Murder Under the Mistletoe
A Bite-sized Bakery Cozy Mystery Book 5
Rosie A. Point
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
More for you…
Thank you, Reader!
Also by Rosie A. Point
Copyright Rosie A. Point 2019.
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1
If there was one thing I wanted to avoid this holiday season, it was murder.
Well, surely, everyone wanted to avoid murder in general, but after the past few months Bee and I had had on the Bite-sized Bakery food truck, it was a valid wish.
Since we’d arrived in Carmel Springs, Maine, we’d investigated not one, not two, but a total of four murders! Some of the investigations had been out of necessity and others because we’d fallen into the trap of wanting to know more.
Curiosity killed the cat. So far, the satisfaction hadn’t brought anything but the icy weather inclement.
Bee hummed under her breath on the truck beside me, wearing a Santa Claus hat with a bell on the end. It was our last day on the truck for the year, but only because there was a Northeaster on the way, and the locals had warned us that staying out here was more than foolish. Potentially life-threatening.
“Can you believe Christmas is only a few weeks away?” Bee asked as she prepared us each a cup of scalding hot coffee. “The year has flown. Thanksgiving is over. We’ve gotten to know everyone in this town, and I just can’t…”
“What?”
“Nothing, I just realized what I what I sounded like,” Bee said, showing me her signature gap-toothed grin. “I’m not an emotional person. It seems like Carmel Springs has softened me up. There must be something in the water.”
“Or the lobster.”
“Or that,” she said and rubbed her gloved hands together. “Good heavens, it’s like the air is ice out here.”
“Do you want to call it a day?”
“We haven’t even had our first customer yet, Rubes,” she replied. “Are you all right? Feeling ill?”
“I’m fine. Just not used to the cold.” And I had a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was bound to go wrong soon. We’d had lovely peace and quiet ever since Thanksgiving. There had been no murders, crimes or investigations.
As much as I loved investigating them—that came with the territory after having been an investigative journalist—I would definitely have preferred that no one in town was harmed.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” Bee asked, narrowing one hazel eye at me.
“I’ve got the tingles,” I said.
“Hmm. Care to elaborate?”
“The investigative tingles.”
“Meaning what?”
“That I feel like something’s on the horizon. Something big.”
“Well,” Bee said, “that’s because there is something big on the horizon, Rubes.” She paused for effect spreading her hands. “Christmas! And our Christmas party. As for anything else, I think the lack of sun is getting to you.”
She was right about that. The sky was a dull gray and the ocean was dark, the beach empty. The hours had grown longer as we approached the thick of winter. Maybe my apprehension was more to do with that and having to leave the wonderful Oceanside Guesthouse that we’d called home for so long.
The folks here had finally accepted us, and now we were going to leave on our next great baking adventure.
“Good morning.” Millie’s warm greeting cut across my negative thoughts. She pottered into view, wearing a thick coat and a pair of matching woolen gloves. “You two are brave coming out here. I don’t think you’ll be getting many customers on a morning like this. Ice in the air, ice in the veins.”
“Agree,” I said. “I was just thinking we should call it a morning.”
“Mind if I get one of your candy cane cupcakes and a cup of hot coffee before you do?” Millie asked, removing the newspaper from under her arm.
“Coming right up,” Bee said, and set to work getting Millie’s order together.
“Is that the newest issue of the paper?” I asked.
Millie waved the local paper around then slapped it down on the food truck’s side counter. “That’s right. This one’s great. My writers worked extra hard and I appreciate that, given that it’s Christmas time. It sure makes my job easier.” As the editor of the newspaper, Millie had her ear to the ground at all times. She was a great friend and resource.
Listen to me. I can’t stop thinking in investigative terms. Good heavens, it’s Christmas. I need to relax.
“Anything interesting happening for Christmas?” I asked.
“Oh, well, let me see,” Millie said, opening the newspaper and laying it flat. The scents of roasted coffee drifted through the air, mingling with the cold bite of salt off the ocean. “There’s the local carolers group looking for new members.”
“Hard pass,” Bee said. “In this weather? They must have a death wish.”
“Ooh, don’t say that.” I grimaced.
Bee rolled her eyes at me.
“Let’s see, what else. Ah yes,” Millie said, fumbling to turn pages with her gloved fingers. “Mayor Jacobsen was recently re-elected.”
“He was?”
“Yes, in November. Hotly contested too. It was the first time in years he had a competitor for the post,” Millie said, “and that made things interesting and fun too. He actually looked nervous about finding out the results. So, he’s having somewhat of a celebration for it. Though, I don’t know if you could call the Christmas tree lighting a celebration.”
“Oh, I heard about that,” I said. “They’re doing that tomorrow night.”
“Yeah,” Millie replied. “Everyone’s going to be there. Though, I think most of them are going to see if anything happens.”
“What do you mean?” Bee handed over the candy cane cupcake and cup.
Millie took a sip of coffee and smacked her lips. “Well, everyone’s heard that the Babcock’s on the prowl.”
“I’m sorry, the…?”
“The Babcock,” Millie said, somewhat mysteriously, with a wriggle of her silver eyebrows.
“Is that some type of mythical creature native to Maine?” Bee asked.
“Oh, no, no. Everyone knows that if there was a mythical creature, it would be a lobster-eating sea monster, not a land-dwelling creature,” Millie replied, and took a bite of her cupcake. She chewed slowly, clearly enjoying the growing suspense.
“Who is the Babcock?” I asked.
“Or what?”
“It’s a ‘who,’” Millie replied. “A ‘him’ to be more specific. He’s the local butcher, Clayton Babcock. Everyone calls him ‘the Babcock’ because he’s such a force to be reckoned with. And he thought he was too when he went up against Jacobsen for the position of mayor. But he didn’t win.”
“What’s any of this got to do with the lighting of the Christmas tree?” Bee’s brow wrinkled.
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br /> “Apparently, the Babcock is furious that he didn’t get elected. He believes that there was some fiddling with the votes,” Millie continued, “which is patent nonsense, of course. Everyone knows that the votes are counted electronically. We had a new system installed the year before on Mayor Jacobsen’s urging.”
Millie took another bite of her cupcake and chewed. “The Babcock,” she said, “threatened to chop down the Christmas tree because of his displeasure. The man really believes that laws don’t apply to him. I have it on good authority that a few police officers had to attend to a disturbance at the butcher’s shop a few days ago because he was making so much noise about it.”
“Do you think he’ll do something like that?” Bee asked. “Chop down the tree?”
“No one knows,” Millie said. “But if he does, you can bet your bottom dollar I’m going to be there to see it.”
“Count us in.” Bee clapped her hands together. “Ruby needs something to cheer her up.”
“Oh no, why? What’s wrong?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. I’ve just got the strangest feeling that something’s going to go wrong. Maybe I’m being paranoid.”
“Or you’re predicting the untimely demise of the Christmas tree tomorrow night,” Millie said, her sharp blue eyes glimmering. “I’ll see you then, ladies.” She waved goodbye and carried her cupcake and coffee back to her car. She left behind the newspaper.
I picked it up. The black and white picture of the decorated Christmas tree was front and center, Mayor Jacobsen standing next to it, grinning from ear-to-ear, his belly straining against a smart black coat. “Come on, Bee. Let’s close up and go have a cup of cocoa.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“I didn’t ask,” I said, quizzically.
“Oh, you know what I mean.” Bee whistled as she helped close up the truck, infected by the Christmas spirit. I wished I could’ve felt the same.
2
The evening of the tree lighting had arrived and we gathered in front of the town hall, shoulder-to-shoulder. I hugged my coat to my chest and rubbed my gloved hands over my arms. It was cold as could be, and the breaths misted in front of the faces of the crowd members.
Practically everyone in Carmel Springs had turned out for the event and had gathered in front of a raised podium. Behind it, shrouded in darkness by the clouded sky, sat the shadowy shape of the Christmas tree.
“What time is it supposed to start?” Bee asked, her teeth chattering.
Sam, the owner of the Oceanside Guesthouse, brought her phone out and checked the time. “It was due to start over a half an hour ago. I wonder what’s going on.”
The light from the lamps on the other side of the street provided some illumination, but the area in front of the town hall had been left mostly in darkness, so the lighting would draw the maximum amount of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ from the crowd.
I stamped my feet in my ankle boots and peered around. All the usual ‘suspects’ had turned up to witness the lighting of the Christmas tree—holiday celebrations were an important part of life in Carmel Springs.
There was Millie, the editor of the local paper, her gray hair pulled up into a bun, and her cheeks pink from the cold. Ava, Mayor Jacobsen’s wife, stood closer to the front, occasionally frowning and checking her phone. Benjamin Pelletier, the owner of the Lobster Shack, paunchy, tan and graying, kept making loud remarks about how late it was getting.
“C’mon, hurry it up. It’s freezin’ out here,” he called.
Seeing him reminded me of Owen, his nephew, who’d lost his life months ago. Poor Owen—he’d had his problems, as far as our investigation had discovered, but no one deserved death by lobster mallet.
Goodness, it was so strange—I’d gotten to know the people in this town over the past few months. I was more at home in Carmel Springs than I’d been in New York, for heaven’s sake. These people were friends and family to me. Sam in particular.
I rubbed my gloves together again. “Now, I’m not usually one to side with Benjamin Pelletier,” I said, “but he’s got a point. It’s freezing.”
“And getting late,” Bee put in.
“Maybe we should find out what’s going on from Ava?” Sam gestured to the mayor’s wife.
The woman, who had blonde, wispy hair tied back in a low ponytail, appeared glued to her phone. Not even a tap on the shoulder seemed likely to disturb her. Folks these days were obsessed with technology.
A smattering of applause rang out as a figure proceeded to the podium carrying an old-timey lantern, flame steady. He placed it on the wooden lectern’s surface and light spilled over his face. Immediately, the gossiping and whispering began.
It wasn’t Mayor Jacobsen.
It was another man—one I didn’t recognize. He was handsome and young, with thick, curly ginger hair and a broad smile. His eyes were quite far apart and sparkled by the light of his lantern. “Settle down, settle down,” he said, patting the air.
“Who’s that?” I whispered.
Sam opened her mouth to answer, but the new guy patted the microphone and it let out a horrendous squeal. Everyone yelped or groaned.
“Some of you know me already, but for those of you who don’t, the name’s Babcock. Clayton Babcock.”
“That’ the Babcock Millie was telling us about?” I asked.
“Seems like it,” Bee replied. “Heavens, I was expecting someone of mythical proportions. Like Goliath.”
A few hisses sounded behind us as people listened in on what this Babcock guy had to say. Odd, really, that he was here after Millie had told us he’d ruin the celebration out of jealousy.
“Now, I know you’re all excited to get this tree lighting under way,” the Babcock said, that grin hardly shifting. It was remarkable he could get the words out past those sparkling white teeth. “And y’all have been very patient already. But here’s the thing. Mayor Jacobsen isn’t here yet.”
Another round of groans and griping started up.
“I can’t stand here another minute,” Benjamin shouted. “It’s too cold. I’m freezing my toes off.”
“Don’t worry about it,” the Babcock said, with another winning grin. “I’m here to do the tree lighting ceremony myself.”
“But he’s not the mayor,” Sam whispered. “Where’s the mayor?”
“Unfortunately, we can’t wait any longer.” Babcock spread his arms, as if to welcome us all to his party. “So, let’s get this started. I wanted to thank you all for being here today. Christmas is a special time for most families, and in Carmel Springs, that’s especially true. We’re a community, and Christmas is to be celebrated and enjoyed with each other.”
The crowd had fallen silent again but folks stamped their feet and rubbed their arms. I joined in. It seemed as if this Mr. Babcock liked the sound of his own voice.
“If the carolers would step up, please,” Babcock said, gesturing to the bleachers that had been erected next to his podium.
The caroling choir took their positions, most of them with festive scarves wrapped around their necks.
“And now, it’s my great pleasure to light the Carmel Springs Christmas tree!” Babcock hit a switch on the lectern.
The choir took up ‘Away in a Manger.’ Strings of lights flickered on in the magnificent Christmas tree, all in shades of whites and reds and blues, greens and yellows and—
A scream cut through the noise.
One of the carolers, standing on the uppermost tier of the bleachers, slapped her hands to her cheeks. She shook her head, wide-eyed, staring at the Christmas tree. She screamed a second time and then a third, and I turned, searching for what had spooked her.
“Oh no,” I whispered. “Not again.”
Right there, tucked away under the Christmas tree, lay Mayor Jacobsen, his eyes wide and staring, and a string of lights wrapped around his neck.
“What’s going on?” Sam asked, rising up on tiptoe as more screams broke out. “Is everything—?” Sam s
potted the mayor’s body and screeched.
“Don’t look,” I said.
Panic took hold in the crowd—people yelled, pushed, ran this way and that, and a stampede started. I grabbed Sam and Bee’s arms, and we formed a chain, hurrying backward and away from the struggle.
“This is terrible,” Sam said. “The poor mayor.”
Bee nodded, pale in the face. “I wonder who did it.”
3
Nothing dampened the Christmas spirit quite like murder. The crowds had continued screeching and freaking out right up until the police had rolled up in their cruisers. Everyone had been separated and the scene had been cordoned off.
There were too many suspects to be interviewed at once, so the officers had taken everyone’s names for later follow-ups. Sam, Bee and I stomped up the front steps of the Oceanside Guesthouse in silence, the icy temperature frosting our breaths.
Sam unlocked, and we bundled into the warm entry hall, shutting the door behind us.
“Terrible,” Sam said, faintly, as she stripped off her gloves. “Just terrible. I can’t believe poor Mayor Jacobsen is dead.”
“And in such a horrible way too.”
We hadn’t known Mayor Jacobsen all that well, but it was upsetting to think that it had happened to him. He’d come over to the guesthouse around Halloween and had been complimentary to Sam on her food and decorations. He’d seemed a nice enough guy. And now, he was gone.
“Another murder in Carmel Springs,” Bee said, shaking her head.
“Who would do something like this?” Sam asked. “I don’t understand why anyone would hurt the mayor. He was a good man.”
Murder Under the Mistletoe (A Bite-sized Bakery Cozy Mystery Book 5) Page 1