Purrfect Slaying

by Louise Lynn

  "Not so if you knew John. He loathed candy canes. Anything peppermint, in fact, couldn't stand the stuff," she said and shook her head. Her eyes wandered to the chair Santa had sat in that day, the one her husband had been found dead in, and Hazel expected the woman to break down into sobs. She didn't, but her bottom lip did wobble a bit.

  "It can't be easy for you to be here right now. Shouldn't you get home and start getting his things in order while the sheriff does his job? Aren’t Justin and Marjorie home for Christmas this year?"

  Carol fixed Hazel with an icy stare. "Marjorie is spending the holidays with her husband's family in Barbados of all places," she said and shook her head, as if warm weather and beautiful beaches were a thing to disdain. “Justin isn't coming in until tomorrow."

  "Do you have anyone else in town you could spend the night with, Mrs. Collins?" Sheriff Cross said kindly. Though, Hazel could tell by the way he watched the woman that he wanted to ask her a few questions about her husband's death.

  She knew why.

  Not only were spouses the number one suspects in a lot of cases like this, but Carol wasn't doing much to resolve herself of being capable of such a thing.

  "I have the church, and that's all I need. That's all I ever needed," she said, turned on her heel, and marched away.

  After the woman was out of range, Hazel turned to Colton. "Okay, I'm just gonna put this out there. Maybe Albert Stone didn't do it."

  "Yeah, that's a possibility," Sheriff Cross said and gave her a quick and fleeting hug. "You should get out of here. Get some rest."

  Hazel nodded, though she did feel bad for leaving him with all this work to do. "You should let the deputies handle as much as they can since you've been up since six AM. Remember?”

  “Oh, I remember. Two bodies in one day, pretty sure that's a first in this town."

  He was right about that. "You know, some of the last words that I heard John Collins say were that he thought Albert Stone should be next after Marley Sinclair. He said if there was any fairness in the universe that's what would happen." The words felt like ash on her tongue.

  Sheriff Cross jotted it down in his notepad and gave her a quick kiss. “That could come in handy."

  She nodded and set Anthony Ray down. “Have they found Albert Stone yet?"

  Sheriff Cross’s expression grew dour. "Not yet. I only hope when we do he’s still alive."

  Hazel nodded and walked away, frowning.

  Since Colton was going to be working for who knew how long, she made the executive decision that Violet stay the night at her house, just to be safe.

  The girl stared out the window as the lights of the fair faded in the distance and let out a heavy sigh. "I know it's terrible what happened, and you can tell me if I'm an awful person for thinking this, but I'm kinda disappointed we didn't get to do the first performance of A Christmas Carol."

  Hazel shook her head. "You're not a terrible person. You probably didn't even know John Collins. And I know you. You’re a very empathetic young lady. It’s understandable to be upset the performance got pushed back. I am too. I wanted to see you and Milo and Ruth on stage.”

  Violet smiled faintly. ”They are supposed to be coming in town tomorrow, you know. I don't know how Uncle Colton thinks he can stay up all night working and then make it down to Reno to pick them up.” She leaned forward to move one of the vents to blow on her hands.

  Hazel let out a sigh. "It's just like him to take on way too much responsibility and not ask for help."

  "Yeah, that doesn't remind me of anyone. Not at all."

  Hazel chuckled. "Are you being sarcastic?"

  "No. Me? Sarcastic? Never,” Violet said, though it was so over the top Hazel knew she was joking.

  "Okay, I get your point. But I'm getting better at asking for help. How about you text Deputy Simmons and ask him to pick up your grandparents. I would do it myself, but –"

  Violet patted her on the arm. "Yeah, I know. You’ve got work. But that's a great idea."

  With that sorted, Hazel hoped that she could get a decent night’s sleep, even after the two dead bodies she'd seen that day.

  It wasn't until they were at Hazel's home and ready to go to bed when Violet stopped her from walking up the stairs to her loft bedroom. Violet usually stayed in the downstairs guest room. "Is it true what they said, about how he died?" she asked and a shudder went up her spine.

  Hazel chewed her bottom lip. "I don't know what they're saying. I do know Sheriff Cross wasn't going to tell anyone but the immediate family though."

  Violet pointed at her eyes. “They’re saying candy canes right into his brain is what killed him."

  "I don't know who’s spreading those rumors, and they are, unfortunately, a hundred percent true, but don't spread them any further. Please. For everyone's sake.”

  Hazel wished she'd never seen it, for one, because she didn't know how long that terrible image would be burned in her memory, and Violet bringing it up right before she went to sleep didn't bode well for her dreams.

  "Oh, I won’t. I wanted to know if it was true or not. I mean, Merry bloody Christmas, right?”

  Hazel nodded.

  That's exactly what John Collins got: a Merry bloody Christmas.

  Chapter 7

  Hazel woke suddenly at some point in the early morning. She wasn't sure what time it was, but Anthony Ray sat upright and alert on her chest, his face toward the stairs that led to the first floor of her cabin.

  She shut her eyes to go back to sleep when she heard a rustling from downstairs, and her body went rigid.

  Who would be in her house at this time of night?

  Violet. Right. She was staying the night.

  That's probably all it was.

  Then there was a thud, and Hazel bolted upright, disturbing Anthony Ray from his spot.

  He didn't seem to notice, as he leapt forward and crept toward the stairs, his tail fuzzed larger than normal in the bright moonlight that shone through her windows.

  It was one of her favorite things about the cabin, the large south facing windows that let in all of that warm sunshine, even in the winter months. Now, however, it seemed counterintuitive since it also let in a lot of moonlight, which made creeping around much harder.

  Not that she ever imagined she'd be creeping around in her own house.

  But why would Violet be creeping around without the lights on? If the girl got up for a midnight snack or drink, she'd turn one of them on. Hazel knew that from experience.

  But this wasn’t Violet.

  Her blood chilled to ice at the thought. It was the time of year for home invasions, both real and imaginary, and she didn't want to think about the person who performed them usually.

  A fat jolly old man bringing presents—especially when that man was now dead. Murdered. With candy canes where his eyes should have been.

  She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and sent a quick text to Colton: Intruder in my home. Calling 911 now.

  Then she let out a breath, and looked for something heavy to swing. A tripod that leaned in the corner would do well. The legs were metal, and when they were compacted together, they made a sturdy object.

  Though, wasn't there some rule about not confronting home invaders? Well, she was going to go against it. Violet was downstairs, and if she didn’t protect the girl, she’d never forgive herself.

  She was halfway down the stairs when she heard the intruder speak. "Anthony Ray, what are you doing out of bed, big boy? Your mommy's going to be so worried about you," a familiar voice said from the shadows.

  With a frustrated grumble, Hazel marched down the rest of the stairs and flipped on the light, illuminating her mother, whose coat was flecked with snow. Now that she had her bearings about her, she noticed it must be early morning, right before sunrise.

  But that didn't explain her mother sneaking in. "Mom? What on earth are you doing? I was just about to call 911, and I texted Colton and–"

  Her mother shook her he
ad. “We'd better text him back or else he'll rush over here in a fugue state just to save you."

  That seemed to be all she was going to say until Hazel did what she was told, so with another grumble, she texted Colton again: Never mind. It's my mom who came over way too early. See you later today.

  “There. Now do you want to tell me why you're sneaking around my house at, what is it, five AM?”

  “Five fifteen, actually. And I know you had to get up way too early yesterday morning. Plus, after the day you had with Marley Sinclair and John Collins, such a tragic loss, I was going to fix you breakfast as a surprise."

  Hazel rubbed the bridge of her nose, a habit she’d picked up from Colton. "That's the worst kind of surprise ever. Why can't Esther be the one cooking breakfast?"

  Her mother's eyes sparkled behind her glasses. "Actually, she is, but she sent me over early to get everything ready. She didn't trust the state of your kitchen," she whispered, for reasons Hazel couldn't figure out since they were alone.

  "You know you scared me half to death. I thought—I don’t know what I thought," she said and rubbed her arms.

  While her cabin had both central heating and a massive fireplace, she didn't keep it overly warm. It was bad for both her photography equipment and her state of mind. She did like it warmer than it currently was. She moved toward the fireplace to build a fire as her mother went into the kitchen to clean.

  "You know, I don't know why she always thinks my kitchen is going to be so terrible. I hardly ever use it."

  "Well, you know how Esther is. I'm pretty sure she sent me over here just to get me out of her hair."

  The fire flared to life, and Hazel stepped back and dusted her hands. Anthony Ray wound around her feet and yelled for his breakfast, even if it was two hours earlier than he normally ate. "Or, you came over to get all the gory details of Santa's murder before Esther showed up because you knew she wouldn't want to hear them.“

  Her mother had the audacity to not even look surprised at that accusation. "Of course! I thought that was obvious. But I wasn't trying to wake you up just yet. Please. Go back to sleep, and I'll clean up. Then, when you wake you’ll have a delicious homemade breakfast and we can talk all about it, regardless of how squeamish your sister is."

  Hazel groaned and dragged her feet into the kitchen, toward the cappuccino machine her parents had given her since they hadn't been able to figure out how to work it. "Fat chance of that happening. I got a bad night’s sleep anyway, dreaming about—I don't know, but it wasn't pleasant. Plus, Colton’s parents are getting in town today."

  Her mother stood up, ramrod straight, from clearing the counter. "Colton's parents are coming into town? Why is this the first I’ve heard of it? And when are we going to meet them? Before Christmas, I'm sure. Oh, they’ll have to come over for dinner on Christmas Eve. How's that? I could knit something in time for both of them, not an afghan, but a scarf or some mittens."

  Hazel shook her head. "You don't think I'm stressed enough meeting them on my own, and now you want to meet them too?"

  "Of course, that's what parents do. And I know that we've had our differences with Colton, especially when he thought I was a murderer, but we worked it out. And your father and I would love to meet his parents. You can’t keep it from happening, young lady."

  Hazel rolled her eyes. “I just turned thirty-six, so I don't think I'm a young lady anymore."

  "You'll always be my young lady," her mother said and gave her a kiss on the cheek before she went about her business once again.

  Hazel, meanwhile, made herself the largest cappuccino the machine could accommodate and sat down to sip it as the sky lightened over the tip of the eastern mountains. She usually loved winter sunrises, watching the first light break over the snow-capped trees and the frozen edges of Lake Celeste.

  Of course, her mother woke her on a day that was gray and snowy and looked altogether miserable outside. It was the perfect sort of day to curl up in front of the fire and read a book, but Hazel knew she wasn't that lucky.

  She took several sips of her cappuccino before she finally said what she was thinking. "You know, he knew for weeks his parents were coming, and he didn't even tell me until yesterday. Which is last minute, and I haven't even gotten the chance to think of presents for them yet," she said.

  Her mother put the kettle on and turned to sit at the table. "Oh, I'm sure he didn't do it to cause any harm, and he probably doesn't even expect you to buy them presents, knowing Colton. I'm assuming he's more nervous about this whole thing than you are," she said with a knowing smile that Hazel wasn't sure she liked.

  "Violet thought something similar, but why? He's the youngest person to make detective in San Francisco. And he’s sheriff of a small town. He won in a landslide, regardless of the fact that no one had ever heard of him. I mean, it makes it sound like his parents are real sticklers for perfection or something, and I'm far from perfect," she said and looked down at her mismatched pajamas. True, they both had cats on them, but the top had black cats and the bottom had white cats with Christmas hats. The fact that her socks had llamas on them didn't help matters any.

  Her mother smiled. "Even Esther isn't perfect, dear, regardless if she thinks she is or not. No parent really wants perfection in their child's soulmate. They just want their child to be happy. Or they should. In a perfect world."

  Hazel wanted to say they didn't live in a perfect world, but she decided to bite her tongue and take another long grateful gulp of her cappuccino.

  “Are you nervous about meeting them, or because you have a few more presents to get?” Maureen said and nudged Hazel’s slipper under the table.

  “I have maybe eighty percent of the presents left to get," Hazel said into her mug.

  Her mother bit back a giggle. "Yes, that sounds like you. And I'm sure Esther had her Christmas shopping done eight months ago. But you’re more like me in that respect. I'm still finishing up too," she said conspiratorially.

  Hazel couldn't help but grin. “What’s finishing up? Thirty halfway done blankets, scarves and hats? I see the knitting needles in your hair—is that why you keep them there?”

  Her mother waved her hand and got up to pour the water onto a tea bag. “Hush, you. I get. . . distracted sometimes. You know what it’s like. I’ll finish by Christmas morning.”

  “Or all the blankets will become throws and the scarves will be a touch too short, like last year.”

  “You just count yourself lucky, dear, or I’ll give you coal for Christmas.”

  Hazel laughed. “I’d rather have a throw, thanks. I could use another for my bed, and Anthony Ray wants one too. He loves curling up in them.”

  The black cat perked up at the sound of his name, and let out a mournful meow.

  With a smile, Hazel finished the last of her cappuccino and rose to feed him.

  Chapter 8

  “Santa is dead!” Ruth, Hazel’s nine-year-old niece, proclaimed to the table over breakfast that morning.

  “Ruth!” Esther cried and gave a sharp shake of her head, which could mean anything from ‘sit down’ to ‘don’t say ‘dead’ at the breakfast table,’ knowing Esther.

  “Sorry, mom. But you said he’s not the real Santa, but an imposter Santa. So why was he impostering Santa? And who killed him? The real Santa?” Ruth said, her green eyes wide. Her copper hair, the same color as her mother’s, came to her chin and framed her freckled face.

  “It’s impersonating, not impostering,” Violet said with a kind smile and picked up a pastry from the pile. She had a small serving of eggs and toast as well.

  Looking at the spread, Hazel could tell her sister had been stress baking again. Or, she’d overdone it with the Christmas orders. It was impossible to tell without asking her, and Esther didn’t look in the mood to explain. Her usually pale cheeks were flushed and her hair, always in an immaculate braid, looked frizzy for the first time in years.

  Hazel noticed because her own hair was always a little frizzy th
anks to her unmanageable curls.

  “Ruthie, the real Santa didn’t kill the fake one, right you guys?” Esther said and gave Hazel and their mother a look that begged them to agree. “He’s a nice old man, not a murderer.”

  Maureen Hart pushed up her glasses. “Oh, I don’t know about that. St. Nick didn’t do it, but there is a figure in folklore of a dark version of Santa named Krampus, and he—”

  “Mother!” Esther snapped.

  “And he didn’t do it either, I’m sure,” Maureen finished, as if that’s what she always meant to say.

  Hazel figured it wasn’t, but that their mother had decided to humor her youngest daughter for once.

  Esther gave everyone at the table a glare, as if daring them to say anything else unseemly, and took a dainty bite of her scrambled eggs.

  Hazel took a not so dainty bite of her own. She hadn't gotten much in the way of dinner the night before, considering everything that had happened, and her stomach was grumbling that morning in protest. She moved to snag a raspberry pastry, thought better of it, and chose the almond instead. She took a large bite and a sip of her second cappuccino. Marzipan for breakfast always seemed incredibly decadent, and one of her favorite parts about the holidays.

  Ruth didn't seem to object to the raspberry pastries, as she stuck her finger in hers and licked off a dollop of the filling.

  Violet eyed Esther for a moment before she spoke. "The question is, who did it?"

  "I thought it was obvious. The guy playing Scrooge, Albert Stone, right?" Esther said and looked at Hazel.

  "Mr. Scrooge killed Santa?" Ruth said and shook her head furiously. "But he's nice."

  Violet nodded. "He is when he's not playing Scrooge," she said.

  Hazel didn't know Albert Stone well, as he was much older than her and ran in different circles—mostly high-class ones while Hazel's family was firmly middle-class, but that didn't mean she hadn’t known of him. Like John Collins, Albert Stone had been playing Scrooge in the Cedar Valley production of A Christmas Carol for as far back as she could remember.