by Kris Pearson
XMAS MARKS THE SPOT
Merry Summerfield Cozy Mystery, Book 2
Kris Pearson
ISBN 978-0-9951021-9-4
OMG! Who hid a quarter of a cow in the trunk of my brother’s beloved Mercedes? And what’s with that spooky big X marking the spot on the beach where a man lies dead? Can my quarter-cow and the corpse possibly be connected?
Detective Bruce Carver doesn’t think the body is any of my business, but someone’s up to no good amid the twinkling Christmas decorations in drowsy Drizzle Bay.
I’m sure I can help, but maybe I’m too curious for my own good. Who’s going to rescue me now a smelly rustler has roped me up far too close to that big white X? Not my brother Graham and his two goofy spaniels. Not old Margaret and little Pierre the poodle. Not my ex-husband, the unfaithful Duncan Skene. I need a super-resourceful man with … umm…muscles.
*
For more information about me and my books, visit http://www.krispearson.com Sign up for my newsletter while you’re there.
As always, love and thanks to Philip for unfailing encouragement and computer un-snarling, and special thanks to my friends Diana Fraser and Shirley Megget who persuaded me to try writing something different.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is co-incidental. There are many beaches which could be Drizzle Bay, but let’s just say it would be ‘a short drive north of Wellington’ if it existed.
Copyright © 2019 by Kris Pearson
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1 – An Unfortunate Discovery
2 – Heather for Christmas
3 – Margaret’s Makeover
4 – X Marks the Spot
5 – Heather at Home
6 – Dinner for Four
7 – Graham in a Good Mood
8 – Cross Country
9 - Old Scores
10 – Walking into Trouble
11 – Man-handled
12 – Flying High
13 – Christmas Lunch
Epilogue
1 – An Unfortunate Discovery
You never know what’s lurking where you least expect it.
I finished the last bite of my toast and marmalade, slotted the plate into the dishwasher, and grabbed the spare smart-key to my brother’s Mercedes because I needed to remove his golf clubs from the trunk. All good so far.
The dogs bounded into the garage with me, barking and sniffing. Goodness – maybe there was a dead rat, because something was definitely whiffy. Dust motes whirled around in the air as I operated the car’s auto-open function and the lid rose. Both spaniels whirled around too, dancing on their hind legs and craning their necks for a better view.
“Down, boys!” I yelled. They get away with murder sometimes. Why isn’t Graham firmer with them?
And phew – the smell once it was open. I clutched my throat, trying not to throw up. Not a dead rat in the corner of the garage. A dead….? Ummmm? Leg of beef? In the car. All my hair stood on end. Hair was standing up on end all over the leg of beef, too, which was laid thoughtfully on a sheet of heavy plastic, so at least the carpet hadn’t got soaked through. But OMG, the stink! On top was a somewhat bloody piece of cardboard with a message in bold black marker pen. BEEFY HALDANE BETTER WATCH OUT.
Who the heck was Beefy Haldane? What did he need to watch out for? Who’d put this in Graham’s car? And why?
This was no way to start a beautiful summer’s day in Drizzle Bay, New Zealand!
Graham is a lawyer, and was currently at a legal conference in Melbourne, Australia, which is why I could nick his Merc. I surmised Beefy Haldane was a client of his who was into something criminal. That seemed reasonable. To me, anyway. But how had anyone got an entire leg of beef into a locked car inside a locked garage on a property guarded by two uber-nosy dogs? How had they even carried it? It was enormous.
“Good dogs, good dogs,” I crooned as I hauled on Manny and Dan’s collars to stop them trying to eat the evidence. Eventually I got them back onto the chains attached to their kennels. They weren’t keen to leave a prize like that, and continued to whine and bark and dance about with such fervor I thought they might drag the kennels behind them over the yard. In desperation I tore into the kitchen and brought out duplicate breakfasts. They fell to eating but continued to give me the evil eye for stealing such a treat.
Poor darlings – they’d been acting rather strangely for the weekend Graham had been away – sniffing around the garage as though they suspected me of locking him in there. Given the walks I’d taken them on, and the generous meals I’d provided, this seemed less than grateful, but now I knew why.
So much for looking forward to having our rather yummy vicar, Paul McCreagh, beside me while we drove to the airport in Wellington to collect his sister. She was flying in from England for a Kiwi Christmas. Would the police let me have the car back in time? And how much of that stench could I get rid of, if so?
I’d better explain that I’m Merry Summerfield, a divorced freelance book editor, and I share the family home with Graham after our darling parents left it to us. Arnold and Sally Summerfield. They died many years too early in a nasty car crash. I try not to think about that, but of course it turns up in my brain all the time. Graham is six years older than my forty-four, and conservative beyond belief – hence his choice of a nice safe car like the Mercedes, and in the same shade of silver-gray everyone else seems to choose.
His is much more suitable than my nifty little Ford Focus for collecting a passenger who’s travelled halfway around the world. She might have heaps of luggage. Her brother, Vicar Paul, certainly expected so, and as his car was temporarily out of action I’d offered to fill the gap.
Plainly I needed to contact Detective Sergeant Bruce Carver again. He of the severely bitten fingernails and over-applied cologne. Oddly, the latter might be a benefit this time because boy, that meat really ponged.
I paced to and fro outside the garage a couple of times, psyching myself up. Then, holding my breath and my cell phone, I approached the car, trying to persuade myself there was no need to be sick on the floor. I did my best to take a reasonable photo and beat a hasty retreat out into the fresh air again so I could start re-breathing. I sat on the timber garden seat for a minute or two, feeling a bit faint and shaky.
Cut it out, Merry! You weren’t this bad when you found old Isobel Crombie’s body a couple of months ago. And she was a human being, not a leg of beef.
But Paul was there.
And Isobel didn’t smell.
Yes, having someone else for company and only the sweet scent of flowers was way preferable, but that wasn’t how the cookie had crumbled for me today.
DS Carver’s card was pinned up on the corkboard in the kitchen. I sent him the photo of the beef in the trunk and then rang.
And wouldn’t you know it – he was instantly available instead of roaming the coast interrogating crims and leaving his phone to take messages.
“Ms Summerfield,” he said in his nasal Kiwi twang. “I was just thinking about you.”
I really hoped he wasn’t, unless it was because of the photo.
Dismissing any other thoughts why he could be, I rushed ahead. “Did you get tha
t shot I sent? That’s why I’m ringing. I’ve found a quarter of a cow in Graham’s car. It still has its fur on… ummm, hide on. It’s black, so maybe it’s an Angus.”
DS Carver cleared his throat very noisily. “Slow down, slow down, Ms Summerfield. I’m going to record this conversation if that’s okay with you?”
I clutched at my long hair with my free hand, imagining him plugging things in or twiddling dials. “Yes, fine.” I could hardly turn him down.
“Soooo…” he drawled. “Not to give too much away, because we’ve been trying to keep a lid on it, but Jim Drizzle’s farm has been the subject of a couple of rustling raids. If the beast still has its hide on, that could be very helpful.”
“Yes, definitely still has its hide on. Could you read that notice in my photo?”
“Loud and clear, Ms Summerfield.”
I rushed on. “The thing is, I don’t think it’s aimed at Graham. Whoever did this laid a sheet of plastic under it to protect the car’s carpet. What kind of crook bothers to do that?”
DS Carver cleared his throat again. “Have you touched anything?”
“Euw – you must be joking!”
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’.”
“Yes, that’s a no for sure. It stinks. It doesn’t seem to be fly-blown, and I guess that’s because the Merc’s seals are good. Graham’s forever going on about them.” I gave a nervous laugh. “Actually, it probably is fly-blown by now because I left everything open to try and get rid of the smell. Insects will be streaming in there as we speak.”
“Yes, yes,” he muttered. I could hear his irritation from miles away. “How long since the car was used?”
“Friday. It has to be Friday because Graham flew out to Melbourne early Saturday. With another lawyer friend who’s going to the same conference. Heaven help they should waste any weekday work time. They took the friend’s car to the airport, so that’s why Graham’s is still here.”
“And explains why you’re phoning me instead of him. We’ll need to contact him and confirm that.”
“Of course you will,” I agreed in a sickly sweet voice. Why did DS Carver bring out the worst in me? “But don’t do it yet for a while because he’ll still be asleep. Time difference between Australia and New Zealand, and all that…”
I pictured Graham peacefully snoring in his striped pajamas. I love him heaps, even though I make terrible fun of him sometimes. “He doesn’t know about it,” I added. “I got on to you straight away because there was no point waking him up and upsetting him. Are you going to send someone to take fingerprints? I could do with help to lift the darn thing out. It must weigh half a ton.”
“Touch nothing!” DS Carver practically barked. “I’ll have someone there as soon as I can.”
“Good,” I agreed. “I need to get it cleaned up because the vicar and I will be collecting his sister and her luggage in it this evening. She’s flying in from England.”
“Is she indeed?” DS Carver said in a voice dripping with suspicion. I don’t know why, because right now Heather McCreagh was probably still high over the Pacific Ocean, and she would possibly have been high over Heathrow when the beef was ladled into Graham’s car.
“She’s landing in Auckland about now, meeting up with an old school friend for lunch, and arriving in Wellington around five tonight.”
There – that was all I knew. “I’m going to duck down to the Mini-mart and buy some air freshener because we don’t seem to have any,” I added. “Only be gone five minutes.”
I disconnected while he was still hemming and hawing. There’d be plenty of time later to answer anything else, and for sure there’d be plenty of ‘else’ if I knew him.
I went outside and peered into the garage again. Some buzzy flies had already arrived, attracted no doubt by the smell of very ripe meat in the hot summer air. Oh well, too late now. I left the car open but closed the garage door. Then I pulled my exuberant hair up into a ponytail, swiped a bit of lippy on, and hid my un-made-up eyes behind my biggest, darkest sunglasses, reminding myself not to take them off while I shopped.
I locked the back door to the house and hopped into my Ford Focus. Within minutes I was in Drizzle Bay village. At nine-thirty on a Monday morning the shops were quiet. Christmas lights along their veranda edges twinkled merrily but more or less invisibly in the bright sun as I trotted past the café. Chubby, cheerful Iona Coppington was dragging some lightweight chairs out to put beside the tables she sets up each morning and pulls in again late every afternoon. “Chocolate cupcakes with caramel fudge frosting,” she bellowed as I hurried by.
“Put one in a bag for me. Back in a mo,” I responded, knowing I shouldn’t or I’d end up the same size as her. The woman can cook, that’s for sure, but I’d have to give up my toast and marmalade breakfast habit and eat something sawdusty and low-cal if I scoffed many more of her glorious treats. Sighhhh…
I wondered what sort of lingering fragrance Heather McCreagh would prefer. I dithered between Eastern Rose and French Begonia. I might not know much about gardening, but I’m pretty sure begonias have no scent in the real world. Hey-ho – marketing’s a long way from reality sometimes. Those TV ads where someone throws a big chunk of butter into already-mixed cake batter crack me up each time. Me and everyone else who bakes, I suspect.
*
I decided not to alert Graham. Why wreck his day? DS Carver would be sure to do that perfectly efficiently. Clutching the Eastern Rose air freshener, I collected and paid for my cupcake and zipped home again.
Should I tell you Drizzle Bay is named after Jim Drizzle’s family farm, and not the weather? It’s on the coast of New Zealand’s North Island. The southern part of the North Island, to be precise. There are a couple of other small settlements nearby – Burkeville on the highway north, and Totara Flat – inland and very rural. Not a lot happens around here, and that’s the way we like it.
I made sure the gate was locked behind me and headed inside. Off came the sunglasses, on went the eye make-up, and I fluffed around with my hair for a while in case there were any particularly attractive and available fingerprint men.
No, but at least everyone turned up promptly. Two white Police cars with bright blue and yellow checkerboard bands around them squealed to a flashy stop on the road outside. Overkill, in my opinion – when did we ever see two in Drizzle Bay? Surely they must have been coming back from an accident on the Expressway?
This caused neighbors to lean over fences, hopeful for details. People even wandered across from the beach and peered up the driveway. Some pulled out their phones and took photos, although why they thought a garage with the roller door at least halfway down and the backs of uniformed cops would make a great shot, I can’t imagine.
The uniforms were followed by the Scene of Crime team who took notes, more photos, and dabbed fingerprint powder around the edges of the trunk. They stuck pieces of tape over the most promising-looking prints, peeled them off, and bagged them up. Two sturdy cops were instructed to remove the huge piece of cow by lifting the corners of the plastic sheeting so nothing gross escaped onto Graham’s precious carpet. I felt sorry for them, having to get so close. I’d opened the garage window, but that wasn’t helping in the least. They dragged it out into the fresh air and the cell phone brigade went into overdrive – until the smell wafted in their direction.
Then the carpet and the lining were removed from the trunk! I hadn’t expected that, but maybe there’d be some sort of evidence on it. Just as well Graham wasn’t there to see his precious baby being dismantled.
One of the forensics men closed the garage door entirely so he could spray his special blood-finding chemical around and shine his light on it. Luminol – I remembered that from editing a couple of lurid thrillers for a woman called Bree Child (and I didn’t think that was a clever pen name in the least). No glistening blood showed up on the floor, which was probably a relief. All in all it seemed a lot of attention for a not very large crime.
During
this whole time the spaniels whined, howled, and tugged at the ends of their chains by the far fence. I’ve no idea how they didn’t break their necks. I ambled across and gave them some pats and fondles but there was too much exciting smelly stuff happening for me to be able to calm them down much.
“What’s going on?” Kaydee-Jane Simmons demanded from part way up the plum tree next door. The spaniels renewed their chorus of annoyance.
“Are you safe up there?” I asked. “Why aren’t you at school?”
“Got a cold,” she said, sniffing to prove it.
“Then you should be inside in bed.”
She looked at me with the withering gaze of a six-year-old who knows everything. “Mummy says it’s warmer out here.”
And she wouldn’t be interrupting Mummy Rochelle’s TV programs outside, would she! Kaydee-Jane’s mother is not industrious, enterprising, or particularly maternal. If she can stay sitting, she does. By contrast her grandmother is a gem.
“So what’s going on?” the little girl demanded again.
“Someone broke into Graham’s car.”
“What did they break?”
“The lock.” Which probably wasn’t true, because I’d seen no damage.
“Have the crooks gone?”
“Absolutely,” I assured her.
She looked disappointed, so I waved a firm goodbye and went to check if anyone wanted a cup of tea or coffee yet. No.
A bit of eavesdropping followed as I weeded the pots either side of the now-open-again garage door – really the only gardening I bother with, and I heard nothing the least bit illuminating. After the team left I went back into the house and tied my hair in a pony-tail again. The beach gawpers returned to their sand.
DS Carver eventually arrived in his anonymous Police-issue sedan. He had Detective Marion Wick with him again – she of the huge, attractive eyes and unfairly slim body.
Why do some people have all the luck? She could probably eat Iona’s cupcakes every day of the year and never put on an ounce. (Of course she might go running, too, and spend a heap of time at the gym.)