Sheriff. But I suppose what you want is proof of who committed it?”

  “Yes!”

  “You said you found all the items I listed?”

  “But blast it, what does it all mean?”

  “I should think you’d have the whole story from their phones?”

  “Actually, that was the one detail you got wrong,” said Bentley. “They didn’t have different cell phones, but different SIM cards they’d switch out in their phones. Pace should have full reports on their content later today.”

  “I’ve never heard of SIM cards, but I’m delighted you’ll have the proof you need. If nothing else, this slight oversight will prove to the sheriff that whatever powers of observation I possess are not supernatural in nature.” She cast him a playfully reproachful glare. “Supernatural, indeed.”

  “But what about the murder? How did they do it?” asked the sheriff.

  “That’s a two nickel question that requires a half dollar answer. We’ll start with how the door was locked. There’s only so many ways to lock a dead bolt without a key or picking experience. When Mr. Dandridge told me that he deals in strong magnets for his medical machines, I figured that must have been how he did it.”

  “With a magnet?”

  “Deputy Bentley, was Deputy Pace able to find the time to run my little experiment?”

  Bentley’s eyes went wide and seemed to rattle in his head as he nodded. “He sure did, and would you believe it? The hairpin you gave him stuck right to the lock, like a magnet.”

  “Not like a magnet, Deputy. It was a magnet. Make sure Deputy Pace puts that in his report as I’m sure the prosecutor will want to make use of it.”

  The sheriff shook his hands in the air as though he wanted to stop the flow of information until he could figure a way to catch up with it. “Wait, wait, wait. You mean to say you can unlock a deadbolt with a magnet?”

  “Oh yes! It’s quite simple really, provided the lock is of a certain age and the magnet is of a proper strength. Nothing a grown man couldn’t easily hold in his hand. You simply hold it in front of the keyhole and rotate it rapidly in the direction you want the tumblers to turn.”

  “Remarkable,” said the sheriff, mesmerized.

  “Not really, if you know magnets,” said Bentley. “But how did he cut Wilkinson’s throat without leaving any footprints?”

  “Oh, he didn’t kill him. Pinky - Mrs. Wilkinson – did that bit,” replied Maribel.

  The sheriff rubbed at his temples. “I’m afraid to ask, but how do you know that?”

  “Mrs. Wilkinson told me. More or less. She mentioned that her most popular trick is to use her whip to cut items in half, such as bananas and celery. But even the smartest whip can’t do that unless it’s got a blade of some sort attached to its end. A razor blade would be small enough not to be visible to the audience and light enough not to interfere with the performance of the whip. I couldn’t think of another way to efficiently attach a blade to the end of a whip except with super glue. That’s why I suggested you look for a whip with a hard, clear substance on the tip.”

  “And in fact we found such a whip when we searched the dumpster. The blade as well,” said the sheriff, then he sat up straight and snapped his fingers. “Of course! She stood in the hall and caught Wild Willy’s attention, and then while he was looking at her that vixen flipped her whip into the room and let the blade do the work.”

  Maribel smiled and touched her nose. “And I couldn’t help but notice that Mrs. Wilkinson was left-handed, which explains why the cut was on the right side of her husband’s neck. She was really very good and her aim was perfect. She would have had to flip her wrist at just the right moment for it to swing back and cut his throat right over the artery.”

  “Where does the cut in the wall come into play?” asked Bentley.

  “She couldn’t let the whip end hit the floor and leave its mark, and she certainly didn’t want it coming back at her, so I wagered she’d jerk it back and let it stick in the wall. Then she could simply tug on the whip to release it.”

  “But how did she know there’d be saw dust on the floor?”

  “I’m sure she didn’t. In fact, I’d wager her plan was to keep her hands clean and to have Mr. Dandridge tend to the ghastly chore. But he saw the dust and was backing out. That’s when she would have stepped in.”

  Sheriff Fell takes a sip from the milk he’d ignored up until now. “Why not just wait for a better chance?”

  “I’m sure it was now or never. This was their last show of the summer, and when they got back home, Mr. Wilkinson was going to terminate Mr. Bundy’s employment. The intended knife wound and locked door were staged to frame Mr. Bundy, and if they waited, that might not have been possible.”

  Bentley slid down in his chair, relaxing. “I suppose they might have still been able to pull it off back home – after all, Bundy would have looked even guiltier after he was fired – but they couldn’t risk that he’d leave town or have an airtight alibi.”

  Maribel smiled at Bentley and tapped her forehead as though to say good thinking.

  The sheriff brought his knuckles down on the table, causing both the dishes and Maribel to jump slightly. “So, we know the when, we know the what, and thanks in part to you, Maribel, we know the how. But why? What’s the motive?”

  “You’re the experienced lawman, sheriff, so feel free to disregard my amateur observations, but in my experience, motive is incidental. I find it far less intriguing than the puzzle itself. However, I understand the importance of understanding why people do what they do, particularly in a court of law. So I’m happy to give you my two cents.”

  “Are you going to tell me they’re in love? That’s obvious enough. But Wilkinson had no money. Just a failing business, a roadshow that barely pays for itself, and I’d bet when we get digging we’ll find a mountain of debt.”

  “Don’t you suppose there was some life insurance?” Said Bentley.

  The sheriff thought for a moment. “I would wager there could be insurance. But Dandridge makes enough money on his own. Nah, money’s not the motive. Has to be love. That dolled up trollop wrapped him around her finger and got him to do her evil work. Love, greed, and revenge - the unholy trinity of murder. If he didn’t do it for money or vengeance, it’s got to be the girl.”

  Maribel stood to remove the empty glasses. “I think we may need to add a fourth party to the mix, sheriff, because none of those are what motivated Dandridge. His trigger was passion.”

  “Passion, love, what’s the difference?”

  “Oh, there’s a remarkable difference. The object of Dandridge’s passion was not Mrs. Wilkinson. And I’d wager it was he who seduced her and – as you put it – wrapped her around his finger. You’ve listened to the tape of our conversation, have you not? He gives you his motive right there. He was second fiddle to the best shot around. He didn’t want Mrs. Wilkinson, he wanted to be the star of the show, and to do that, he seduced the young gold digger with his money and concocted this vicious murder plot.”

  As the afternoon settled in and Christmas Village buzzed and puttered with life, Maribel kept the lawmen at her table enthralled with her tale of a puzzle unraveled. She explained that she assumed (and rightly so) that the deputies had searched all the trash cans inside the theater for anything out of place, so while Bentley had gone to fetch his car, she used the time not only to call the mister but to take a walk around the building and find the dumpster she knew must be there. When she found it out back, she saw there were two windows overlooking it, on the second and third floors. She surmised that the chipped nail polish on Pinky’s hand must be fresh, as someone so obviously involved in her own appearance would not allow something so unseemly to remain so for long; she further surmised that the nail had become chipped at some point during the events that surrounded t
he murder. Forcing open an old window stuck in its ways made perfect sense.

  Maribel figured that a large, heavy magnet, two cell phones (she’d have to remember later to find out what SIM cards are), and a razor, would not be something a person would or could just carry around, and would instead be hauled to the window in an unobtrusive bag.

  There was a sense of role reversal when the men were satisfied that they were in full charge of the facts and had enough to charge Pinky Wilkinson and Clint Dandridge with murder. The normally relaxed Bentley was fire strung to get back to the station and see the look on the soon-to-be defendants’ faces when they realized their seemingly impenetrable ruse had been rendered asunder. By contrast, the embolismic Sheriff Fell seemed almost content.

  Maribel was about to walk them to the door when the sheriff paused and turned back to the table. “If you don’t mind, Maribel, I think I would like that piece of pie after all.”

  Maribel put the last piece of her thrice award-winning peach pie on a saucer and wrapped it in tin foil. She handed it to the sheriff at the door, grateful both for the sheriff’s show of friendly civility and that he was now taking his leave. The meeting had lasted longer than expected and her husband, who toiled late into the evening at his shop, would soon be waking.

  Returning to the table to clear it of the abandoned plates, Maribel fondled the empty pie pan. Picking at the crumbs that remained, she thought of how not even a full day ago the thought of enjoying this pie had been her primary concern, and yet not one slice had been hers. Savoring the remaining crumbs, she chuckled in amusement at her role in the events of the previous day, and imagined Sheriff Fell puffing his chest to the TV cameras and claiming the victory as his own.

  She was pulled from her thoughts by the familiar squeak of the bedroom door. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of white hair and red cotton pajamas.

  “Good afternoon, dear. You’ve just missed the sheriff and that nice, young Deputy Bentley. Do I ever have a story to tell you over your breakfast! But I do hope you haven’t set your heart on having pie.”

  THE END

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