The Case of the Missing Elf: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 2) (17 page)

I
t was nearing five thirty when I arrived at Wendy’s house. The first thing that struck me when Wendy opened the door was the absence of a home cooked meal. I wondered if I’d missed something this morning. Had Wendy told me I was cooking tonight. If so, I didn’t remember it.

“I’m so glad you’ve arrived,” she said, closing the door behind me. “I’d have hated to start without you.”

“Start what?”

“Fried chicken. You’ve told me how fond of it you are and how your father dislikes making it. It’s tonight’s lesson. Follow me.”

Oh, great. A dish my father was afraid to tackle, and Wendy expected me to whip it out? And I was exhausted. My session with Ginger and Agnes had left me drained and discouraged.

“I’ve already marinated the chicken in buttermilk for you. It’s fantastic that way. Now, all you need to do is bread the pieces and fry them.”

“I hope you’ve got a backup plan in case I mess this up.”

“Nonsense. You’ll do fine.”

I shimmied out of my parka and scarf, deposited them in the closet, and followed Wendy into the kitchen.

A large implement sat, center stage, on a near counter. Wendy caught the drift of my gaze. “Go ahead,” she said. “Start up the fryer.”

I walked up to the thing. “This?” I asked resting a hand on its top.

“Yes, please set it for three hundred seventy five degrees.”

I peered down at the contraption and did as asked. “Done.”

“Good. Now, come over here.”

I sidled up beside her. She pointed to a large bowl. “Now, you’re going to put flour,  cornmeal, thyme, paprika, salt, and pepper in this bowl. When you’re finished, take a fork and mix them together nicely. The measurements are all written down here.” She pointed to a pad of paper next to the bowl.

While I was assembling the dry stuff, she crossed to the refrigerator and returned with a collection of chicken pieces, all marinating in a large, plastic container. This she placed next to my bowl of dry goodies.

“Okay, now we’re going to walk the two bowls over to the fryer. When it reaches the proper temperature, you just pick up a piece of chicken from the buttermilk  bowl with a pair of tongs. Then, you dip that piece in your dry mixture and lower the coated piece into the fryer.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

I waited until the fryer reached the specified temperature and then did as instructed.

Wendy said, “Just a few pieces at a time will do quite nicely. We don’t want to overload the fryer. That might drop the temperature of the oil too much. So take care of these, then we’ll do more batches.”

“Okay.”’

“Don’t forget to set the timer.”

“Ah… for how long?”

“We can start checking them at eight minutes. Then, you flip the pieces over and continue cooking until the juices run clear.”

“Juices run clear?” I muttered darkly. “What does that mean?”

“It means when you stick a fork in it, blood doesn’t run out.”

Oh, ugh.

“It’s really not difficult,” Wendy said. “Now, while those first pieces are frying, we’ll grab a baking tray and put a rack on it. That will keep the cooked bits warm while we finish frying the rest of the chicken.”

I reached up with my forearm and wiped perspiration from my brow. I was beginning to see why Dad didn’t care to fuss with this dish.

“Now,” Wendy said, “let’s start the potatoes.”

“Potatoes?”

“Yes, I like mashed potatoes with my chicken. How about you?”

“Who’s making them?”

“You are.”

“Right.”

“I’ve already peeled them for you.” She showed me a bowl filled with water and naked spuds.

“Thank you.”

“And I’ve already salted the water and have fired it up on the burner there.” She pointed to a pan sitting at the front of the stove. “When it comes to a boil, you add the spuds, and voila.”

“Right.”

“Let’s check the chicken, shall we?”

“Sure.”

So after about a half hour of blood, sweat, and toil, I carried our perfectly cooked dinner to the table.

It all looked and smelled fantastic. And if I say so myself,  it even tasted like it’d been produced by a cooking pro.

I collapsed into bed that night, exhausted by my early start to the day with the news of Porter’s murder, and ending that night with a taxing bout in the kitchen. I only hoped tomorrow would prove more normal.

~~~

Wendy and I made do with bowls of cereal the next morning. She had offered to make potato pancakes from the leftovers. But I’d declined her kind offer. I intended to eat nothing but lettuce leaves for weeks to come.

And if overconsumption hadn’t already dampened my appetite, today’s edition of the
Times
certainly might. Their coverage of Porter’s murder loomed large above the fold on their front page.

The timing of the discovery of Porter’s body meant their murder story and ours would come out the same day. I felt the pressure. I’d be hard pressed to top their coverage.

All of which served to remind me that I’d shorted my work duties to pursue a killer. Where, I wondered with a sigh, were my priorities? I’d have to watch that tendency in the future.

“More coffee, dear?” Wendy asked.

“Please.”

I was going to need every drop of energy I could muster if I intended to do a decent job on Porter’s  murder story. And all before the
Gazette
went to press shortly before noon.

~~~

I arrived at work early that day, leaving me plenty of time to handle routine news tasks and to put finishing touches to Porter’s  murder story. After having called the police departments and fed a couple of obits into the system, I turned my attention to the murder write up, going through it several times. With mind bending concentration, I checked facts and details, style and pace. But it wasn’t until my third time through the story that I realized there was an important part missing.

I rubbed my temples and pondered what I saw as a problem. How had the police known there was a murder to be investigated inside a dark house at three in the morning? How had they been informed?

I picked up the phone and punched in Gossford’s number.

“Melanie,” he said as a greeting.

It always startled me. Someone on the phone knowing who I was before I could announce my name. “Hi,” I managed to respond.

“You’re calling early.”

“Yes, but don’t worry, I’ll come back at you before deadline.”

“Lucky me.”

Since I wasn’t quite sure how he meant that last line, I decided to overlook it. “I’ve come up with a question, I hoped you’d answer for me.”

“And?”

“What sent you to Porter’s house yesterday morning?”

“Well, that’s easy. We got an anonymous tip.”

“You’re kidding. Who would know there was a body to be found there at that hour? No one usually goes calling at three or four in the morning. So who found the body and how did they do it?”

“Since the call was anonymous, I guess we’ll never know.”

“Was the caller male or female?”

“The dispatcher said the voice could have been either.”

Terrific, I thought. That certainly narrowed it down.

“Melanie?”

“Yes, I’m still here. I was thinking, that’s all.”

“Any thoughts you’d care to share with me?”

“Not really. There’s nothing I actually know yet.”

“You aren’t doing it again, are you?”

“Doing what?”

“Messing around in my murder investigation.”

“No. Not at all.”

Ugh
. I hated lying. But if he hadn’t picked on poor Wendy, I’d be well outside this mess.

“I’m glad to hear you’re keeping out of it. It’s safer that way. And I have saved a bone for you.”

“You have?”

“Yes. The
Times
doesn’t have this yet.”

“What?” I asked, nearly salivating at the prospect of besting the competition. I grabbed my pen, eager to make note of the information.

“There were signs of a break in. The glass on the home’s back door had been shattered. But nothing inside the house was missing.”

“So you’re ruling out a burglary?”

“Yup.”

“Of course,” Gossford continued, “there wasn’t much in Porter’s place worth stealing if you want my humble opinion. Which isn’t, I might add, for publication. The opinion part, that is.”

“Got it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, go do what you do best.”

“What’s that?”

“Write.”

And so I did. The story I ended up with that day was passable. Not award winning, maybe. But it was good, serviceable writing containing a number of good, hard facts. And it came with the lovely little bonus of having a smidge of information not covered in the
Times
’ story. I really owed Gossford for that.

W
hile what I’d done at work that day was logical and helpful, my actions that night were driven by pure desperation. But I wasn’t alone in my pursuit. Dear Wendy had opted to come with me.

So that’s how it was, that at about eleven that night, Wendy and I crept out her back door and headed for the carriage house. The world we walked through was frigid. My breath frosted over beneath my nose. The cold penetrated my jacket. But although I was chilled, Wendy and I moved slowly and cautiously toward our destination, hopeful that no one would notice us.

We’d done our best to blend in with the darkness around us. Wendy wore a black coat, and slacks, and shoes. She even had a black stocking cap on with her white hair tucked up tightly beneath it. Fortunately, my parka, though not black, was a  dark color. And I’d pulled its hood up to provide additional camouflage. My jeans were a deep indigo, which was, I figured, close enough.

At least Mother Nature had smiled on us, I thought. Cloudy skies blocked the light from a full moon, and it was as dark and inky a night as any burglar could wish for.

“You’ve got the key?” I whispered at Wendy who was creeping along beside me.

“Yes, dear. I told you that before we left the house.”

“I only wanted to check.”

“We could return to my place. It isn’t too late, you know.”

“No, but maybe you should.”

“Nonsense. Barnaby might have died in that apartment, but I own it. If anyone has a right to break into it, it’s me.”

“I’m not sure the police would see it quite that way.”

“Oh, shaw. What do they know?”

“Okay,” I said, putting my foot on the first step leading to the apartment. “Here we go.”

Once we reached the top of the stairs, I made short work of ripping off the crime scene tape and unlocking the door. And with Wendy pushing me on from behind, we tiptoed into the darkened apartment.

After closing the door behind us, I paused and listened to Wendy gasping for air. I suspected this gambit of ours was more taxing than she cared to admit. “You don’t have to stay,” I said. “You can go home anytime you please. I’ll be fine.”

“I might,” she replied, “But for now, I’m alright.”

“Promise me you’ll leave if that changes?”

“Yes, dear. I will.”

“Good.”

I grabbed a deep breath. The air filling my lungs seemed stale and tasted of dust, while in the distance, I heard the rumble of a furnace coming to life. Reminding myself of my task, I moved  quickly to the living room window. I snapped the blinds shut and switched on the flashlight. Then turning, I followed its narrow beam back to the small desk in the corner  — to the drawer holding Barnaby’s  bank records.

As Wendy and I had earlier agreed, I snatched them up. We wanted to remove the  papers, so we could take them back to Wendy’s place to examine them closely. I sighed with relief as I slipped the documents into a plastic bag. One goal accomplished, I thought.

“What next?” Wendy asked softly. She stood firmly entrenched inside the front door.

“I’m going to check the bedroom. You wait here.”

“Yes, dear,” Wendy responded, ”I think that’s a very good idea.”

I smiled and understood her discomfort. I wasn’t even entirely sure why I was pressing on deeper into forbidden territory like this. I’d never considered myself a brave person, and at this moment, I felt I was pushing my limit. But I quietly pressed on down the hallway.

After a second or two,Wendy called out softly from behind me, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” I was almost to the bedroom door. It offered me hope that this ordeal might soon end.

“Melanie,” Wendy said in a stage whisper. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to stand outside the door.”

“That’s fine. Why don’t you go home. There’s nothing for you to do here.”

“No, I refuse to run off on you. It’s  just that I feel I can’t breathe in here.”

“I understand. But if you see any movement or anything suspicious, run for the house.”

“No, dear. I’ll alert you first, then run.”

Biting back a smile, I heard the door click softly shut, and I switched off the flashlight. This was a crime scene. Even in this room I needed to take precautions to keep light from spilling forth and alerting others to my presence. Slowly, feeling my way in the dark, I pushed on toward the window. After closing the drapes tightly, I flipped  the flashlight back on.

Pausing a moment, I forced myself to breathe evenly while I studied the objects around me. Nightstand. Chest of drawers. Closet. Pillows. Bed. The space beneath it. Which hiding place would Scroggins have chosen, that is if he had indeed hidden anything in this room?

I shook my head. I didn’t even know what I was searching for let alone where to find it. I only hoped I’d recognize the thing when I saw it —  whatever
it
was. Deciding to start with the nightstand, I plowed through its single drawer swiftly. Found nothing. Then, I moved to the dresser. And there, in the bottom drawer, folded into the depths of a large comforter, I discovered a tiny diary. I could see how previous searchers might have missed it. Only someone as desperate as I would have searched the dense folds for such a small object.

With a trembling hand, I pulled the little book free. I couldn’t imagine what information its pages might contain. But I had no doubt this was the object I sought.

Tucking it safely inside the plastic bag with the bank records, I turned and fled the room.

~~~

“What do you suppose is inside it?” Wendy asked. Her trembling hand reached out and stroked the soft cover of the little black book.

We were safely back inside Wendy’s kitchen, and I for one was glad of it. I only hoped this little gem was worth the risk we had taken to get it. “I guess we won’t know what’s inside until we open it.”

“I’ll get the coffee.”

I sank into the chair and pulled the book to me. The banking records remained in the center of the table, still wrapped up in plastic. Wendy and I had decided to let them go until later. For now, we were intrigued with the book.

I let my gaze wander across its cover. “Should I open it?  See what’s so precious that it had to be hidden deep in the folds of a comforter?”

“Oh, yes. Please do.”

“I’ll wait until you return to the table.”

Wendy soon arrived with two coffee mugs in her hands. “Oh, this is almost like Christmas.”

“We don’t know what’s in here yet,” I cautioned her. “It could be welcome news, or it could be something you’d rather not know.”

She raised her chin, “No matter what the news is, I’d rather know than not.”

“Okay, then. Here goes.”

While Wendy viewed the exploration of this book with high anticipation, my feelings trended more toward dread. I thought the book might be linked in some way to Barnaby’s mysterious source of cash. And whatever link that might be, I doubted it was an honest one.

I flipped back the cover and studied the first page. “It’s a list of names,” I said.

“Whose?” Wendy asked.

I let my gaze trail down the page, but I didn’t recognize any of the people listed there. “I don’t know,” I said. I moved on to the next page and had the same result. So I plowed on, turning one page after another and another until finally, on about the fifteenth page, I encountered a name I recognized. It belonged to none other than Harold Sparks. And I immediately realized when I met at the restaurant that day with the man he had obviously lied to me. His differences with Scroggins had obviously run much deeper than he’d confessed.

Below his name came another one I knew, that of our new
restaurateur
, Roger Bradley.

“What is it?” Wendy asked. “What have you found?”

“I’m not sure.” But the uncomfortable memory of Ginger’s suggestion of blackmail drifted into my mind. It was not a suspicion I wanted to share with Wendy. “Let’s look at the bank records. Let’s see what they say.”

I slipped on a pair of gloves and pulled the bank records from their plastic sleeve. Dividing the stack of paper into two sections, I slid one half to Wendy along with another pair of latex gloves. “What are we looking for?” she asked.

“Anything unusual.”

She leaned forward and studied the papers closely, taking her time and reviewing one page after the other. “I don’t understand this. I’m seeing regular deposits into his checking account. I can’t imagine where this money came from.”

I studied my stack and found the same pattern. “He obviously had an outside source of income. One you knew nothing about.”

Wendy’s stared at me perplexed. “How could he? He didn’t work.”

“Did you give him any cash?”

“From time to time. But nothing I gave him came close to these amounts. And to think I felt sorry for him... more fool me.”

“Don’t blame yourself. How were you to know?”

Wendy studied me, her grey eyes sad. “Do you know where this money came from?” she asked.

“I’ve heard a guess, but I’d rather not repeat it until I know if it’s true.”

“Whatever it is, it can’t have been honorable.”

‘Let’s wait and see.”

Later, upstairs, in my bedroom, I grabbed my cell phone.

“Ginger?”

“Hello, Melanie. What do you want?”

“Breakfast.”

“Now?”

“In the morning. Meet me?”

Ginger sighed. “How early?”

“How about nine?”

“That’s a whole world better than seven. But this still better be important.”

“I need your opinion.”

“On what?”

“I’d rather not say on the phone.”

“That’s intriguing.”

“What’s heading your way is rather eye-opening, yes.”

~~~

“This is so cute,” Ginger said, flipping through the pages of Scroggins’ little book. “What’s it mean?”

The hum of fellow breakfast diners drifted past us. It was another cold day, and even this late in the morning, the Shopping Basket contained a good number of diners wolfing down scrambled eggs and sausages.

“I think it proves that your suggestion was correct.”

Her gaze jerked back up to mine.“  Blackmail?”

“That would be my guess.”

“But I’ve never heard most of these names,” she protested.

“I know. I think the early names are from where he lived before he returned to Cloverton.”

“So he’s been at it a long time?”

“That would be my guess. And apparently with the addition of two local names on that last page, he was still at it.”

“Bradley,” she chortled.

“Oh, come on, just because you don’t like him….”

“Well, I’ll allow that he makes good hot chocolate. but seriously, what kind of sins do you think these people committed?”

“Who knows?”

“Was Porter in on this?”

“Since he’s dead, I think he must have been, either as an active participant while Scroggins was alive, or by trying to take over the business after his partner died.”

“But what could any of these people have done that they’d pay big money to hush it up? You did say the deposits in Scroggins’ checking account were hefty.”

“That’s right.”

I thought of Sparks, a man who’d obviously had grand plans for himself. He might indeed shell out money rather than see his career slip even lower that it was. And Bradley, I wondered? What could he have done? He hadn’t even lived here for much more than six months. Plus, it was possible the killer was from out of town. Perhaps one of the men listed in the beginning pages of the book came here and killed Scroggins.

“So what do we do now?” Ginger asked.

“You, nothing. Me, I’m going to have a long talk with Roger Bradley.”

“I am right, aren’t I? “ Ginger asked. “This about all but clears Agnes?”

“Just about,” I agreed.