She grunts as soon as she lays eyes on me and huffs her way over. “She’s cornering Leo again. I don’t know if she’s more interested in my man or yours, but that beast needs to go. We need to figure out a way to get rid of her, yesterday. I want her gone. If only there was something we could blackmail her with.”
“Ooh!” Georgie wiggles her fingers and squints with delight. “Now we’re getting to the nitty gritty. What have you got on her, Bizzy? And by the way, who is she?”
“Trust me. You don’t want to know.” A thought comes to me.
A few weeks back, while I was investigating Camila as a suspect in another homicide, I discovered she took racy pictures for some greasy magazine called Gear Head. Camila played the part of a scantily clad schoolgirl—a play on the fact she’s a high school counselor—while bending over a desk. She said she had just finished up a modeling shoot for a women’s clothing catalog when the photographer suggested they do a few fun shots. It turns out, those fun shots made their way onto a calendar and the pictures for the women’s catalog seemingly disappeared. I really did feel terrible for her. She’s not proud of it and she doesn’t want the word getting out. The calendar, however, is set to release next month.
I take a deep breath. “Actually, I do have something on her, but it’s so terrible, if it ever comes out, she could get fired from her position at the school where she works. Although, it’s probably not much of a threat at this point. Something like this is bound to blow up sooner or later. Camila is destined to lose her job.”
“Ooh!” Georgie claps her hands. “It’s Camila I-Want-All-My-Exes-Back Ryder.”
Mackenzie nods her way. “You got that right.” She reverts those dark eyes my way. “What is it, Bizzy? What do you have on her? I’ll make sure it blows up sooner than later.”
“No. We can’t cause her to lose her job. I don’t want that hanging over my head.”
Georgie gives a slow nod. “Bad juju.”
Mackenzie smirks. “I don’t believe in juju. But have it your way. I’ll make the threat myself.”
“She’ll know I told you.”
“She won’t,” Mack insists. “You said this would blow up. That means it’s inevitable. And if it’s inevitable, that means you’re not the only one privy to this, Bizzy Baker. In fact, I’m betting a little internet digging will lead me right where I need to be.”
Mack gasps with delight. “Don’t you worry, Bizzy. Camila Ryder is already in the rearview mirror. Nobody messes with me.” She wrinkles her nose over at me. “With us. See you at the cookie exchange tomorrow.” Mack ducks back into the restaurant before I can protest. Hopefully, she won’t find a thing.
Just as Georgie and I are about to head off to the parking lot, I glance across the street and it feels as if the heavens burst open and an entire angelic choir is about to sing the killer’s name.
I link arms with Georgie as we make a mad dash in that direction.
“Where are we going?” she hollers up above the rush of wind.
“To the City Limits Bar and Grill,” I shout back. “I think I need a drink.” And to have a few words with Trixie Jolly-Golightly.
Inside, the City Limits Bar and Grill holds the scent of oily French fries and overpriced beer.
It’s nearly pitch dark in here, save for the candles dotting the tables in the expansive room to our left. To the right there’s a sign that reads this way to the bar and that’s exactly where I drag Georgie.
Georgie gives a maniacal laugh. “This night just gets better and better. Who knew hanging out with you would be such a hoot? Blackmail, deceit, and knocking back shots at the bar. I’ll have to tell Macy we were wrong. You’re not uptight and high-strung. You’re a pretty cool chick after all.”
“Nice to know you and Macy think so highly of me.” I crane my neck, trying to see past the tangle of bodies up front, and sure enough I spot a long blonde ponytail and head that way. “This is a suspect, Georgie. So just play along,” I whisper.
“Oh, I’m playing this homicidal fiddle until the killer comes home, Bizzy. Do I get to say book ’em?”
“Not quite yet.” I grimace over at her just as we hit the long, expansive bar with a cushioned vinyl wraparound. I suppose in the event one of their patrons passes out, they won’t crack their head open.
Trixie Jolly-Golightly is seated at the end, and there are a slew of barstools free to her right. A barrel-chested man heads her way, and I race him to the seat next to her and make wild eyes at him until he holds up his hands and walks in the opposite direction.
I land in the seat next to Trixie, and Georgie sits by my side—hopefully, a safe distance away from the suspect at hand, but with Georgie it might still be far too close. Heck, having her back in Cider Cove might be far too close.
I look over at Trixie, but she’s not paying me any mind. She’s too busy hovering over a glass of brown liquor.
“Men,” I huff in a rather lame attempt to garner her attention.
Her shoulders slump just a little bit more as she takes a sip of her drink.
The bartender heads our way, an older gentleman with a greasy handlebar mustache, and I’m starting to wonder if this is one of those theme restaurants.
“What’s it going to be, ladies?” His voice is gruff, yet friendly.
Georgie leans over the bar. “Hey, hot stuff. What’s the special?”
“The special?” I practically mouth her way.
He gives a husky laugh in Georgie’s direction. “Hey, hot stuff yourself. Special tonight is hot buttered rum punch.”
Georgie belts out a moan that sounds as if she’s lost in ecstasy.
Good grief, woman. I’m tempted to smack her. Rein it in.
“We’ll take two.” I lean in and whisper, “Make mine a virgin. I’m driving.”
Georgie lifts a finger as he starts to take off. “I’m no virgin. I can prove it to you, if you like.” She gives a heavy wink his way, and it takes a lot of self-control for me not to chuckle or vomit. Not only is Georgie one of my favorite people, I think of her like my grandmother—my rather virginal grandmother.
I look over at Trixie and do an exaggerated double take in her direction.
“Hey! I think I recognize you.” Okay, so my acting chops could use a little polishing, but I’m not in this for an Oscar. A guilty verdict will do nicely.
The older blonde perks right up. Her affect brightens as she looks right at me. She’s pretty in a made up doll sort of way. With those long, exaggerated lashes and those hot pink lips, there’s a bit of a cartoonish appeal about her.
She leans in. “Did you see Jane and Tarzan’s Big Adventure in LaLa Land?”
“Excuse me?” I inch back, trying to digest the idea. “Oh, um, no, actually. What is that?”
She waves me off, her affect falling once again. “A movie I did in my twenties. Don’t worry, honey. You weren’t the only one who missed it.” She takes another sip of the brown sludge in front of her. “Were you a waitress at Teasers Gentlemen’s Club?”
Georgie gasps, “Were you, Bizzy? Were you?”
I shoot my older counterpart a look, but before I can instill an iota of fear in Georgie, the friendly bartender is back with our drinks and flirting heavily with her.
“No,” I say to Trixie. “I wasn’t a waitress there. I actually remember you from the other night on Candy Cane Lane. I was walking with my boyfriend and we came upon that horrible scene. How are you doing?”
Her expression sours in an instant. “Oh, that.” She pushes her drink away. “Lincoln Brooks was my boyfriend. And he’s dead and gone like yesterday’s news. That’s what happens when you get old. You die.” Only he wasn’t all that old—and I doubt it was his time to die.
“So he died of natural causes?” I shake my head because I can’t maintain the disbelief. Unless, of course, she doesn’t know the truth, and that might be the case.
“It depends. Would you call death by antifreeze and oleander natural?”
“Wha
t?” It squawks out of me so loud I sound like a chicken with the threat of having its feathers plucked out. I knew about the antifreeze, but oleander? “Is that what the sheriff’s department said?”
She hikes a brow. “It’s what I said. Trust me. I have it on good authority.”
“Oleander, huh?” No sooner do I get the words out than Georgie slaps her hand down in front of me.
“I knew it!” Georgie leans in hard. “It’s those bushes in front of that creepy Santa’s place across the street. I bet they did it, Bizzy. It’s always the ex-wife. Song as old as time. It’s clear this woman is innocent.”
“Kill me.” I close my eyes an inordinate amount of time. Note to self: Never bring Georgie along while investigating a suspect again.
Trixie slaps the bar in front of me as well. “I think the old beady-eyed witch did it, too!” Her own eyes are wild with delight and I try to pry into her mind, but it’s gone to static. She’s either deliberately hiding something or she’s genuinely excited at the thought of nailing Mary Beth to a homicide. “I told Lincoln for years he had better watch his back.” She takes a moment to point my way. “Nothing good comes from living across the street from your ex. You can quote me on that.”
Georgie shakes her head. “Bizzy isn’t a reporter. She’s an innkeeper. She works down at the Country Cottage Inn at the edge of Cider Cove. You should come visit sometime.”
Perfect. And if Trixie is the killer, she’ll know exactly where to deliver a special drink mixed just for me.
Trixie nods over at Georgie as if she appreciated the invitation. “I might just do that. You’ve got that cute little café and that white powder beach right outside the facility. I’ve been there a few times. Lincoln used to take me. He always took me to nice places. I already miss that.” And not much else, but I’ll keep the commentary to myself.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say.
She flicks her wrist. “Don’t be. We weren’t getting along toward the end anyhow. I mean, don’t get me wrong. He could be a sweet prince when he wanted to be. But, most of the time he played the part of the wicked king.”
“Don’t they all,” Georgie groans. “Preach it, sister.”
Trixie leans over and gives her a high five, and suddenly I feel like a third wheel while they bond over booze and bad boyfriends.
“So the ex-wife”—I start—“is that who you think did it?”
Trixie gives a slow, rather convincing nod. “Oh, hon, I’ve seen them war it out over a misplaced box of tissues. They could summon World War Three over just about anything. And that new husband of hers was a beaut. Sometimes I’d wonder who was more obsessed with Lincoln, Mary Beth or Dexter.”
“What do they do for a living?” I ask. “Do you know?”
The bartender slides another drink Trixie’s way and she happily accepts it.
Her hot pink lips twitch. “She’s a busybody. PTA, HOA—you know the type. They live to make you crazy. But I don’t think she leaves that house to punch a time card. And he owns Bronson’s Auto Shop out in Edison.”
“Oh my God!” Georgie belts it out as if she just took a bullet. “I bet that’s where the antifreeze came from! I bet they tag-teamed him. The wife crushed the oleander leaves and the husband doused it with antifreeze.”
Trixie gives a wild nod. “Now you’re onto something!”
“No, no,” I say as I sag into my seat. “Everyone in these parts has antifreeze lying around in the garage.” I think on it a moment. “And I’m not entirely sure how rare the oleander bushes are.”
Georgie snorts. “Are you kidding? They’re like weeds. I’ve got ’em on the side of my cottage. Any fool could get their hands on that stuff.”
Trixie lifts a brow. “But any fool didn’t. It was Mary Beth, and I can prove it.”
“How?” both Georgie and I sing in unison.
How this went from an earnest undercover operation to a bumbling musical, I will never know. But I’m betting the delicious hot buttered rum has something to do with it.
Trixie’s chest bucks with a silent laugh. “Good old Mary Beth was having an affair with Lincoln right up until his untimely death.”
My mouth falls open. “How can you be sure?”
She fishes the cherry out of her drink and plucks it off into her mouth. “I caught them in the act.”
“No!” Georgie wails and Trixie is quick to nod her way.
“Yup. In fact, that’s the reason I wouldn’t say yes when he proposed.”
Georgie scoffs. “He proposed?”
Trixie sighs. “He sure did. Got down on one brand new knee and everything. But he just wouldn’t quit messing with his ex. I knew about it for the last solid year. Apparently, they’ve been having a feast of the flesh ever since they parted matrimonial ways. Poor Dexter didn’t know about it. I asked Lincoln to knock it off. He wanted me to quit my side gig of playing the part of arm candy for well-to-do men, but he refused to keep Mary Beth out of his bedroom.” A hearty growl comes from her. “The nerve.”
“Trixie.” I shake my head just enough. “You said you knew about the affair for a year. Why on earth would you stay with him?”
She flashes her red glittery fingernails my way. “I’m what they call high-maintenance. This work of art isn’t going to pay for itself. Lincoln had needs, and I had wants. It was a give-and-take relationship that worked out just fine for us. I think he just wanted to marry me so he could stop making his monthly payment.” She bumps her shoulder to mine. “My time isn’t cheap, honey, and yours shouldn’t be either.”
The thought of charging Jasper cold hard cash to spend time with me makes me cringe.
Georgie snaps her fingers. “Maybe the ex-wife didn’t do it. Maybe Dexter found out about the affair, and that’s why he was in such a rage that night. A man in a Santa suit doesn’t get riled up over nothing.”
Trixie moans at the thought as she shakes her head. “I don’t know. Dex was pretty angry. I mean, he just raced across the street like a bullet and went straight for Lincoln. But it was Mary Beth who was dealing with the refreshments.” So was I, but I’m keeping that tidbit to myself. The last thing I need is the Seaview Sheriff’s Department knocking down my door. The man is dead. I don’t want to think about him or what he cost me.
I swallow hard. “Have you made peace—you know, with his passing?”
She takes a breath. “No, but I will soon enough.” In exactly twenty-four hours when that will of his is unleashed. I’m in it, and I can’t wait to get my hands on what’s mine. She lifts her drink. “To Lincoln Brooks. May he rest in peace.” And may I get every last piece of his fortune he left behind.
We button up our visit with Trixie, and I let her know all about the Let It Snow charity event at the Country Cottage Inn on Saturday night. I even go as far as letting her know she can have a free ticket.
“Charity event?” She fans herself with her glittering nails. “Why, an event like that is liable to bring out all sorts of wealthy men. Count me in, honey. I’ll be there with my jingle bells on.”
“Perfect,” I tell her. “We’ll see you then.”
Georgie and I set out to leave but not before Georgie gets the bartender’s number.
“She shoots, she scores!” Georgie wags her phone at me as we make our way through the bitter cold night to the parking lot across the street.
“I scored, too,” I say as we hop into my car and head toward Cider Cove.
All the way home I think about Mary Beth Bronson and those oleander bushes.
Chapter Thirteen
If there’s one thing that I look forward to as the manager of the Country Cottage Inn, it’s the fact each year the inn plays host to the official Cider Cove cookie exchange.
The scent of cookies in every one of its delicious configurations lights up the air, and it’s a sugary delight to all of my senses.
All of my life I’ve had an intense yearning to bake. Just the thought of mixing, measuring, sifting, pouring delicious batte
r into pans, and baking a sweet treat has thrilled me. And, truth be told, that’s about as far as I can get in the endeavor before everything goes south. I either undercook, overcook, or char to an unrecognizable crisp everything I dare put in the oven. Thankfully, Emmie has shared my yearning to bake and was lucky enough to carry out the endeavor with the expert ease of a Parisian pastry chef. Eventually, I accepted my lot in the kitchen and have worked with Emmie on perfecting recipes that she could bring to life in a way that the human palate can more than appreciate them. Like, for example, the gingerbread whoopie pies. After hours of tweaking the recipe, we finally agreed on the finished product. Which, if I do say so myself, is absolute glorious perfection.
And that brings me right back to the cookie exchange. The inn is bustling with women as they hurry and shuttle in their delectable desserts to the inn’s formal dining room, where we have tables laden with every baked good under the rarely seen winter sun. Cheery Christmas carols belt from the speakers as the sound of happy chattering and intermittent bursts of laughter fill the air. Just about everyone here has donned a Christmas sweater with an emblem of the season represented over the front. But this is no ugly sweater party. This is the real deal. And each sweater is worn with pride. Most of these sweaters are classic treasures that are resurrected each Christmas season to be worn to a special event much like this one. And each year I get a kick out of seeing how many sweaters I can remember from the year before.
Emmie and the rest of the kitchen staff worked overtime to make sure we had more than enough gingerbread whoopie pies to participate in today’s festivities. And both my mother and Georgie baked up a storm of their own and brought their offerings to the dessert table. The exchange is well underway as women walk around filling platters with a mix of every sweet treat laid out before them, so I step back out to the front counter to help direct the foot traffic of those still streaming inside.
The inn looks resplendent with Christmas trees strewn with white twinkle lights in every room. There’s one in the entry just past the foyer that stands twelve feet tall and is festooned with giant cherry red bows. An animatronic angel sits on top whose wings move smoothly in and out. Each feathered wing is covered in fiber optic lights that give it an enchanted like appeal. Just this morning, Jordy set out the nativity scene at the base of the tree and guests haven’t stopped taking pictures of it. The rest of the inn is covered with garland and twinkle lights everywhere you look, and even the long marble counter is dotted with red poinsettias.
Santa Claws Calamity (Country Cottage Mysteries Book 3) Page 11