by Laura Quinn
Between that account, their own eye witness accounts, interviews and endless commentary from bystanders, the Mystery Mavens uncovered a full narrative of the unfolding of the last few days. Don Jr., or Donny the graduate journalism student, as he was known to Peggy, had flown in from South Africa Thursday morning with a large hunting trophy consigned by one of his father’s clients. He was looking forward to a huge payday for the smuggling job, until he found out that his father was killed. Fearing for his own safety, he needed to get more information without going to the police.
The greatest source turned out to be Peggy, who was telling all her Christkindlmarkt customers about the investigation her boss was conducting. After being let go following the confrontation at the wake, Don Jr. felt emboldened. The police didn’t have any evidence against his father, just speculations. He broke into the antique shop and began entering all his father’s typed notes and contacts into his laptop. When he heard the policeman talking to Claire outside the shop, he snuck out the back door and watched as boxes of evidence, and profit, were removed from the business. That’s when he knew he had to take out Claire, who he blamed for the death of his father and the ruin of their lucrative business.
The flyer he picked up at Winter Fest provided the perfect opportunity. He would kill Santa, then disappear in his partner’s waiting car. With all the commotion, the police would be delayed long enough to get away.
“Not a well-conceived plot,” Marti concluded.
“What he didn’t count on was that Santa’s black belt was actually a black belt,” Bob said, repeating his popular headline.
“For once, she did something practical in response to her superstitions,” Marti said. “She said she’s been training since she found our murder board last summer.”
Claire again shuddered to think what would have happened, had Peggy not taken her place at the last minute. She focused on something else, asking, “When are the police going to drop the charges against Delilah?”
“You know our district attorney, he likes to move very cautiously,” Marti said. “He still has a good case against Delilah, if Don Jr. can produce the evidence he claims.”
“As violent as he is, there still isn’t much of a motive to kill his father,” Bob said. “Since his father wasn’t legally married to Delilah, he won’t inherit anything from that relationship.”
“What if Delilah found out about the con?” Marti proposed. “We’re taking her word that this is all new to her. Maybe she fainted at the funeral because she knew who Don Jr. was and feared it would all come out publicly.”
“What’s wrong with you two? Hasn’t she been through enough?” Claire said, more sharply than she intended. Baron jumped on the couch next to her. “I’m sorry, I guess I’m just tired.”
“No one knows what she’s been through, or what she’s capable of,” Bob said. “I mean, you hear stories like this all the time. Imagine what it does to someone who bottles it inside for years.”
“That’s just it, I know all too well,” Claire said. Her friends looked at her in surprise. She told them of her college roommate, Maggie, who was engaged to an abusive man. “It started slowly, a pattern of verbal attacks and apologies, as he worked to isolate her from friends and family. By the time it escalated to physical abuse, she knew she either had to suffer a lifetime in silence or escape.”
“You never told me about her,” Marti said. “How awful. Thank goodness you were there for her.”
“I wasn’t. She was too ashamed to even tell the people closest to her; she just ran away from the situation,” Claire said. “She never would have had the confidence to stand up to him, let alone kill him. His years of grooming took their toll.”
“I can’t imagine having to witness that,” Marti said and hugged her friend. “Now I understand why this is so important to you. We won’t let Delilah slip away as Maggie did.”
“Yes, we’ll get to the bottom of this,” Bob promised.
The trio updated their murder board with the developments and new suspects. Claire called Lula for permission to look in the antique store again, hoping to find something the police missed. She was still convinced there was a connection to Ruth that was being overlooked. It was after eleven o’clock when the friends departed, with Marti and Bob each carrying a sleeping beagle.
Although she was dead tired herself, Claire tossed in her bed. No matter how she tried to forget it, the frightening firetruck scene replayed over and over in her mind. She sat up and Googled self-defense trainers, planning to book a class to train herself and her staff to protect themselves. Her resolve flickered slightly when she found the closest option to be Tonelli’s gym. Before she could wimp out, she clicked the “reserve consultation appointment” option for seven o’clock the following morning. She reassured herself it would be fine, saying aloud, “Afterall, it’s not like she’s going to kill me.”
Chapter 18
Monday, December 18th
Pulling into the packed parking lot of Tonelli’s Gym, Claire was beginning to lose her nerve. Last time she entered the neon-and-chrome fitness oasis, Jill Tonelli wanted to clobber her with a free-weight. Steeling herself, she walked in and scanned the room cautiously.
To her relief, the vengeful bodybuilder was nowhere in sight. A fit young woman in purple spandex greeted Claire at the front desk and introduced her to Miche, the self-defense trainer.
“Did you really out Jill for faking the nutrition labels on her snack line?” Miche asked.
“I’m not sure if I should answer that without body armor,” Claire answered, only half-joking.
The trainer high-fived the baker. “You’re a legend around here! Thanks to you, she high-tailed it out to L.A., where people don’t know about the scandal. Morale has been so much better in her absence.”
As gratitude, Miche gave her a free twenty-minute session to give her a head-start on self-defense. As her legs throbbed from the workout, Claire wondered if the gift wasn’t actually retribution, but thanked her and scheduled a time to come to the shop for a training session with Barbara, Peggy, Marti and herself. After the New Year, she would hire her for another session, with the teens.
She struggled to step up into her car and still felt wobbly when she got out again to pick up Baron from home.
Barbara was already helping customers when Claire and Baron arrived. With the explosion of social media attention due to Peggy’s actions, the shop was busy with many new customers. Because of that incident, Claire had insisted that Peggy take the week off, with pay, to recover.
In the midst of the busy day, Claire’s phone buzzed. Ed’s name flashed on the screen and she hit decline. A minute later, Barbara answered the shop’s phone. Claire tried to shake her head that she wasn’t there, but a customer calling her name nixed that plan.
“Hey, Ed, I can’t really talk now; it’s pretty crazy here,” Claire said.
“I just wanted to check that you’re okay. I heard what happened yesterday.”
“Yup, I’m fine. Look, it’s really busy here, I’ve got to go.” She pretended to be called away and hung up while he was still talking, hoping he would finally take the hint she wasn’t interested in him.
Barbara smiled at her. “I hope you don’t mind my saying, I’m glad you’re over him. He reminded me of a lieutenant that served under my late husband; thought he was God’s gift to women. He was shallow as a saucer, as my mother would say.”
“I’m embarrassed to say that Ed reminded me of someone I had a crush on, but the similarity was very superficial.”
A new customer walked up to the counter with her basket. “Been there, done that. My ex-husband was the spitting image of Pierce Brosnan,” she said. “I should have listened to Judge Judy when she said beauty fades, but dumb is forever.”
Later, she answered a joint call from Bob and Marti. Claire took the opportunity to walk Baron while she listened to the story of Don Jr.’s breaking down after spending the night in jail. He offered to give details and
testify against the smuggling ring’s leaders, but only with an immunity deal.
“They’ll never waive a murder charge,” Marti predicted.
“He still insists that Delilah is the murder,” Bob said. “Apparently, her sister offered his father fifty thousand dollars to leave the sham marriage and…”
“Oh, come on,” Marti interrupted. “If she knew about it, why wouldn’t she simply tell Delilah?” Marti interrupted.
“He claims Tallulah wanted to spare her sister from the shame and his father was happy to comply, with a stipulation,” Bob explained. “Donald took a hefty down payment, but insisted upon staying a few more weeks to wrap up a big score. Don Jr. said he didn’t know what it was, just that his dad called it ‘Operation Hoot’ and was waiting for some very big fish to bite.”
“Operation Hoot?” Marti cackled. “Give me a break.”
Bob ended his summation with good news. “My source says Chief Pete prefers to pin the murder on the son, as he is an outsider, has a rap sheet and was in cahoots with his con-artist father.”
“Hoot, hoot, hoot,” Claire mused aloud. Baron turned his head and listened to the strange words. “Why does that sound so familiar?” she asked.
“Give a hoot, don’t pollute,” Marti said. “Remember when we earned those T-shirts in grade school after cleaning up the lakeshore?”
“Yes, with the orange owl…the owl! That’s it. Gotta go. I’ll call you back.” Claire ran back to the shop, but couldn’t immediately act upon her suspicion that a gaudy contest entry might just hold a clue.
With the constant flow of customers, Claire sent an email to Marti instead. She explained that they needed to match the owners’ names to the entries and attached a photo of the prize winners and logbook scans from her phone. The owl was in the dead center of the photo.
Thirty minutes later, Marti texted that her interns had matched all the entries to their owners in the logs, except the owl. Claire looked at the scanned sheets on her phone and saw that the last name in Delilah’s handwriting was Deloris Dill’s. She called Marti from the back room.
“I knew it – the owl was Ruth’s,” Claire said as soon as her friend answered. “Dill Pickle’s entry is at the bottom of the page. The next page was typed by Donald and doesn’t show Betty’s entry of Ruth’s piece. I knew this was a phony recreation.”
“So, the owl belonged to Ruth, which means we were right, the deaths are connected.”
“Now, we just need to figure out how and why,” Claire said. Marti hung up to call Bob to see what he knew about the coffee-colored ceramic piece.
Something sparked in Claire’s mind, but the group of customers waiting took precedence. While one of the customers agonized over the best treats to give to his boss’s dog, Claire surreptitiously texted Lula to see if she knew anything about the owl statue. Her reply said she didn’t, but would be over in a few hours to look. Barbara politely reminded Claire that several catering orders were due this week, refocusing the amateur detective to her actual job. She updated the murder board with the new facts and propped it on her desk for later.
As the baker crossed off order after order from her list, boxes overflowed the refrigerator, freezer and counters. With Barbara gone for lunch, Claire wrote notes of who was to pick up what and when. Baron barked when his friend Helen arrived for her large order of gift baskets for clients. Claire stacked them on the counter and waved her over.
“Thank you for that extravagant box of champagne you sent,” Claire said to the rental shop owner. “I’ll have a very bubbly holiday season.”
“It’s the least I could do, considering all the business you’ve sent my way. I’m just sorry it’s not as special as what my other customers are getting, but I can hardly buy you your own treats.”
“Speaking of which, I have everything ready for you here. I wish I could help you carry them out, but I’m alone right now.”
“You poor thing. Do you need a break? I can manage the counter.”
“You would be a lifesaver if you could take Baron out. He’s been confined to very short breaks and is probably going stir crazy.”
“I’m happy to do that.” Helen put on his leash and walked with him out the front door so he could mingle with his many friends along the busy plaza.
Claire helped several customers before she realized how long her furry son was gone. A group of new customers came in, talking about the most beautiful dog and they hoped he was headed to the shop. Soon after, the handsome Baron pranced in with Helen. Claire took over the leash, introducing him to his latest fans.
“Oh my God, he’s like a big cuddly bear,” one young lady said.
“No, he looks like a regal lion, look at that mane!” her friend said.
“He’s the most stunning dog I’ve ever seen,” another said. “Can I take a selfie with him?”
As Baron obliged his admirers, Helen began ferrying the Posh Pup boxes to her truck. When she returned, she thanked the shop owner for all the custom work on her gift boxes. “My VIP and celebrity clients will accept nothing less,” she announced to the crowd.
The new group swarmed the counter to pick out their own VIP gifts. Baron retired to his bed and Claire had just enough time to pull out a selection of Helen’s dog’s favorites.
“For Pixie, courtesy of Baron,” Claire said.
Barbara came in as Helen left, followed by Traci Bancroft. Her emerald ring shone under the holiday lights as she held up two dog coats to compare sizes. Claire shifted a tall stack of orders to get to the tape measure on the counter. When Ed’s voice carried over the wall of boxes, Claire suddenly ducked down and was tempted to crawl to the back room. So much for the take-charge attitude, she realized.
“Of course we’ll win another championship next year,” he said to one person. “No, I don’t think I could run for public office,” he said to another.
Barbara told the popular visitor that Claire was out with Baron, but a growl dispelled that story.
“Oh, she must have just returned,” the manager said unconvincingly.
“Hey, Ed,” Claire said, emerging from behind the orders. “Are you shopping for your aunt?”
“No, I came to see you for myself. You sounded rattled on the phone.”
“Maybe she’s too polite to tell you that she doesn’t want to talk to you,” Traci said, reading Claire’s face. “Fortunately, she has friends who look out for her.”
“I don’t see where this is any of your business,” Ed snapped. He asked to talk with Claire in private.
“Okay, why don’t you come back here.” Claire realized the time had come for the talk she dreaded. In the office, she reiterated that she didn’t see a future for them.
Ed sat down at her desk and shook his head. “I thought we had something.”
“Like I said before, we’re just different people,” she said. “It’s best that we cut it off now.”
“I thought that you were coming to your senses when you said you quit snooping,” he said as he stormed out. “There are plenty of women in this town dying to take your place.”
The entire store stopped to watch the spectacle, until Baron jumped up and woofed.
“Which means good riddance,” Traci translated.
Barbara turned up the holiday music and mingled with the gawking customers to return them to shopping.
Traci placed an overflowing basket on the counter. “Are you really giving up on the investigation?” she asked, looking to see if anyone was listening. “If it weren’t for you, I would have been celebrating Christmas in the slammer. I hear that they have even more evidence against Mrs. Prescott.”
“I’m flying under the radar after another warning from the police,” Claire whispered as she rang up the order.
Traci tapped the side of her nose with a manicured index finger, then leaned in for a follow-up question. “So, what happened with Coach Dreamy? Was it Nick? Sometimes you have to kiss a few frogs before you realize you already found your prince.”
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Claire blinked at the resurgence of Marti’s prediction from the Turkish restaurant, before returning to the present. “Let’s just say that Coach Bishop needs to find a more traditional wife, like 1950s tradition.”
Traci scowled. “Oh, he’s that type.”
“I should have listened to myself; I don’t need a relationship. I’ve got enough in my life now.” Baron jumped up on the counter in a show of solidarity.
“You’re the best gentleman anyway,” Traci said and handed one of the treats from her bag to him.
The afternoon proceeded with a steady flow of customers and Claire was grateful when Emma arrived. She was shadowed by her boyfriend, who wore a tight black sweatshirt, black pants and sunglasses. Emma told him to sit down at the table while she put on her apron in back.
“Don’t worry, Baron is an excellent guard dog,” she called behind her, signaling Claire to follow her.
She whispered to her boss, “I told him Mrs. Prescott hired a security firm to watch the shop, and us, but he doesn’t trust anyone else to watch over me. I think it’s kind of sweet, though I warned him not to cross over to caveman mode. I told him I’m not some damsel in distress and he promised he’s just being cautious.”
“I’m glad to hear he respects you,” Claire said. “We can use the help, anyway. There’s a stack of new orders to pack and I want to restock as much as we can on the floor. Do you think he’d mind?”
“He won’t, but Zac will definitely have a tude. You know how he is, especially with someone as tots muscled as Harry. My brother can be so immature, or maybe it’s a sign of a budding inferiority complex, well probably not that, but his ego can be fragile.”
“Fragile, that’s it!” Claire looked at the owl picture from the paper again. She called Bob to see if he found anything yet about the statue.
The editor couldn’t find any value to the piece, nor did the paper’s art and antique expert. All she could tell him was that she remembered her grandmother had a similar cookie jar.