Holly and Homicide (10 page)

“I’m on my way.”

“Good. See you soon.”

Audrey immediately asked me what was wrong, and I filled her in on the gist of my conversations with Mackey and now Steve.

“Oh, sweetie, don’t let it get to you. Apparently the sheriff’s doing that with everyone. He insinuated that I’d go to great lengths on Wendell’s behalf.”

“Including murdering the building inspector? He thinks that would keep your relationship going smoothly?”

“Apparently. He advised me not to leave town.”

“He told me the same thing. This is beyond infuriating.”

“I agree,” she said. “Meantime, Chiffon Walters seems to have all the men in town wrapped around her little finger. Including Sheriff Mackey.”

It would be in keeping with the way things had been going lately if Chiffon, the one person Sheriff Mackey did not seem to suspect, turned out to be the killer.

“It’s time to get serious about Christmas preparations,” Audrey announced after dinner. The two of us were just putting away the last of the dishes. Steve and Henry had made our dinner of grilled chicken, green beans, and baked potatoes tonight.

“I can’t think about Christmas preparations right now, Audrey,” I replied. “It’s been ‘firmly suggested’ to me that I don’t leave town. I can’t go back home to Crestview without raising the sheriff’s suspicions. I can’t even go home to Hildi this weekend, let alone make blue-and-purple runners and wreaths.”

“I realize that. That’s why we’re working on something fun and low-key this evening.”

“I’m with you so far.”

“We’re coming up with a new eggnog recipe. Based on an old reliable one I’ve used for years. You can be my co-taster.”

I grinned. “Wonderful idea, Audrey! That’s the kind of project I can fully throw myself into.”

She lifted a bottle of rum from the liquor cabinet. “There’s the spirit.”

“Rum? Not bourbon?”

“Good point.” She grabbed a bottle of bourbon, too. “We’ll try both and choose the best flavor.” She turned on the radio, which was already set to a classical station playing a seasonal piece.

“So what should I do first? Separate the eggs? Beat the yolks?”

“Done. I’ve already got the basic eggnog recipe made up and properly chilled. All that’s left for you and me to do now is select a new, special ingredient to jazz it up, and choose between the bourbon and the rum.” She gestured at the stools behind the island.

I sighed happily and slid into the closest seat at the kitchen table. “I love cooking.”

She removed a bowl with a spout built into its rim from the refrigerator.

“I wanted to try to add something that might turn the eggnog a Christmas color.”

“Eww. We’re talking red or green, here, aren’t we? Not blue or purple?”

“Yes. So originally I was thinking maybe lime juice …”

“You actually
want
to get us halfway to Dr. Seuss’s
Green Eggs and Ham?”

She clicked her tongue. “That book has a happy ending, if you’ll recall. In any case, lime juice wouldn’t really get us to green, so I thought we’d try a nice green crème de menthe in the eggnog. For the second and third experiments, we’ll add cranberry juice and sugar to cut down on the tartness of the juice. One with rum, the other bourbon. For the last one, I thought we’d go with chocolate sauce and kahlua, just because it’s hard to go wrong with chocolate. With just a dash of rum. And a dollop of whipped cream. Possibly leaving out the eggnog altogether.”

She whisked and stirred and slid me a cup of the slightly green eggnog, which she’d sprinkled with nutmeg. Gamely, I took a sip, which almost made me gag. “No to the crème de menthe.”

“Would adding rum or bourbon help?” She took a sip herself, made a face, and promptly chucked the drink down the drain. “I’m going to say no.”

We both loved the cranberry eggnog with rum, which tasted better than the bourbon version, and then moved on to her version of a white Russian—eggnog in the place of milk and rum replacing the vodka. She kept fiddling with the combinations, but after my fifth or sixth sip, I said, “You know, Audrey, I much prefer the cranberry nog. It’s pretty and pink, and if I want a chocolate-flavored drink, I really prefer a shot of schnapps in my cup of cocoa.”

She nodded, poured herself a cup of the cranberry nog, and we clinked glasses. “Good teamwork, Erin.” “Glad I could help.”

Cranberry Nog

6 egg yolks

6 tablespoons sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

1½ cups chilled medium cream

4 cups cranberry juice

6 egg whites

6 tablespoons sugar

1½ cups rum

½ teaspoon nutmeg

Beat egg yolks, sugar, and vanilla until very thick and lemon-colored. Gradually add cream and continue to beat until blended. Stir in cranberry juice and rum.

Beat egg whites until frothy. Gradually add sugar, beating well after each addition. Continue to beat until soft peaks form.

Gently fold egg whites into cranberry mixture. Chill in refrigerator 20 minutes before serving. Sprinkle with nutmeg for garnish.

M
onday morning, I watched Ben tack up the last sheet of Masonite board. The rough backing of the panels truly
was
the color of gingerbread, and so that was the side that Chiffon had told Ben to expose. Although, she’d thankfully resisted having him retile the roof in pseudo Thin Mints, Ben had dutifully added rows of scalloping just under the eaves, extending halfway down the third-story windows. Chiffon had painted the scallops pink, purple, and lavender. She’d also cut out a hundred corrugated cardboard circles, which she then spray-painted red
or green—M&M’s, presumably. These she’d had Ben staple in a zigzag pattern to the ghastly façade between the second-floor windows.

The only good thing about her design was that she’d done nothing to mar the shutters; she’d instructed Ben to cut the Masonite to fit around them. (I’d warned Chiffon that I love the aesthetics of shutters so much that if she messed with even one, I’d quit on the spot. That might have factored into her singular nod to good taste.) Even so, the overall emotional impact that her design had on me was tantamount to having a toddler run amok in my living room with a set of permanent markers. Shamefully, I endured the outrage by imagining myself shaving Chiffon’s head and gluing zigzagging red and green dots to her scalp, followed by painting pink and purple scallops on her face.

Acting very much like the teenager that she’d been just a couple of years ago, Chiffon came bounding out of the inn to stand beside me on the sidewalk and observe the finished product. Behind us, the sparse traffic was slowing down as drivers and passengers paused to gawk. “You see that, Erin?” she cheerfully announced. “We’re attracting all kinds of attention to the inn!” She waved at the driver of an SUV who was gaping at the inn in apoplectic dismay. He drove off without acknowledging her.

“Yes, we sure are.” In less than a week’s time, the Goodwin estate had gone from the highlight to the low-light of my career. I was now going to have to park my Sullivan & Gilbert Designs van in the back parking area, out of eyeshot from the road.

Chiffon sighed happily. “It’s going to look really pretty
at sunset, when your Christmas lights first turn on. The place will look like a gigantic lit-up candy cottage.”

“And it will look even prettier when the sun’s gone down completely.”

She missed my sarcasm and called out compliments to Ben for his “outstanding job.” He climbed down the ladder and then approached, his shoulders slumped and his gait heavy. He looked physically pained by the monstrosity he’d been forced to create. I said to him, “Do you think you can install a mooring, for lack of a better word, in the front yard? We’ll have to figure out a way to secure the large sled that Steve’s renting. Snowcap Inn is liable if the thing gets stolen.”

“No problem,” Ben said. “I could just sink a metal fastener into a cement pylon in the rock garden at the head of the driveway. And get a long, sturdy chain.”

“That should work.”

“It’s too bad Steve Sullivan said he wouldn’t be able to rent a team of reindeer,” Chiffon said. “That would have really made an impression on everyone in town. We could have put jingle bells on their collars and harnesses, and pulled the sleigh through downtown Snowcap Village. And we could have gotten Wendell Barton to dress up like Santa. I was going to make up flyers attached to little bags of candy for Wendell to distribute to all the downtown shoppers and children. I even wrote an advertising slogan: ‘You always win when you stay at Snowcap Inn!’”

“Catchy,” I replied.

“Oh, that’s nothing, really. I’ve written several songs myself, you know. I’m chilling for now …taking a break
from the stress and grind of the life of a pop star, but I have a natural talent for words.”

“That must be really fun for you.”

“Thanks.” She gestured at the house. “And I have a passion for design, as well.”

I managed a nod, and more important, to hold my tongue; at the moment I’d been thinking that it was too bad her “passion” wasn’t for being the first woman to walk on the moon.

Five days had now passed since Angie’s murder, and I was growing uneasy. All indications were that no progress whatsoever had been made in the investigation. With Sheriff Mackey’s instructions not to leave town, I’d had to extend my cat-sitter’s duties to include weekends, even though I desperately longed for the comfort of home, hearth, and Hildi. Making matters worse, Steve had seemed to take my melancholy personally, as if his presence should fill my each and every want. Yesterday afternoon, Audrey had been unable to attend Angie’s service, but Steve and I had suffered through the discomfort of whispered voices and stares from the countless attendees. In a town that had recently been tiny and close-knit, it would have been human nature to assume that the killer was an outsider, as opposed to one of their own.

We were also getting into a time crunch. Christmas Eve was two weeks from today. The steps were still barricaded behind crime-scene tape. The water filter had been lost in transit—the shipment seemed to have gotten bogged down somewhere in Milwaukee, probably while the deliverymen made a pit stop at a brewery.

“Ben? Erin?” Chiffon said, jarring me from my reverie. “Look! Some of our neighbors are coming over to say hi.”

I followed Chiffon’s gaze. A dozen neighbors were gathering on the sidewalk at the base of the hill. They all stood together chatting for a minute, then they headed toward us. “At least they don’t seem to be carrying any tar or feathers.”

“What do you mean?” She looked at me, blinking in the bright sun. A sincerely baffled expression put small worry lines on her otherwise flawless skin. “Why would anyone want to add tar or feathers to our Christmas decorations?”

“Erin means that this group is unhappy about our turning the inn into an oversized candy cottage,” Ben explained. “I tried telling you ’bout that the other day. They have town ordinances that limit the size of the holiday display.”

“That just seems very un-Christmassy of everyone to me,” she muttered. “They need to get into the true spirit of the holidays.” But she quickly turned on a full-wattage smile as the minimob reached the property line. “Good afternoon, friends! Merry Christmas! I’m Chiffon Walters, part owner of the inn. And you are …?”

“Irate at your tacky Christmas display!” the middle-aged woman who appeared to be leading the pack retorted. “If you want to call this monstrosity a ‘Christmas display,’ that is. Seems like blasphemy to me. Why would you want to hide the lovely siding behind ugly brown boards and all those red and green dots?”

“Because gingerbread is brown, and the dots are M-and-M’s. And I’m putting up candy cane light poles, all
along the front walk, which will help tie everything together. Plus, we’re in the process of getting a Santa’s sleigh, silver-painted chocolate kisses, and big gumdrops. This house is every kid’s dream!”