'Tis the Season to Be Murdered

by Valerie Wolzien

  Susan had opened the car door before the words were out of her friend’s mouth. She ran up the sidewalk to the cheerful building. She pulled open the door, experienced enough in emergency situations to expect to find bedlam within. But the long room was empty.

  Susan heard Kathleen run up behind her. “Wow!” she whispered, peering over her friend’s shoulder. “What a mess!”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Susan said.

  Kathleen had: It looked a lot like Susan’s kitchen the afternoon of a dinner party—times twelve. Every single surface was covered with evidence of food preparation. Kathleen noticed pots of pâté being glazed with some sort of clear brown liquid, beef fillets wrapped with bacon, tiny birds stuffed by the dozen into long pans ready for the oven, cakes, cookies, cheeses, tiny vegetables, so many different things that she didn’t know where to look.

  Susan sniffed.

  “What’s wrong?” Kathleen asked.

  “Something’s burning.”

  “Where?”

  “One of the ovens …,” Susan muttered, heading into the middle of the mayhem.

  “Susan, there are dozens of ovens here,” Kathleen protested.

  “Three per workspace,” Susan agreed. “Don’t open the ones that have soufflés or something that might fall.…” She peered into the closest appliance.

  “We came here to help out Gwen, not help with the cooking.”

  “I can’t let this food burn,” Susan insisted, opening the door of a double wall oven that emitted fabulous spicy scents. “Not this one.” She was heading for the next oven when a door at the back of the room was flung open, and the girl they had seen in Gwen’s office dashed in. She had obviously been crying.

  “Oh! You’re here!” The young woman stopped, but only for a moment. “Something’s burning!” Her freckled nose twitched. “Smells like … oh, shit!” She dashed to the middle of the room and jerked open the correct oven, pulling out a tray of scorched meringues in the same movement. “My meringues!” she wailed, smashing the tray down on a marble counter. “My goddamned, stupid meringues!” She took her fist and smashed each and every one of the pastries.

  Kathleen’s years on the police force had taught her how to deal with hysterical people, and she grasped the woman’s hands. Bits of hot sugar stung her, but she continued to comfort, and in a few minutes, the young woman was calm.

  “Z is dead.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Kathleen explained.

  “Where is everybody?” Susan leaned across her friend’s shoulder to ask.

  “The garage. It’s out back. His body … he was found out there.”

  “Maybe we should get out there,” Susan suggested.

  Tears rolled down the young woman’s cheeks as she nodded her agreement. “I’ll show you.”

  But when they arrived in the brick courtyard behind the carriage house, all they saw was a green, The Holly and Ms. Ivy van filled with helium balloons and surrounded by dozens of people.

  SIX

  Gwen Ivy was standing close to the van, flanked by Hancock’s finest, but she glanced over as the women approached.

  “Everything all right inside?” she called out to her employee.

  “Just some scorched meringues.”

  “Perhaps my chefs could return to the kitchen, Chief Fortesque. There are at least twelve ovens full of food that is going to be ruined unless they do. And people are counting on us to cater their parties.… We wouldn’t want to disappoint them—especially not the mayor’s wife—would we?”

  Brett Fortesque was not only the chief of police but arguably the best-looking single man in town. Now a scowl marred his rugged face. “You’re catering a party for Mayor and Mrs. Logan? Tonight?”

  “Dinner for twelve of their nearest and dearest. I don’t know what Mrs. Logan will do if we don’t show up. You know what she’s like when she thinks something is wrong,” Gwen continued, seeing that she was winning her argument.

  Susan found herself smiling. Brett had entertained her and Jed over dinner one evening with tales of Camilla Logan’s demands on the police department. From Camilla’s request for police protection the night her husband was elected to office (she feared the masses might try to invade her celebration party) onward; Camilla apparently felt the Hancock police department existed to function as a sort of palace guard for the mayor and his wife. Susan knew Brett’s stories were a way of hiding his irritation with the situation. “You know, if she has a bunch of friends coming over and there’s no food, she’s really going to have something to complain about,” Susan reminded him.

  “And you know that murder investigations take precedence over social obligations—even the mayor’s,” Brett said, not returning her smile.

  “Murder. You’re sure?” The question came automatically; she knew Brett wouldn’t say something like that unless he was sure.

  Brett nodded, but didn’t elaborate. “The body’s in the van.”

  Gwen Ivy wasn’t going to be ignored. “My staff needs to continue with their work,” she reminded him. She raised her voice so that she could be heard by everyone in the yard. “Z wouldn’t want his death to destroy the reputation of The Holly and Ms. Ivy—and we are known for our reliability. Besides the fact that we are accomplishing nothing by hanging around out here while the food is burnt to a crisp.”

  “If you’ll just wait a moment,” Brett suggested, walking over to three of his officers and speaking with them in low tones. They nodded and headed back to the main building. Brett returned to Gwen. “Your employees may go on with their work inside, but this is a murder scene and everything that leaves here is going to have to be inspected by my men. And no one is allowed to leave until they have been interviewed. That means some people are going to be around pretty late.…”

  “Then the delivery people had better be interviewed first. They’re going to have to start heading out in all directions. And—let me think—Penny. Yes, Penny, you’re going to have to blow up more balloons and put them in another van to be delivered as soon as the police allow anyone to leave.”

  Gwen Ivy was back in business. Susan watched as the woman organized her staff, making decisions and issuing orders. If there were tears in the eyes of some of her employees, they could see from the expression on their employer’s face that she was on the verge of tears herself. They followed her orders, moving back into the main building quickly. A young woman with blonde curls hanging down to her waist headed into a small building at the back of the property. A uniformed policeman hurried after her. They returned together; the policeman pulling a heavy canister marked helium in block letters behind him, the woman carrying a large cardboard box. Together, they followed the crowd back into the kitchens, leaving Susan, Kathleen, Gwen, and the policemen alone. Everyone waited for Brett to speak.

  And they waited awhile. Brett moved over to one corner and spoke into his two-way radio. Susan took the opportunity to examine the large wreath hanging on the fence that surrounded the courtyard. Apparently Gwen Ivy or one of her minions had discovered an excellent method of attaching freeze-dried roses to balsam.

  “The coroner’s on his way,” Brett announced. “He has trouble getting his car started in cold weather. That’s what happens when there’s no money in the budget to replace old equipment. Maybe you ladies should think about organizing a bake sale or something.”

  Susan just nodded at the suggestion. She had visions of posters all over town: buy a brioche. hancock needs a hearse. She doubted if the cause had the appeal of new uniforms for the junior-high marching band. “The body’s still in the van?” she asked, needing to say something. Where else would it be? She moved around to look in the rear windows of the van. “Where … ?” she began, continuing around the vehicle in a speeded-up gait.

  “Don’t bother. He’s not in the front seat,” Brett said, seeing what she was doing. “He’s back there—under the balloons.” He glanced over at Gwen Ivy, who was staring up at the second-floor windows of
her building. “You can see later.”

  Kathleen, silent until now, suddenly moved across the courtyard toward the garage door. “What’s in here? Another van?” she asked Gwen.

  “Not these days. We outgrew our storage capacity in the carriage house itself about two years ago. Since then the vans stay outside, and the garage is full of supplies.”

  “Supplies? Like food?”

  “No way. It wouldn’t be sanitary, and the health department would have a fit. What’s stored in there is nonperishable. Extra chairs, tables, tents, folding floors for dancing, arbors to decorate, gilt candelabra, flower pots, vases, balloons like you saw … Millions of things. Z handles all that stuff.” And finally, Gwen let go and cried.

  Susan rushed to comfort her as a long gray station wagon pulled into the courtyard. Seeing that Gwen was taken care of, Brett and his officers went over to greet the coroner. Kathleen followed.

  There isn’t much you can say to someone who’s just discovered their best friend murdered, especially when you’re feeling like crying yourself, so Susan just held Gwen’s hands and made what she hoped were soothing noises.

  “Maybe we should go inside,” Susan suggested when Gwen’s sobs seemed to cease. “You don’t have a coat or anything, and your hands are like ice.”

  “I have to talk with them … with the police.”

  “Of course, but they don’t expect you to freeze to death. Come on,” Susan urged. She was getting cold herself. “We’ll talk to Brett and make sure it’s okay if you’re worried about it.”

  Gwen nodded and pulled her outer layers closer. “You’re right,” she agreed, “Brett will know what to do.”

  It took a few seconds for Susan to realize what she had just heard. “You know him? I mean, more than just as the chief of police, don’t you?”

  “We’ve gone out a few times, yes.”

  Susan waited for the usual “but we’re just good friends” and continued a little too loudly when it wasn’t forthcoming. “Then why don’t we tell Brett that you’ll meet him in your office? That way you won’t freeze to death before he speaks with you. If he doesn’t feel comfortable with that, he can always send along one of his men to guard you.”

  Brett, overhearing her, raised an eyebrow in their direction and nodded at a uniformed officer nearby. To Susan, their guard looked too young to be an eagle scout, but that didn’t seem to prevent him from taking his job seriously.

  “We can go inside, ma’am, but no one should speak to nobody—anybody,” he corrected his own grammar and pointed the way.

  “I need to—” Gwen began.

  “Nobody.”

  “I just wanted to go to the bathroom.”

  The man looked confused. “You can’t go alone.” He glanced around and found an answer in Susan. “You’ll have to accompany her, ma’am.”

  Susan reminded herself that she was a big girl. “Whatever you say … if Gwen doesn’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” Gwen shook her blonde helmet impatiently. “Let’s hurry though.”

  There were a lot of curious stares as the unlikely threesome trotted through The Holly and Ms. Ivy workroom and up the stairs. One or two people who seemed to want to speak with their employer were put off by a surprisingly stem look from the young officer.

  The bathroom was next to the office Susan had seen this morning. She didn’t have time to build up expectations, but the shining white room still came as a complete surprise. As well as a toilet and sink, there was a large shower and a dressing area complete with table, chairs, and mirrors. It was large enough to afford Gwen some privacy, and Susan studiously examined the various brands of expensive makeup until she heard the toilet flush.

  “I feel better.” Gwen appeared in the reflection of the dressing table mirror.

  “This is some setup,” Susan commented. “Very luxurious.” She touched the efficient light strip.

  “It’s a necessity, not a luxury. Z and I often work right up until time to start setting up an affair. We need to shower and dress. Our presence isn’t actually necessary—our staff are all quite reliable—but usually our clients feel more comfortable if we put in an appearance.”

  “Both of you?” Susan inquired, watching as Gwen, having washed her hands thoroughly, touched up her eyes. The shadow blended into her lids in a manner that Susan had never mastered.

  “Sometimes. Z is … was the most likely to go along with the setup crew. Then he could calm down nervous hostesses. Sometimes he opened a bottle of champagne, and they toasted the evening. Z was very, very good at that. Much better than I ever could be. Some of the women get very nervous—Z tells a lot of funny stories.” But she seemed to remember that humor might not be appropriate at that moment. “I suppose we should get back to my office before that kiddie cop out there starts imagining that I’ve murdered you, too.”

  “Surely they don’t think …”

  “Surely they do. Z was an orphan, and when his aunt died a few months ago, he was left without a family. He wasn’t married. So, with no spouse available, they’re going to look at me. I’m closer to him than anyone else.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that now if I were you,” Susan lied. “Let’s just get back out there. Get all the routine questioning over with so you can get on with your work.”

  Brett was waiting in Gwen’s office. Susan, who had been involved in many murder investigations, was astounded when Brett politely, but firmly, insisted that she was not expected to hang around for Gwen’s interview. Not that she had even an unofficial capacity, of course, but in the past she had always been more welcome, she thought. She wondered exactly what sort of relationship Gwen and Brett had, and whether those few dates had made an impact on the lives of either one. She thought about this as she pretended to examine the glossy photographs hanging in the hallway. When she could do that no longer, she headed on to the stairs.

  The room below was bustling. Whether from respect for their dead employer, fear of the one that was still alive, or just self-discipline and habit, the workers at The Holly and Ms. Ivy were doing what the English called carrying on—and Susan was impressed. She noticed that the concern about her New Year’s Eve party that had been haunting her since getting news of Z’s death vanished.

  Kathleen had disappeared, but Susan spied the young woman who had been so concerned about her meringues and hurried to where she was bending over a tray of animal-shaped cookies. Susan watched as a beige, four-legged creature was turned into a tiger by an experienced hand. “That’s amazing! What are you making it for?”

  “There’s going to be a Noah’s ark on the children’s table at a party we’re doing tonight. It’s one of our specialties—I’ve made dozens of them, but we’re running late. Usually this type of thing is done two days before the event. But, with yesterday being Christmas, we’re behind. It’s always like this at this time of year. Z’s always saying that we just have to hang in there, and we can collapse on January second.”

  “Not the first? Although I guess there are some people who give parties on New Year’s Day.…”

  “More than a few. But The Holly and Ms. Ivy won’t accept jobs for events that run later than six p.m. on January first. So usually everything is cleaned up and put away by midnight around here. Then we can all rest.”

  “There’s a separate cleaning crew?” Susan asked, admiring the chef’s technique as she painted black stripes on white horses turning them into perky zebras with wreaths of holly hanging around their necks.

  “No. Some places do, of course, but we’re all assigned our own work space, and we’re responsible for keeping it clean. It’s better that way. Then each chef knows exactly where everything is.” She painted orange feet on a pair of penguins.

  “So you always work here?” Susan asked, examining the assortment of cake and pie pans hanging above the counter.

  “Usually. I’m the chief pastry chef—but you can probably tell that. I also do most of the elaborate decorating of other dishes. Not that t
here aren’t a lot of people around here trained to do it, but I’m faster. Lots of practice,” she added, piping eyes on over a dozen animals and stepping back to view the results of her work.

  “This must be very upsetting for everyone here,” Susan suggested.

  “It is. The room is awfully quiet. Most of the time, this place is bedlam—everyone chattering and calling out to each other. Everyone liked Z and …” She paused. “And murder is so unexpected, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, of course.” But that wasn’t the word Susan would have used to describe it. She looked at the girl curiously. “Are you Jennie Potter?”

  “Jamie Potter. I’m the person you spoke with on the phone. Gwen seemed to think you could help.” Her tone of voice implied that she couldn’t imagine why.

  “Gwen found him? Found his body?”

  “I guess. She came into the building screaming for someone to call the police—that Z was dead.”

  “Just the police?”

  “Yes. Then everyone ran outside to see what was going on, and as I happened to be closest to the phone, I called. Then, I went back outside. A little while later the phone rang again.”

  “That was me,” Susan guessed.

  “Yes. I answered, but Gwen had returned, and when she heard it was you, she asked that I tell you about Z’s death and that the police were here—and ask if you would come over. Which, of course, I did.”

  “I’ve helped out in some murder investigations in the past,” Susan explained, correctly interpreting the confused look on Jamie’s face. “And I’ll certainly help Gwen, if I can. But I need to call my family first. Is there a phone around that I could use?”

  “Right under the steps—it’s in the employees’ locker room.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be in there if anyone needs me …” She turned and ran right into Kathleen.

  “A phone,” her friend cried, proving that great minds actually did think alike.

  Susan pointed, and they were on their way. The door under the stairway was easily found. Not bothering to knock, they entered the small room dominated by a large oak library table surrounded by utilitarian metal lockers. Holiday decorations on the walls consisted of a large sign saying i live for january 2nd! and eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we all diet! Susan raised her eyebrows over that one, as Kathleen had beaten her to the wall phone. All of the lockers were tagged with the names of their users, and many were decorated with notes and quotes. Susan was reminded of a high-school hallway. She wandered around, reading quotes from DeGustubus, Brillat-Savarin, Epicurus, and the Marquis de Sade. Some of the lockers had been left ajar, and she spied coats, purses, chef’s hats, and aprons hanging inside.