The Mistletoe Murders Page 3

  “I will. He should be up pretty soon.”

  Bob glanced up at the apple-shaped clock on the wall. He took a last gulp from the mug decorated with holly before setting it on the table. “Your mother has errands for me to do this morning, so I’d better get a move on.”

  Gracie was loading the dishwasher when Marc padded into the kitchen, his short blond hair rumpled and eyes still heavy with sleep. Max and Haley trailed after him, the pair making a right turn toward the French doors in the living room.

  “Good morning, handsome husband. Oatmeal is on the stove.”

  She gave him a kiss on the cheek on her way to let the dogs out into the backyard.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled. He took a bowl from the cupboard by the range and looked at the pan of oatmeal. “Coffee first,” he said to himself and dropped a pod into the coffeemaker, watching the dark brew fill the snowman mug.

  Cold air swept into the warm kitchen when Gracie reopened the French doors and called for the dogs. Tails wagging, the pair plunged noses into full bowls of food. Haley finished first and sniffed at Max’s bowl while he crunched down the last few mouthfuls of kibble.

  “Haley, leave him alone,” Gracie warned. “He’s got jet lag.”

  “That’s for sure,” Marc groaned. “What a trip. It sure didn’t help that the corporate jet was grounded with mechanical problems at the last minute. That commercial flight was a lucky break, but I had a heck of a time getting them to allow Max to sit with me. It was only half full, which is what convinced them in the end. I also had to keep him muzzled. They made us sit in the back, but we had a row to ourselves.”

  “Well, that’s good.” Gracie popped a coffee pod into the machine to brew another cup for herself.

  Marc settled in at the counter, sipping coffee. Gracie pushed a bowl of oatmeal toward him along with a spoon. He smiled, grabbing her hand and kissing it.

  “I’m glad to be home. Close the kennel and let’s hole up here until New Year’s,” he coaxed.

  Gracie pulled her hand away and smiled. “If only, dear. Our calendar is quite full from today until Christmas Eve.”

  “Well, let’s take today at least.”

  “I’d love to, but work is calling. I’m training Cheryl on the new scheduling software today.”

  “I’m free though,” he winked.

  “Uh … about that,” she started.

  “No, no, no. Please don’t tell me that something’s broken and needs fixing today.”

  “Absolutely not. All is well domestically as of this morning. But the remaining figures in the church’s nativity are being moved into the church today. My dad could use some help.”

  “Remaining figures?”

  “Yes. We have a Christmas thief. Someone has stolen the wise men and most of the animals in the last week.”

  “Any idea who it is?”

  “Not yet, but talk to my dad about it. He has some security footage. The sheriff’s department hasn’t been able to figure it out either.”

  “Probably some teenagers,” Marc said, dumping a generous spoonful of brown sugar on the oatmeal. “There’s a group that hangs out by the old computer store.”

  “You sound like Isabelle.”

  “Well, she could be right—at least this time.”

  “It’s a small person, so it could be. Whoever it is was well disguised, but the camera did catch someone for a few seconds.”

  She shoved a plate of toast across the counter, along with a jar of honey.

  “I suppose I need to take a look at it,” Marc stated with eyebrows raised.

  “I suppose that would be nice,” Gracie agreed, offering a wry smile.

  Marc sighed and picked up a piece of toast. “Welcome home to me.”

  Quentin Quigley, who was short in stature with dark-gray hair, sat in Marci’s office. His face was animated as he spread out the collection of sepia photos of the Mistletoe Mansion from the turn of the twentieth century.

  “I did another search through the archives on the property and came up with these last night,” he proudly announced in a surprising sonorous voice. “They were tucked in a file folder that was mislabeled.”

  “These are fabulous,” Marci exclaimed, studying the photos. The dark entry hallway had been wallpapered in a busy pattern with dark furnishings everywhere. It had given a sinister look to the entrance, which was now bright and welcoming. There were other photos of the gardens and the ballroom.

  “Now, I’d like to go through the presentation today if you have the time,” Quentin said. “I want to make sure that it’s what you want for your special weekend.”

  Marci hesitated. She had come to learn that Quentin was quite enamored of his speaking skills and took every opportunity to allow those around him to be favored with his rather extensive knowledge of Deer Creek and its vicinity. However, with the select crowd that was coming in a week’s time, she thought it best to edit out any excessive details Quentin may have embroidered into the narrative.

  “Sure, I think that’s a good idea. I’d like the staff to be present though. They need to be totally familiar with the history in case they’re asked questions by guests. How about this afternoon around 3:30?”

  Quentin pulled reading glasses from his shirt pocket along with a small black calendar book. Thumbing quickly through the pages, he cast an eye over his schedule.

  “That’s a good time. I’ll scan these photos for you to add to your scrapbook here if you’d like.”

  “Oh, that’s perfect. Thank you.” Marci handed the photographs back. Quentin might take himself a bit too seriously, but he was thorough. When she’d first begun the renovation, he’d helped catalog the bits of memorabilia she’d found in the attics of the house and hidden storage areas in the stables. She had discovered a diary of Agnes Mistletoe, the first mistress of the estate, and correspondence to Lily Mistletoe, the missing wife of Stephen. A green velvet gown with dark stains in the front had been found in the stable, tucked in a trunk. She was sure it had to be the unfortunate Serena’s, who’d been suspected of her fiancé’s murder. Even Pamela Mistletoe had left a remembrance of her life at the house. An unfinished manuscript about the family history had been uncovered when they’d renovated the bedrooms. The spidery handwriting was a headache to read, so she’d only been able to decipher a few chapters at any one sitting. It read like an implausible gothic novel, but she found it stimulating reading nonetheless.

  Marci rose with a smile. “See you at 3:30, Quentin. I have to check on the progress in the cellar now.”

  As if on cue, shouts came from below.

  “What’s wrong?” Marci yelled, wrenching open the cellar door.

  “Come down here, quick,” Joe Finnelli answered, matching her volume.

  Quentin was at her heels as she descended the steep stairs into the gloomy bricked cellar. Work lights shone harshly on the alcove. The faces of Joe and his apprentice were pasty, which made Marci’s stomach flip-flop.

  “You won’t believe this,” Joe said breathlessly. “We found the source of the water and began chipping out a bit of this wall,” he paused, pointing toward the alcove’s right-hand side.

  A dark hole yawned before them, and Marci immediately saw dollar signs floating out of the window. She would have to rebuild this wall.

  “Not more expense,” she complained.

  “I don’t know about that, but there are two skeletons in there. This is a false wall, hiding a crypt down here,” Joe explained. “I can’t believe it. The stories are true.”

  Marci’s knees felt a bit wobbly, and Quentin gasped behind her.

  “I’ll bet it’s Lily Mistletoe,” he warbled in a rather falsetto pitch. “Let me see.”

  He drew Marci unceremoniously out of the way and peered into the darkness.

  “I need a flashlight,” he demanded.

  Joe drew one from his toolbox and handed it to the agitated historian.

  “Jumping Jehoshaphat! He’s right. Two skeletons.”

 
Marci felt her knees buckle, and she grabbed at the wall for support.

  “Hey, Miss Drummond, are you all right?” Joe asked.

  “Give me a minute,” she replied, telling herself to breathe in and breathe out slowly and steadily. “I want to see.”

  She pushed away from the wall, feeling a bit steadier. Gripping the proffered flashlight from Quentin, she shone the light into the shallow space. The mustiness of the vault gave her a wave of nausea. Swallowing hard, she bent down to examine the find. One skeleton sat propped in a corner, tattered bits of black fabric on the shoulders, and a disintegrating cap on the lap. The other skeleton was prone, feet facing its companion. Shreds of fabric clung to the bones. She wasn’t sure of the color, but it also appeared that the remnants of a lace cuff lay on the damp earthen floor. It must be Lily Mistletoe. Who else could it be? And who was her gruesome friend?

  CHAPTER THREE

  The buzz of men’s voices and feet descending and ascending the cellar stairway filtered into the kitchen where Marci poured hot chocolate into two mugs. She settled onto a counter stool next to Gracie.

  “Any idea when they’ll be finished?” Gracie asked.

  Marci shook her head, twisting a piece of her dark hair around an index finger. “None at the moment. This is sort of a disaster, but I think a 120-year-old mystery has been solved. Maybe it’ll be good for the opening, but macabre.” She shivered and sipped at the hot drink.

  “Well, at least we know they’ve been there a long time and you don’t have a fresh body on your hands. That would be bad for business.”

  “Thank goodness for small favors,” Marci agreed grimly.

  “Ladies, I believe they’re about done,” Quentin reported, breezing into the kitchen, his eyes shining with excitement. “I haven’t had so much fun since—well, I’m not sure when. I’d better go home and write up my notes on this. We’ll need to arrange another time for that presentation demo.”

  “Of course,” Marci said. “Just call me tomorrow.”

  Quentin nodded and practically ran back through the ballroom to the front entrance.

  “Hey, uh, Miss,” a short, paunchy man grumbled, entering the kitchen from the cellarway door.

  “Hi, Doc,” Gracie greeted Ralph Remington, the county’s coroner.

  “Hi there, Gracie. Why are you here?” The perpetually grumpy doctor scratched his head and frowned.

  “Friend of Marci. Adding a bit of moral support.”

  “Oh, good. Well, I’ve pronounced both of them deceased, and the forensic guys have everything bagged up, so you can have the cellar back.”

  “Thank you, doctor.” Marci slipped off the stool and went to the stove. “Can I get you some hot chocolate?”

  “No. I’ve gotta run. Some dang meeting my wife arranged. My life is managed by others. I have no say in the matter.” He stuffed a dark-blue stocking hat on his gray head and exited the kitchen through the doorway that led to the herb garden, now frosted and brown except for a large rosemary bush covered in tiny colored lights.

  Gracie laughed. “It’s good to see Doc in the Christmas spirit.”

  Marci smirked. “Is he always so amiable?”

  “Oh yes. Sometimes even more than today,” Gracie rejoined with a grin.

  The four-member forensics team from the sheriff’s department gently carried two body bags through the kitchen on the heels of the longtime county coroner.

  A trim blond woman appeared next, her mouth set in a thin line as she looked at a small notebook. Sheriff Hotchkiss had personally come out for this peculiar call.

  “So, Sheriff, am I free to continue with my opening plans?” Marci asked.

  “I don’t see why not. These skeletons have been down there for a long time. Doc Remington was sure of that. Interesting bit of history coming to light for your opening though.” The woman’s eyes twinkled with humor.

  “Interesting all right, but not conducive to finishing the wine cellar on time,” Marci said. “You will let me know about the results of whatever you’re going to do with—uh, the deceased.”

  “I’d be glad to,” Sheriff Hotchkiss said. “The area has been cleared, so you can continue with your construction. We won’t need to come back, unless you stumble onto someone else.”

  “Good grief, I hope not!” Marci’s face turned pink, and a bit of perspiration gleamed along her upper lip.

  The sheriff checked her phone and looked up. “Well, I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing. Nice to see you, Gracie.”

  “And you too, Sheriff,” Gracie responded. The professional coolness wasn’t lost on her. Although their relationship had warmed a touch over the years, the new sheriff’s tone had a definite warning to it, as in stay out of my way.

  Marci went to the kitchen door and snapped the lock.

  “Are you going to be okay on your own?” Gracie asked, taking her mug to the sink and rinsing it out.

  “Sure. I’m fine. It’s a little gruesome though. Those two have been down there the whole time, and now a week from opening, they make their debut appearance.”

  Marci leaned against the large kitchen island. She grabbed another cookie from the glass jar in front of her.

  “You do know that everyone will want to see where they were found, don’t you?” Gracie pointed out. “This will be a big deal in town. You might want to delay the wine cellar for a bit or maybe even move it.”

  Marci flashed her friend a wry smile. “I should hire you for my marketing, Gracie. It’s a thought for sure, but not much in the holiday spirit.”

  “Ah, but it is definitely in the spirit of Lily and her beau,” Gracie said, laughing.

  “But it’s a sad story if that’s what really happened to Lily,” Marci said, collecting stray cookie crumbs from the counter into her hand.

  “It is, but we really can’t be sure until the bones are examined. Maybe these people just died of natural causes and were buried in the cellar because it was winter or something.”

  “Maybe,” Marci agreed reluctantly.

  “If you’re all right, I should get back to the kennel.”

  “I’m fine and have a ton of calls to make. This news will really pique the interest of the group I’ve invited. I’ll see you Sunday.”

  “Great. See you in church then.”

  Gracie drove carefully down the circular driveway to the road, looking back at the tri-colored Victorian monstrosity. Forest green was the main color with a deep red trim on the windows and cream accents on the gingerbread. The house that used to scare her and now looked so inviting, appeared to be the setting of a deadly mystery. What was once considered a legend, had turned out to be reality this afternoon. Was Lily’s husband Stephen a cunning murderer, or had there been some sort of altercation? Were there any more skeletons in the cellar? Still pondering the house’s mysterious past, she turned left toward Deer Creek.

  The church’s frosty lawn was bare except for the nativity’s stable front with its forlorn scattering of straw. Must be the guys had been able to move everything inside. Gracie didn’t see any other vehicles around, and the early December dusk fell over the village. Streetlights flickered on, and huge wreaths hung from the utility poles glimmered with white lights.

  She pulled into an empty parking space in front of Midge’s Restaurant. A couple was leaving the hometown eatery and held the door for her. Gracie sucked in the mouthwatering aromas of comfort food as the diminutive but ever-feisty Midge waved to her from the grill.

  “You want two specials to go, I’ll bet,” she called over the din of customer conversations.

  Gracie plunked down on the wobbly stool at the end of the u-shaped counter. She considered it her special spot since most everyone avoided sitting on it. The unpredictability of the red-vinyl covered stool gave it character in her opinion.

  “You win,” she said. “And a pie, if you have a whole one. Any kind is fine.”

  “No can-do on the pie,” Midge said, flipping four burgers and slapping slices of
cheddar over them.

  “What’s left then?”

  “Wait a second.” Midge slid the burgers onto toasted buns, crisscrossed two slices of bacon on the cheeseburgers, and then topped each with caramelized onions, plating them next to piles of sweet potato fries and coleslaw.

  “Orders up,” she called.

  Gracie spotted a waitress from the main dining room hurrying toward them.

  “Now, let me check on what pies are left.” Midge stood on her tiptoes, gazing up at the shelf that held at least ten different pie plates. “Okay, two slices of apple crumb, one banana cream, four mincemeat, one pumpkin, and uh, that’s it. Hey, these went fast tonight.”

  “I’ll say,” Gracie said glumly. “I was hoping for a whole one to last the week. Oh well, I’ll finish off the apple crumb then.”

  “It’s yours.”

  Midge reached for the apple pie and quickly slid the pieces into a clamshell container.

  “Here you go.” She turned her head and yelled, “Hey, back kitchen, two specials to go now!”

  Gracie cringed. Midge ran the place like a military operation with no room for error or slackers. However, she had a tiny contingent of longtime employees that kept things running smoothly, but most waitresses tended to come and go rather quickly.

  Just as the containers filled with luscious chicken and biscuits arrived, Quentin took a seat next to her.

  “What an afternoon, eh?” Quentin unbuttoned his coat and stuffed his gloves into the coat pockets.

  “Pretty wild, that’s for sure. I’m wondering if it really is Lily. It could be someone else.”

  “Hey, what’re you talking about?” demanded Midge from the large flattop. Nothing of interest escaped her bat-like hearing. “Is it about the nativity?”

  “No. Not this time,” Gracie began.

  Quentin puffed himself up a bit and proceeded to recount the discovery of the skeletal remains at The Mistletoe B & B. Midge’s face paled as he detailed the excavation and the appearance of the remains.

  “I knew there was a ghost up there,” Midge sputtered. “I’ll bet it was Lily all along. Maybe she’ll rest in peace now.”