'Tis the Season to Be Murdered

by Valerie Wolzien

  “Don’t forget desserts in the library next to the samovar,” someone else reminded the man who had mentioned Jeffrey’s story.

  “I’ll do it. You tell the story,” someone else suggested, taking the dessert platters and leaving the room.

  “About Jeffrey and his date …” Susan prodded.

  “It wasn’t a date. Well, he thought she was a date, but it turned out that she had other motivations.”

  “You are going to explain, aren’t you?” Susan asked as patiently as possible. She did want to find Gwen Ivy before midnight.

  “Well, Jeffrey was a pastry chef. A good one and a very nice man. But he was sort of gullible. He was dating a woman who kept begging him to bring her along on a job. She was just dying to see him work is what she claimed—or something like that. So he finally brought her along to a job we were doing at the River House in New York City. I don’t remember who gave that party, but pretty much everyone who lives there is famous. Anyway, Jeffrey snuck this girl into the kitchen.”

  “But she didn’t stay in the kitchen,” a voice called out from the other side of the room.

  “No, she claimed to have to use the bathroom, and instead of using the one attached to the maid’s quarters, she wandered right out into the party itself. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, she started taking pictures of the party. One of the people waiting on tables saw it and came back and told Jeffrey. He almost died.”

  “And she got caught?”

  “No. In fact, no one would have known anything about it if she hadn’t published an article about the party and some of the guests in New York magazine. Turns out she was just a reporter after a good story—not after Jeffrey. He was pretty hurt.”

  “But he did the honorable thing.”

  “He did. He went straight to Gwen and Z and explained that the pictures were all his fault, that he had invited the girl to the party.”

  “And how did they react?”

  “They fired him. But they also found him a better job, so it didn’t matter at all.”

  “What?”

  “Well, they really couldn’t keep Jeffrey on staff after that happened. We guarantee privacy for our guests. Someone had to pay for the fact that a client’s privacy had been violated. But they saw that Jeffrey had been guilty of bad judgment and that he wouldn’t do it again. So they fired him and found him an excellent job with another company out on the West Coast. Jeffrey grew up in San Jose and had been wanting to get back to California, so it worked out for him as well.”

  “And this was both Z and Gwen? A joint decision by them both?”

  The question seemed to stump the group. “I don’t think anyone ever knew,” Jamie’s friend finally concluded.

  “They didn’t disagree?”

  “At least not publicly,” someone amended.

  “At least not until recently,” someone else added, and Susan noticed many nods of agreement.

  “Things were different recently?” she asked.

  “Z was a little out of control the weeks before he died …,” a woman leaning over an open oven door said almost to herself.

  “You know, I don’t think that’s true. I think people started talking like that after he was murdered.”

  Susan would have loved to get to the bottom of this, but a dignified-looking man with an English accent that would have done P. G. Wodehouse proud appeared in the doorway. It was Mr. Fairfax, and he was not happy.

  “May I ask exactly what is happening here?” he began angrily. “The tables are beginning to appear ravaged, ashtrays are getting fuller, and I believe someone is supposed to be serving cappuccino in the library.”

  In the ensuing organized confusion, Susan discovered herself scooping hard sauce into the center of a ring of plum pudding, her back to the room. When things returned to normal, she quietly thanked everyone and left by the back door, scurrying to her car.

  More questions, more questions, she thought, backing slowly down the Mercedes-filled driveway to the street. Was Z acting differently in the weeks before he died, or was that just a bit of revisionist history resulting from the shock of his murder? She bit her lip and turned her car in the direction of the Bennigan’s house. That party should be in full swing. Perhaps Gwen Ivy would be there.

  The Bennigans lived in a lovely old Victorian near Jamie Potter’s aunt. The house was decorated with thousands of tiny lights wound around the half-dozen posts holding up the roof over the porch and hanging from evergreen swags draped from above. Wreaths, also wrapped with lights, hung at all the windows, and on the lawn, a flock of white wooden deer grazed, similarly lit wreaths encircling their necks. Susan, thinking of next Christmas at her own home, made mental notes as she parked her car and started around to the back of the house.

  “Susan Henshaw! Good to see you! Where’s Jed?”

  Susan stopped. Ben Bennigan was walking down the sidewalk toward her.

  “I wouldn’t even have seen you if I hadn’t been helping Harvey to his car. Merry Christmas late! Happy New Year early! Come on in and try some of the wassail this expensive caterer that Beth hired has made. Got to warn you—it’s sweet, but it’s got a real kick!”

  Susan didn’t think she had any choice but to follow the man into his house. It was apparent that the Bennigans’ marriage was similar to her own in at least one respect: the wife organized their social life. Beth Bennigan would probably know that Susan hadn’t been invited to the party. And Beth Bennigan was standing right inside the front door.

  But Beth had beautiful manners. (Or a poor memory? Perhaps she wasn’t sure to whom she had sent an invitation?) “Susan, so nice of you to come. Let me take your coat and get you something to drink.”

  Susan had no choice but to become the perfect guest. She handed over her coat, accepted a steaming cup of wassail (which was yummy), and chatted politely with friends and neighbors as she worked her way toward the food. Jamie had told her that she was scheduled to work this party as well as the one at the mill, and Susan hoped to find her in or near the kitchen.

  But first, she ran into Jamie’s aunt. “I remember you. You’re that friend of Z’s,” the elderly lady insisted, grabbing Susan’s arm.

  Susan resisted the urge to claim that she had never met Z and, instead, complimented the woman on her unusual jewelry. She tried to continue on her journey until she ran into Jerry’s mother.

  “Mrs. Gordon! How nice to see you!” she lied. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the woman; it was just that she was beginning to think she’d never find Gwen Ivy. And Beth Bennigan was bearing down from behind, a typewritten list in her hand. Susan could only pray that it wasn’t a copy of this evening’s guest list. It was one thing to crash the hospital charity ball, but a friend’s party.… “Where did you get that interesting necklace?” she continued to Jerry’s mother. She could use the information to avoid that place in the future.

  “Do you like it? I made it. I take classes in bead making at an art center near where I live. I gave Kathleen one just like it. Maybe …”

  Too late Susan recognized the gleam of a true craftsman with closets full of product that she didn’t know how to dispose of.

  “This would look lovely on you. Just what you need to brighten up that drab pants suit. I don’t know why designers have us all wearing black, do you?”

  Susan was too busy trying to express her appreciation for a gift she definitely did not want, to answer that question. “Thank you for the necklace,” she said as enthusiastically as possible. “You know, I’ve been trying to find Jamie Potter all evening. I saw her aunt, but I …”

  “Don’t you just love the pin that woman is wearing? You’d never guess it was made from empty toilet paper rolls, would you?”

  That, in fact, was one of the last things Susan would have guessed. “Do you know where her niece is?” Susan asked.

  “In the kitchen maybe?”

  “Then I’ll just try to find her there, if you’ll excuse me,” Susan said, and left without waiting f
or an answer.

  The kitchen was usually behind the dining room in homes like this, and Susan hurried there as quickly as possible. Much to her relief, she discovered Jamie Potter, busy arranging stars of aspic around a cold, boned poached salmon. “Jamie! Have you seen Gwen recently?”

  “About a dozen times, but the last I heard she was on her way over to the mill,” the young woman answered without stopping her work.

  “Damn!”

  “Why is it so urgent that you find her?”

  “Because she’s the person who knew Z the best and can answer my questions about him.”

  Jamie paused in her task and looked up. “There might be someone else … someone else who knew Z very well.”

  “Your aunt?”

  “No, Aunt Flo is a sweetheart, but she knows as much about people as she knows about art.”

  “Oh, no.”

  Jamie nodded. “Exactly.”

  “So who else?”

  “Look, if I tell you, it’s betraying a confidence.”

  “But in a murder investigation—” Susan began.

  “I know what you’re going to say, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable telling you any more until I check with … with this person.”

  Susan frowned. “I can’t argue. When can you see her?”

  “Him. And I should be able to talk with him sometime tonight—if you can just hang around.”

  “Here?”

  “For a while, and then I have to go over to the mill—I’m making currant fool.”

  “He works for The Holly and Ms. Ivy?” Susan asked, mentally running through all the male chefs as potential … potential what? she wondered.

  Jamie nodded. “Yes. But not many people know about his relationship with Z, so I don’t think you’re going to be able to guess his identity.”

  “Okay. I’ll wait. Maybe I’ll run into Gwen in the meantime.”

  “It’s more than possible. She’s always around somewhere.” Jamie began to pipe tiny red-and-green ivy around the platters she had just decorated.

  “Everything looks beautiful,” Susan said honestly.

  “Thanks. It’s what we’re known for.”

  There was something in the way she said it that made Susan wonder what Jamie Potter thought about the product of The Holly and Ms. Ivy’s efforts. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m just worried. We’re all worried,” she added, putting the salmon to one side and beginning to slice a many-layered pâté. “No one knows what’s going to happen to The Holly and Ms. Ivy—and whether or not we’re going to have jobs after the holidays.”

  “I thought you—or someone—said that Gwen would hire an assistant, and then things would go on as usual.”

  “Maybe.” The pâté sliced, Jamie began to arrange the slices on a small tray, placing marinated mushrooms around the edges. “But maybe not. There’s no information about our jobs next week.”

  “And there would be usually?”

  “Well, we do take a few days off after New Year’s, but The Holly and Ms. Ivy is always fully booked—even during the worst years of the recession, we were fully booked. And supplies can’t be ordered at the last minute.”

  “And they haven’t been?”

  “Well, usually by now Gwen or Z would be talking to the chefs about anything unusual that might be necessary.”

  “And that hasn’t happened?”

  “No.” Jamie finished the tray and went over to the sink to wash her hands. “I’m probably just making something out of nothing. Things just aren’t the same as usual—which is to be expected. Z was such a … such a presence. You always felt that he was around to help out.”

  “But he was one of the owners—didn’t anyone ever feel like he was looking over their shoulders just a bit too much?” That’s what Susan had thought when she saw that the carriage house was arranged so the employers could always look down on the employees. “Didn’t anyone ever resent how much Gwen and Z were around?”

  “Oh, no. Neither of them is like that! They’re both great to work for. And that’s probably the problem. Everything has been so great. I just hate for things to change.”

  Susan didn’t offer the common platitudes. She picked up a piece of pâté that had fallen on the counter, popped it in her mouth, and waited for Jamie to continue.

  “Susan, what are you doing here?” The hostess had arrived to check out activities in the kitchen.

  Susan couldn’t think of an answer. She knew where the bathroom was in this house.

  “Mrs. Henshaw was a little nervous about the menu for her party the night after next. I could answer her questions without stopping work,” Jamie said, having no idea that the Bennigans weren’t invited to that particular event—or that Susan had crashed this party, for that matter.

  Susan just smiled awkwardly.

  NINETEEN

  Susan had always enjoyed Hancock’s historic sites. She had chaperoned class trips to the town’s picturesque Colonial cemetery and had visited re-creations of the Revolutionary War army encampment last fall. She had not only been to the old mill many times, she used the stone-ground flour produced and sold there. But she had never tried to sneak into the back door after dark.

  The parking lot had been plowed and salted, and the paths in and out of the building were outlined with candles set in tin lanterns. Big fat candles were lit in the few windows that the building possessed, and their light spilled out onto the snow. But Susan didn’t know how to find the place where The Holly and Ms. Ivy had set up. The mill was built on three levels, and through the nearest window, she could see people milling around with glasses in their hands. She scrambled down the slope toward the water, trying to find a window with a view of the middle floor. A rock slipped out from under her foot, and she grabbed the side of the building for balance as she made her way down.

  As she had guessed, tables were set up on the second floor. From where she stood, she could see a few tables covered in heavy, unbleached damask. Hurricane lights stood in the center of each, freshly lit candles shining down on gleaming place settings. They had to be preparing the food on the first floor, where the sales counter was usually set up. That door was just off the wooden pathway built over the stream that ran the gigantic wooden wheel. Footprints in the snow confirmed Susan’s guess that The Holly and Ms. Ivy were using this entrance.

  A cracked window emitted the scent of charred beef fat. Susan entered without knocking. She had been in a lot of kitchens, but she’d never seen anything like this. Three ovens, a half-dozen double burners, and four microwaves (which explained the portable generator humming outside) were set up around a large fireplace in which a gigantic piece of meat sputtered and spit. A woman was busy basting the joint, a piece of aluminum foil tied across her chest. A long pine table stretched across the room (it was made from one continuous piece of wood, aged by hundreds of years of use, and Susan had always adored it), and a half-dozen chefs were gathered around it stirring, mixing, and preparing frantically.

  Susan, unwilling to get in the way, leaned back against the cool stone wall and waited for a break in the action to ask if Jamie’s friend had time to speak with her. But Jamie, who had left the Bennigans’ an hour before Susan and was working busily, noticed her before she had time to cool down.

  “I don’t suppose you could give us a hand, Mrs. Henshaw?” Jamie cried out, seeing Susan for the first time. “We’re having a few problems here.”

  “What do you—?”

  Jamie rightly regarded the beginning of the question as an offer of help. “The beef. If you could take over basting that damn meat, then Meredith could get back to the Yorkshire puddings before they burn.”

  “I …” Susan looked nervously at the flaming inferno that, admittedly, smelled wonderful.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll wrap you up well in aluminum, and the oven mitts are old ones—lined with asbestos before it became illegal. You won’t get burned.”

  Susan didn’t want to refuse. She allowed herself to
be aproned, tied up with two layers of foil, and placed on an unsteady three-legged stool.

  “If you’re going to fall, don’t fall toward the fire,” the young man who had arranged all this suggested lightly.

  “I’ll work on it,” she assured him. She noticed that, with the current arrangement of the room, either the microwave or a large bowl of red berries sitting on the end of the table she admired were the alternative landing spots. She placed her feet as firmly as possible on the uneven floorboards and dipped the stainless-steel ladle in the cast-iron pot of broth that sat on the floor, then emptied it gently over the sizzling meat. She was rewarded with sputtering fat and a delectable smell.

  She listened to the chatter of the chefs and concentrated on her task.

  “This is insane,” Meredith said, returning to pans piled high with fluffy dough. “Why did they hire The Holly and Ms. Ivy if they didn’t want us to cook the food that we’re known for?”

  “Think how insane it would have been if they had insisted that we cook everything in the Colonial manner,” came the answer.

  Susan looked around the room. She seemed to be the only person who was doing anything historically accurate. Jamie Potter recognized her confusion.

  “The historical society gives this dinner each year and usually all the food is historically correct—actually baked over the fire. But this year they hired us, and Gwen—”

  “Or probably Z,” someone called out.

  “Right. Probably Z convinced whoever is in charge of this that they should alter the menu this year. We used old recipes—”

  “And some of them are pretty good—lots of herbs.” Susan recognized the voice of the person who suggested that Z was responsible for this year’s change.

  “But we’re doing the cooking in a modern manner. Except for the beef that you’re taking care of. The only way to get the flavor of an open fire is to cook over an open fire. So everyone is getting a slice of that meat over their baron of beef, and the gravy is going to be made from the broth that’s falling into the pan by your feet.”

  Susan had noticed this particular pan. The drippings from it were ruining her new Ralph Lauren velvet pumps. “When do you think this person you wanted me to talk to will arrive?” was all she asked.