Holly and Homicide (23 page)

Later that afternoon, Steve and I cuddled together on
our bed, while he told me his very dull story of how long it had taken him to ship the silver wreaths back, due to crowds and logistics troubles; I told him my relatively riveting story of my conversations with the bank teller,
Henry, Ben, and finally, Chiffon, followed by my suspicions regarding the latter.

Steve furrowed his brow. “I do have to admit that Chiffon tends to come on really strong to me whenever you’re not around.”

“She does?”

“’Fraid so.”

“Apparently I’m going to have to stop leaving you alone so often,” I muttered.

He gave me a sexy grin. “I’m all for that. Chiffon is nothing in comparison to you.”

At that, our bedroom door was flung open and Chiffon barged into the room unannounced. “Oh, oops,” she said with an edge to her voice. “I didn’t know you were here. I was just having fun, trying to follow your course of the Twelve Days of Christmas.”

“We’ve only gotten days one through five done,” Steve said. “More like days four-and-three-fifths, even.”

“You know, I
thought
there were more than three golden rings!” she exclaimed. She noticed my unhappy expression and said, “I should leave. ’Scuse the interruption.” She tiptoed out and ever so slowly shut the door behind her.

I sat there seething, certain that she’d had her ear pressed to our door, eavesdropping on our private conversation.

“Think she heard us?” Sullivan asked.

“Yep.”

He gave me a mischievous grin. “If you’re right about her being a serial killer, we know who her next victim will be. Been nice knowing you, Gilbert.”

“Oh, are you planning on kicking the bucket soon, Sullivan?” I retorted. “You’re equally likely to be in her crosshairs. Chiffon was rebuked at the party by Cameron shortly before
he
was killed. Now you’ve rebuked her, too.”

“True. Feels like we’re in the cast of
Ten Little Indians.”

I walked over to the window, wondering if the police crime-scene tape was still enclosing the sleigh. Not only was there no crime-scene tape, there was no sleigh; the police must have hauled it away as evidence while we were skiing, and I’d been too distracted to notice.

Just as I was about to turn away, I gasped at the sight of a man standing on the sidewalk, staring up at me. He turned away, but as he trotted past the lamppost, I recognized him. It was Ben Orlin.

I awoke at four-thirty from a bad dream about being unable to keep up with Cameron in a torrential storm, and couldn’t get back to sleep. At five
A.M.
, I got up and went downstairs. The kitchen was illuminated and the air was scented with a sweet, spicy aroma. At first I wondered if maybe Chiffon had managed to hire Alfonso, the pastry chef, after all. But when I entered the kitchen, I saw only Audrey, peering into the oven while the kitchen timer buzzed.

“Morning, Audrey. You’re baking molasses cookies?” I guessed from the aroma.

“More elaborate than that,” she said with a smile.

I glanced at the counters next to the oven.
She had bags of different types of candies along with her icing paraphernalia at the ready. The dead giveaway as to what she was baking, though, was that she had cut sides-of-house patterns from cardboard. Gingerbread! She removed a pair of cookie sheets from the oven.

“Oh, good for you. You’re making a gingerbread house. Is this for a segment on your show?”

She nodded. “Once I practice up a bit. I’ll present the how-to for the average baker-slash-hobbyist. I’ve also got a pair of experts scheduled who’ll share ideas for the high-end gingerbread builders. They’ve constructed full Victorian towns out of gingerbread, candy, and frosting. One of them built a five-car train, pulling up to Santa’s workshop.”

I glanced at a pair of thin pieces of wood, one inch wide by two feet long, on the countertop. “What are you using the wood trim for? Railroad tracks?”

“No. For now, I’m merely getting myself up to speed so that I can show how to bake simple, basic rectangular houses. The pieces of wood are gauges I use to keep the gingerbread a uniform thickness. I use my longest rolling pin and roll the dough directly onto the sheet, keeping the wooden slats pressed against opposite sides of the sheet.” Her cookie sheets, I noted, were open at three sides.

“Clever.”

“It took some experimenting. I had to learn to put
the cookie sheet and the wood slats on a damp cloth so they don’t slide so easily on the counter.”

“So the dough is rolled out to a perfectly uniform thickness—the thickness of the boards minus the cookie sheet,” I concluded.

“It still rises a bit unevenly as it bakes, but the beauty of plaster walls is their texture and unevenness. Same thing with gingerbread.”

“Sullivan and I should use your method to build our miniature models of our clients’ homes.”

“Which is precisely what I’ll make next. Once I’ve completed this practice house, that is; I’ll be making a model of the Snowcap Inn for my TV segment.” She leaned toward me and whispered, “Mine will be a lot cuter than Chiffon’s original.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment.” The only part of Chiffon’s design that I’d liked—the sleigh—had been hauled away as evidence. My spirits sagged. I needed a quick diversion. “You use a thick cardboard pattern to cut out the dough before it goes into the oven, I see.”

“Right. But I still need to do some trimming and fine-tuning,” she replied. “It’s best to do that while the gingerbread is still warm.”

While I watched, she cut out a semicircle window in the attic. “I like to use Life Savers to make colored glass for the windows. I just melt them on waxed paper, and fasten that to the inside walls behind the window cutouts.”

“That’ll be adorable. I just hope it doesn’t give Chiffon any ideas. Before we know it, she’ll be fastening colored plastic wrap to our windows.”

Audrey had no comment, absorbed as she was in cutting out a second semicircle window in the opposite wall. I glanced at her recipe card and asked, “How do you actually fasten the sides together?”

“With frosting. I pipe it on just like a thick bead of glue from a glue gun. But first, I put all of the pieces together for a trial assembly. To make sure everything fits before I turn off the oven, et cetera. And, since you’re here, you can help support the sides now while I check everything.”

I dutifully supported the outsides of the walls while she made some minor adjustments here and there, including carefully shaving off the occasional rough spot on an edge. Then she held the two slanted A-frame roof pieces on top.

“Looks good,” she said.

“You’re being too modest. It’s adorable! It’s going to be the perfect witch’s cottage from ‘Hansel and Gretel.’”

“You can let the sides lie flat again now.”

I did so gladly, relieved that they hadn’t crumbled in my hands. “I have to admit, I’ve never been all that much into baking,” I remarked. “I don’t think I could do this.”

“Oh, sure you could, if you wanted to.” Audrey grinned at me. “The success of a gingerbread house is
really contingent on the icing. You just have to use the icing bags with the right tips. I find it’s easier to lay the pieces out flat and decorate them first, and then assemble them. I use toothpicks a lot to help correct errors in my frosting designs. Sometimes I use a wet paintbrush and paint the dyed frosting on.” She started to expertly decorate the front of her house even as we spoke. I mused to myself that, once Mikara realized how good Audrey was at this sort of thing, Mikara would beg
her
to serve as the breakfast/pastry chef for the inn.

“Where did you get the gingerbread recipe?”

“Oh, just online. There are a ton of sites with recipes and construction tips. I got a great suggestion from one …to cover ice-cream cones in dark green frosting to look like fir trees. And to use the sections of graham crackers as shutters. I’m also going to build a snowman out of marshmallows …with pretzel sticks for arms.”

“And with peppercorns as its eyes and its semicircle smile?” I asked. “Ooh, and an orange sprinkle for its nose!”

“Is that your way of volunteering to help me?” Audrey asked.

“Sure. As long as I don’t have to appear on your television show, or do any of the actual baking or frosting.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll have the sides all ready to go in another twenty minutes, tops. I’m just going to have you hold them together while the frosting solidifies.”

I grimaced. “Gee, Audrey. Are you sure my degree from Parsons School for Design is enough training for me to hold gingerbread walls steady?”

“Yes, and in the meantime, I’ll let you look through the jar of sprinkles for the snowman’s orange nose,” Audrey retorted, without a hint of irony.

S
teve joined Audrey and me in the kitchen while we were putting the final touches on her gingerbread house. Although she’d done everything else herself, Audrey had eventually ceded control of the marshmallow snowman to me. When our work was complete, I sat down next to Steve at the kitchen table. He paused from eating his wheat flakes long enough to whisper in my ear that the snowman was his favorite design element, which, however silly, made me happy.

“I meant to ask you last night,” Audrey said to me,
bringing her steaming cup of coffee to the table, “what did Sheriff Mackey have to say about your skis?”

“He postulated that I could have booby-trapped them myself, and then he asked Steve if
he’d
done it. He didn’t even take the skis in as evidence.”

Audrey rolled her eyes. “Erin, you and I need to put our heads together and solve this case ourselves.”

“You’re right,” I replied casually. “Mackey couldn’t solve a simple math equation.”

“Excellent!” Audrey cried. “Let’s start today!”

“Seriously?”

Beside me, Steve stopped eating mid-bite.

“Of course,” she went on. “You’ve done this before. You
always
get the culprit. You’re an unstoppable force. If you ever get bored with interior design, you should consider advertising your skills in criminal investigations. You should be a paid professional.” She paused. “A professional
sleuth
, that is.”

I glanced at Steve, who clearly did not appreciate Audrey’s little motivational speech. “Since you two are deputizing each other, what do you want
me
to do?” Steve snapped. “Act as your muscle?”

“Excellent suggestion,” Audrey replied. “Dress in solid black and wear shades at all times. You can lurk behind us everywhere we go.”

Steve glowered into his bowl and resumed eating, spooning up the cereal with a vengeance. Despite his negative reaction, I was quickly warming to the idea of poking into Snowcap’s past with Audrey. Maybe both Ben’s and Mikara’s hostility toward Henry were linked to Angie’s
murder, and Cam had uncovered a murder clue that cost him his life.

“Actually, Steve,” I said gently, “the inspector’s scheduled to come out tomorrow morning to reexamine the wheelchair ramp. Could you double-check the specs against Ben’s work to make sure it will pass this time?”

He shifted his angry eyes to me. “In other words, you want me to do your work while you go off and play amateur detective with Audrey?”

“Just for a couple of hours this afternoon.”

“You nearly broke your neck skiing, thanks to the killer still running around loose! Tell you what,
you
stay here, treat the ramp measurements like we’re trying to pass a NASA inspection for a space launch, and
I’ll
go try and catch a killer with Audrey.”

“You’re trying to protect Erin. That’s sweet,” Audrey said, patting Steve’s hand. “She’s really got her hands full this morning, so she deserves to get out of the house this afternoon. She’s covering a wall in cloth, and we—”

“Wait,” Steve said and turned toward me. “We already painted the accent wall in our bedroom. You’re not applying the ten lords a-leaping toile fabric as if it were wallpaper, are you?” Although his brow was furrowed, he sounded more curious than anything else.