The Mistletoe Murders Read online

  The Mistletoe Murders

  Laurinda Wallace

  Copyright © 2018 Laurinda Wallace

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781731054036

  Cover Design by Annie Moril

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means-electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise-without prior written permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OTHER BOOKS BY LAURINDA WALLACE

  PROLOGUE

  December, 1891

  Mistletoe Mansion, Deer Creek, NY

  The trowel scraped over the mortar securing the last brick in the large alcove. Stephen Mistletoe tapped the gritty excess into a battered tin pail before rising. He carefully wiped down the triangular-shaped tool with a damp rag hanging from a hook near his head, shining the blades to match their original condition. He must be careful to return the trowel to the shelf in the workshop before it was missed.

  It was done. Eternal rest under his watchful eye—under the mistletoe forever. He chuckled at the poor joke. The last berry had been plucked from the kissing ball for poor, poor Lily. She would garner no more admirers.

  “Good night, my sweet. You and your knights.”

  .

  CHAPTER ONE

  Gracie Andersen drove slowly up the winding and steep driveway toward the immense Victorian house set regally on a hill overlooking the Genesee Valley. It was rather incredible, this transformation of the old and purportedly haunted Mistletoe Mansion. The house faced to the south with a number of barns and a small workshop behind it. A huge wraparound porch was festooned in balsam and spruce entwined with pinecones and red glass balls. The two massive evergreens in front of the house were covered in what had to be thousands of tiny white lights. A heavy frost iced the lawn, trees, and fences. So far, it had been an open winter with only a hint of snow.

  She parked next to Marci Drummond’s black SUV and hurried up the curving brick pathway edged with more greenery and tiny lights. A large sign at the top near the steps of the porch announced she had arrived at the Mistletoe Bed and Breakfast, where it’s always Christmas.

  Before she could reach for the door knob, Marci opened the door, a broad smile wreathing her face.

  “Welcome. Come in, come in, Gracie.”

  “Wow, Marci,” Gracie said, awe overcoming any further comments, as she soaked in the elegant foyer with its cream-colored walls and rich hardwood floors. Small ornate tables adorned with candles and vintage Santas lined the hallway.

  “It’s pretty nice, huh?”

  “Nice? It’s magnificent. I have to tell you, I cannot believe what you’ve done in here. I used to throw stones at the windows of this house when I was a kid.”

  Marci laughed. “I think you and just about everybody else in Deer Creek.”

  “It was for good luck, so the Mistletoe ghosts wouldn’t get us. I think I told you this was a gathering place for Halloween parties at one time. Some guys used to set up their own haunted house with a coffin in the barn, and an old man would sit up in it when you went past. The village historian sat on the porch and told the story of the Mistletoe curse.” Gracie paused for effect. “A family plagued by mysterious deaths and unsolved disappearances over a century ago. A little bit creepy and fun at the same time. You’re going to do great with this.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but only time will actually tell whether I’ve wasted my generous inheritance or made a good investment with it. Let me take your coat.”

  Gracie slipped off her parka and admired the small St. Nicholas dressed in green on a marble-topped table while her hostess placed the coat on the last of a row of well-polished brass coat hooks near the entrance.

  “Let’s start with the grand tour, shall we?” Marci motioned Gracie to follow her into a room to the right. “This is the parlor.”

  “Beautiful,” sighed Gracie, drinking in the blue-and-gray upholstery of the period furniture. The sound of pounding feet on a distant stairway caught their attention.

  “Now what?” Marci shook her head and frowned. The footsteps were now in the hallway.

  “Hey, um, Ms. Drummond … uh, Marci,” a man called.

  Marci and Gracie stepped out into the hallway.

  “What is it, Joe?” Marci asked.

  A short bald man with a goatee shook his head. “Sorry, but the cooling unit for the wine cellar is backordered until January 15. It’s not going to be finished by your opening date.”

  Marci groaned. “It was ordered months ago. What’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, I’m sorry.”

  “What about the brick floor in the alcove? Is that done yet?”

  The contractor frowned and shrugged. “Well, there’s a water problem in there. It’s seeping in through the existing floor. We’re gonna have to dig out more than we anticipated to see what the problem is. It may be some old drainage that’s blocked and backing up in the alcove, or water’s getting in through the walls somehow.”

  “That wasn’t ever part of our conversation.” Marci’s remaining good humor drained from her face. “That would be a major problem, right?”

  “We can figure it out.”

  “At a price.” Her lips were now a thin line of peony pink displeasure.

  “I don’t think it’s going to be a big problem. Worse-case scenario is that you’ll need a sump pump in that area. The water has to be taken care of in any case.”

  Marci let out a slow breath. “All right. Let me know. I’m glad I have that small wine refrigerator for the kitchen to use in the meantime.”

  Joe Finnelli flashed a smile and strode back toward the doorway to the cellar. “Don’t worry, we’re on it,” he called over his shoulder.

  “The joys of renovation,” Gracie commented, returning to the parlor.

  “I’m fairly numb at this point to delays, but he promised the wine cellar would be functional by the weekend. Everything else is ready.”

  “In the grand scheme of things, this has to be pretty small,” Gracie said hopefully.

  “Fairly small, but the chef may not think so.” A smile returned to Marci’s round face. “Did I tell you my greatest coup in this monstrous project?”

  “I don’t think so.” Gracie couldn’t imagine what Marci would consider a greater achievement than restoring the entire Mistletoe estate.

  “I have Chef Carl Flambeau and his sous chef Kristin Lee cooking here for the next month.”

  “What? Really? The guy with the TV show?”

  “Yes, the guy with the show.”

  Marci led her toward the back of the house, opening double doors into the ballroom, then on through to the dining room, and finally the kitchen. Gracie had to trot to catch up with her exuberant friend, who had quickened her pace.

  The shiny n
ew commercial kitchen with moss-green cabinetry and glass-front cupboards above black marble countertops took Gracie’s breath away.

  “Holy smokes!” It was impressive and on a whole new level.

  She ran her hand across the counter surface, practically drooling over the huge cooktop and wide double ovens.

  “Nailed it, right?” Marci laughed and removed the lid from a large clear glass cookie jar filled with frosted Christmas cookies. “Have one?”

  Gracie helped herself and continued her covetous appraisal of the culinary wonderland.

  “Kristin’s here already stocking the kitchen and getting ready for the opening weekend. Carl will show up—fingers crossed—by next Tuesday.”

  “How did you ever manage to get him? He travels around the world all the time, doesn’t he?”

  “That’s just it. He’s ready for a hiatus from all the glitz and glamour of the show, or rather the grind of it. So is Kristin. I have a friend who’s a foodie and travel blogger. He’s actually a big deal himself and has his own B & B. Writes for a bunch of different travel magazines, and he’s been a judge on Iron Chef. I told him what I was doing and he told Carl, who contacted me, and the rest is history.”

  “Isn’t he difficult?” Gracie had seen a few episodes, and the chef’s persona wasn’t all that endearing.

  “It’s all for show, or so I’m told. Our conversations have been quite chummy. Anyway, he’s rented a house near Silver Lake, and Kristin is going to live on the property here in the carriage house. They think it’s going to be a hoot. An old house with a ghost or two in the middle of nowhere. I let Flambeau set all the menus and choose the wines.

  He doesn’t cook breakfast, only dinner. Kristin cooks breakfast.”

  “And his salary? How can you afford him and the sous chef?”

  “It’s because they’re not charging me.”

  “How did—”

  A squeal and a bang from below them interrupted the conversation.

  “What now?” Marci moaned. She turned and ran for the door to the cellar.

  Gracie was unsure whether to follow or eat another cookie while she waited for Marci to return. She opted for the cookie. Just as she took a bite, her phone rang.

  “Mmm, um, Mom,” she managed, attempting to chew and swallow all at once.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Theresa Clark asked.

  “I’m in the middle of a cookie. What do you need?”

  “Are you coming to the retirement party committee meeting tonight? The Christmas program is just two weeks away, you know.”

  “I’ll be there. Don’t worry. I really have to run, Mom. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “All right. Seven sharp.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  A door slammed in the outer recesses, and Marci reappeared. “Nothing serious,” she announced. They broke a tool of some sort, and there appears to be a second layer of brick floor under the first layer. Old houses. They’re full of surprises.” Marci sank her ample figure onto a stool at the island.

  “Sorry to cut the tour short, but I have to get back to the kennel. I’m on the committee for Pastor Minders’ retirement party and haven’t completed my assignment for tonight’s meeting. This group has no mercy for slackers.”

  Marci nodded, grinning. “Well, you’ll see everything next weekend anyway.”

  “Right. Hopefully, Marc’s flight comes in tomorrow night, so we both can be here.”

  The kennel’s popular Pictures with Santa event was in full swing at Milky Way. Gracie smothered a laugh at her business partner Jim Taylor, who sat in splendid Santa regalia, on a velvet-cushioned chair. He held a squirming brown terrier mix which alternately licked the fluffy white beard and his hand.

  “Now, Dude, just settle down for one minute, even fifteen seconds, so we can capture this special moment with Santa,” the photographer crooned.

  “Take it quick,” Jim urged. “He’s not going to cooperate. We’ve been trying for ten minutes at least.”

  The dog suddenly howled; his head lifted straight up. Surprised, Jim released his hold, and Dude made good his escape. Gracie grabbed the trailing leash and snagged the cagey dog before he could dash down the passage.

  “All right, mister. Try again.” She plunked Dude on Jim’s red velvet lap, which was covered with dog hair of every color. “Now smile for the nice lady.”

  Dude offered a contrite whine, and Jim placed a firm grip on the jingle bell collar.

  “Say ‘reindeer,’” the photographer ordered, a bit of desperation in her voice.

  Jim forced a smile, and the dog at least looked at the camera.

  “You’re done, fella,” the photographer said with relief.

  Gracie took the leash and handed the now acquiescent Dude off to a kennel helper, who dashed down the corridor to keep up with the prancing canine.

  “Only five more dogs,” Jim sighed. “Marc owes me big time for this gig. I’m sure he delayed his return flight just so I’d be forced into this sweat suit.”

  Gracie nodded. “You might be right, but it’s all for a good cause. Remember the proceeds go to the church’s food pantry this year.”

  “Sure. Whatever. You’re on for next year’s worthy cause. Okay, who’s next?”

  Jim turned to find a black Lab with a grizzled muzzle lumbering toward him. A ruff of red and white was around his neck, and a set of felt antlers perched on his head.

  “Oh good. Come on, Clancy old boy,” Jim called, and the dog sat obediently at his black-booted feet.

  “Looks like you can handle this one,” Gracie said. “I’ve got a bunch of stuff to finish before tonight.”

  The camera flashed several times as she made a quick exit to the office. Her phone dinged a text notification, and she resisted the temptation to look at it. She couldn’t afford any interruptions for the next hour at least. Her tasks for the Minders were bittersweet. She had no idea how the church would function after their departure. And how would her mother fare? Gloria Minders, her best friend and co-conspirator for all manner of adventures, was leaving Deer Creek for the sand and sun of Florida. How would she herself cope? Alfred Minders had been her pastor, counselor, and pretty much a second dad on occasion.

  She considered the ramifications of their exodus for the community. Change wasn’t pleasant, but life was a series of changes and seasons. Who would’ve believed five years ago that she’d be the co-owner of a successful kennel and now an in-demand dog training facility? Her marriage to Marc was new territory too. The pain of Michael’s death was distant, and her new life with a husband who traveled much of the time in a dangerous security business kept her anxious, but not as much as it had the first few months. Swiping the screen of her laptop, she began the search for the perfect gift the committee wanted for a retiring pastor and his wife.

  The phone announced another text that she deliberately ignored, studying the antique Bibles available from the Purveyor of Rare Scriptures website.

  The clatter of heels and a demanding female voice announced the arrival of her perpetually irascible cousin, Isabelle. Drat! Why now?

  Isabelle’s high-powered perfume drifted into the office before she did.

  “Gracie, have you heard?”

  “Heard what?” Gracie asked in a weary monotone, staring at the computer screen.

  “Another wise man has been stolen from the church’s nativity.”

  “Not another one!” She looked up and gave Isabelle her full attention. The mysterious disappearance of the life-size wise men had started last week. Set up on the first Sunday of Advent, the Deer Creek Community Church had displayed the beautiful, hand-carved wooden nativity since she was a small girl. The paint finishes on the set had worn down to a warm patina. The nativity was the centerpiece of the village’s Christmas celebration every year and attracted people from all around the county during Advent.

  “I’m sure it’s those kids that are always hanging around the computer store. They’re up to no good.”


  Gracie’s eyebrows rose, incredulously appraising her cousin’s righteous indignation. This from Isabelle … who hadn’t attended church in over two years.

  “The computer store closed six months ago. I haven’t seen any kids around there.”

  “I have. They’re suspicious-looking, clutching their phones, and their hair hangs down over their eyes.”

  Gracie sat back in her chair, watching Isabelle clutch her own phone with the glittery cover, her red nail polish lending a holiday flair to the pose.

  “Well, that clinches it then. You’d better round them for up an interrogation.”

  Isabelle screwed up her face in disgust. “Don’t be so flip. It’s a tradition and especially important this year.” She pulled a compact from her handbag and inspected her perfect air-brushed features.

  “I know. I’m upset about this too. The nativity has never been touched before.”

  “It’s disrespectful to the entire village, and whoever they are should be caught and soon.” Isabelle snapped the compact shut and returned it to her bag.

  Gracie nodded. For once she had to agree. “I’ll check with Dad and see what they’re going to do about it.”

  “I’ve already spoken with Uncle Bob and also mentioned I’d be willing to serve on the search committee for the next pastor.”

  Gracie sucked in a ragged breath, not trusting herself to answer civilly. Carefully she proceeded.

  “Why would you be interested? You’re so busy.”

  “It’s my duty, and I’ve been thinking about attending again if a younger and more energetic minister is hired … of course.”

  “I see. I think the members are already selected.”

  “That’s what Uncle Bob said, but if someone drops out, I’m available.”

  Isabelle’s phone chimed and she whirled out of the doorway without any farewell. Gracie sighed and peered at the web page, full of a bewildering array of matted and framed pages from famous Bibles and manuscripts from classic religious writers. She had absolutely no idea what the pastor would enjoy. Maybe he’d rather have something frivolous like a golf membership. Maybe a gift card to a sporting goods store. She scanned the choices in the price range she’d been given. There was no way she was taking full responsibility for this choice. She decided to print off the items for the committee’s recommendation. Her phone dinged again. Who was texting her every other minute?