Murder Under the Tree (4 page)

“Mrs. Havers-Browne, your tree is dazzling,” Elizabeth said to me, smiling. “A bit sparse in branches, but just the same, dazzling.”

Elizabeth, Elizabeth. “Thank you, Priscilla,” I said to her, staring at her new beauty mark next to her mouth.

She turned her back to John and said quietly, “Kay, it's freezing in here. I'll have to put my coat back on.”

The door bell rang. “Don't you have any dresses with backs to them,” I said, and smiled.

I left to answer the door, and on the way turned the heat up. Deirdre was at the door holding a covered tray, and Mike had a bottle of champagne in each hand. He had on a gold zoot suit and wore a fedora with a large peacock feather on it. His dreadlocks peeked out from under his hat.

“Thank you, Deirdre...I mean Eva,” I said as she handed me the tray.

“Bacon wrapped water chestnuts, darling,” she said.

“Yummy.”

Deirdre walked into the kitchen with me. She watched as I put the spanakopita and wontons into the oven. I turned to take her faux fur coat. She wore an ankle length plum bias-cut cocktail dress and long black gloves. “Guess I better take these gloves off. Won't go real well with finger foods.”

The last to arrive were Dinesh wearing a black dinner jacket and Neelam donning a below the knee emerald dress with lots of sparkling bangles, that jangled on her arms when she hugged me.

I invited everyone to come into our transformed dining room. Jazz played softly in the background. “Welcome, everyone,” I said. “Our dear friend Ella Fitzgerald will be performing here, at the Apollo, later tonight. We are
thrilled
that you were able to come to our little soiree in her honor.”

Everyone helped themselves to the food and sat down in the brightly lit room. Phil poured each a glass of champagne and then proceeded to make a toast. “To an evening of jazz and....murder. Best of luck to all of you. Prost!” Then he laughed a fiendish laugh. Phil was getting into this. When he finished his toast all of the lights went out, other than the candles on the buffet. A shot was heard. Someone let out a scream. Phil went over to the light switch, flipped it back on, and the mystery unfolded. A body lay on the floor.

“Freddie...Freddie, the cornet player in your band...on the floor,” Elizabeth said pointing her French manicured finger at the body.

Mike went over to the dummy, turned him over and felt for a pulse in his neck. “He's dead.”

For a few seconds, I thought of Les until—

Deirdre let out a bloodcurdling scream.

I covered my mouth and tried hard to hold back my laughter. Everyone was well rehearsed in their character. It was a toss-up who was more dramatic, Elizabeth or Deirdre. They should both join the Sudbury Falls' Community Theatre.

Each person asked questions about the victim and revealed facts. Phil got into the action, jumped up a few times from his seat accusing different people of being the murderer, saying why each person was happy that Freddy was dead. You know the saying, “He doth protest too much.”

Dinesh and Mike in turn felt that Phil was as much of a suspect as anyone. Dinesh accused Phil of the murder since Freddy had stolen music that Phil composed, claiming it as his own. Deirdre accused Elizabeth of having a thing for Freddy and perhaps later he rejected her advances and she couldn't handle that rejection. Deirdre enjoyed that. Neelam accused Deirdre, since Deirdre was Freddy's first wife whom he cheated on with Elizabeth.

Clues were revealed throughout the evening. Everyone denied their part. Finally, evidence proved that John killed Freddy for a totally different reason. John's mistress of five years, who John was finally going to leave his wife for, was killed in an automobile accident. The car was being driven by Freddy. Freddy was intoxicated at the time and drove off the side of a bridge. One night in a drunken stupor, Freddy told John about the incident. John murdered Freddy to get revenge for her needless death.

The mystery game lasted until around ten o'clock when I served dessert. Afterwards, Phil, Mike, and Dinesh went downstairs and started playing some jazz standards while John and the four of us sat in the living room and visited. I thought again about how much Phil seemed to enjoy the murder mystery game.

Tuesday, December 23

While Phil slept in, I sat at the kitchen table quietly eating poached eggs and toast, while reading the newspaper to see if there was anything about Les Hollings in it. Just when I spotted his name, the phone rang. I tilted my chair backwards and reached behind me, picking up the phone on the second ring.

“Kay, have you listened to the news this morning yet?”

The voice had a creakiness to it. “Sarah?”

I looked down at my empty coffee cup. Holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder, I walked over to pour myself a second cup of coffee, adding a little milk and sugar, then returned to the table.

“Yes, it's me. About Les...the autopsy report. He died of an anaphylactic reaction. Traces of peanuts were in his stomach contents.”

I sat down at the table. “So it was his peanut allergy. How sad.” Les' death could have been prevented. At the tea, Les called out Al. I thought he was calling to some person. Was he trying to say allergy?

“Kay, we need your help.”

“With what?”

“Les' murder.”

I took a sip of the coffee before I answered. It burned the tip of my tongue. “But it sounds like an accident.”

“We don't think so.”

I added more milk to my coffee and stirred it. “We?” I raised my eyebrows in surprise and took another sip. “Who's we? And why do you think anyone would kill him? I thought you said everyone loved Les.”

“Almost everyone. Kay, I don't think we should be discussing this on the phone. Can you come to the Hill this morning? I've been telling a couple of my friends here about you.”

I glanced at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink from last night's party. And I told Phil I wouldn't get involved. “I still need to take a shower. I can be there in an hour. Should I call Deirdre?”

“Not necessary. Thanks, Kay.”

I'd have to be back home by noon to clean up this mess before I made another, baking Christmas cookies. I added my empty coffee cup and plate to the pile.

* * * *

On the way to the retirement home, I stopped at Marissa's and picked up a Galette des Rois, a delicious, flaky pastry with a delicate buttery crust filled with almond cream paste to bring over to Sarah. The clock chimed ten o'clock when I arrived at Hawthorne Hills. I glanced at the tree in the lobby where I first saw Les the day of the Christmas tea, then walked over to look at the directory. Sarah Moeller: Room 310.

I ascended to the top floor and knocked on the door. Sarah opened it. I entered her apartment, surprised to see Anne Niven, the mystery writer, sitting on her cameo back sofa that had faced an art deco fireplace in her previous home. Also in her apartment sat Martin, the gentleman who had escorted me at the tea, on her tapestry-covered occasional chair that I had also admired. A large window across most of the back wall, let in a bright pillar of sunlight. She re-introduced me to Martin and Anne. I handed Sarah the Christmas pastry which she took into the kitchen.

“Nice to see you both again,” I said. Martin stood up. We shook hands. Both had firm grips.

I sat down in a chair next to Anne.

Martin, gently pulled at his trousers above his knees so as to not stretch them out, before he sat down.

“We heard you are good at detecting,” Anne said.

“I heard
you
were a mystery writer.” I looked towards the kitchen. What had Sarah been telling them?

“Anne has several mysteries published,” Sarah said, walking back into the living room with plates of the Christmas pastry on a tray. She handed a plate to each of us. A pot of coffee already sat on the table with cups and saucers. She sat opposite me, next to Martin, and started to pour. “Kay, I'm going to come to the point. We don't think Les' death was accidental.”

Anne and Martin nodded in agreement.

Sarah handed me the coffee. “So you've said. What makes you think that?”

“Gut feeling,” Martin said, matter of factly.

“So who would want to kill him? And what about evidence?”

“That's where you come in,” Anne said in a low voice. “We need your help.” A few moments later, she added, “Of course, I will extend my expertise in the area.”

I looked at each of them bewildered. I was not really in the mood to get involved in another mystery. I took a sip of the coffee and put it down on the end table next to my chair.

“Sarah told us that you solved a murder of a professor a couple of months back, when the police, the coroner, everyone said it was an accident. You came up with the evidence to prove that it wasn't,” Anne said. “Same situation here.”

I ate a forkful of the pastry while wondering if Anne's imagination, being a mystery writer was running away with her. I put my fork down. “Who would want to murder Les?”

“I told you on the phone not everyone liked him.”

“Nancy, the director, for one, didn't like him,” Martin said.

I found that easy to believe, thinking back to my meeting with the sullen woman.

“The way she ordered him around. He even used to complain to us about how condescending she was,” Anne said. “Might be why he was taking a new job.”

They seemed to be pulling at straws. “Nancy has the right to ask an employee to do things.”

“But there are nice ways of asking,” Sarah said, her voice rising in pitch.

“How did peanuts get into the food?” I said. “Everyone who provided the food said they didn't use peanut products.”

Anne put her fork down on her plate. “So you have already begun your own investigation?”

“Nancy and Marissa both called this to my attention after Les died.”

“We've been asking around and know of at least four residents with peanut allergies who were at the tea,” Anne said. 

“None of whom had any allergic reactions,” Martin added.

“I admit, that is peculiar.” As soon as I said that, I knew I shouldn't have.

Martin, Anne and Sarah looked back and forth among each other and smiled.

“That's what we think,” Anne said.

“So you'll help us?” Martin asked, smiling widely.

Sarah gave a helpless smile. “We'd appreciate it.”

Anne's dentures slipped when she smiled.

Not now. Not right before the Christmas rush. “They could have all eaten different things,” I said. “Les was eating so much and so fast, he probably ate at least some of everything.” Once the food was analyzed, that would narrow it down, to where it was from, the patisserie or the retirement home kitchen.

“Martin, you mentioned the day of the tea in the lobby that Les was going to be leaving for a new job. Why would Nancy murder him? It doesn't make sense. He was going to be gone soon enough.”

“Does seem like an erratic way to murder someone,” Sarah said.

“It would be the perfect crime,” Anne said with enthusiasm. “I couldn't have written it any better myself!”

Martin nodded. Sarah bit her lip and gave a small nod, looking at me.

I sighed. “People don't kill someone just because they decide they don't like them. There has to be a real motive if it was murder. If he was murdered, we should be looking for someone who would have to have a real grudge against him.”

I finished my cup of coffee and put it down on the table.

“There
are
lots of questions...” I reiterated.

Sarah continued my thought, “And we need you to help us answer them. What do you say, Kay?”

“Are you in?” Martin asked, his eyes wide open.

I stopped and thought for a minute without saying anything. The three of them reminded me of myself, Deirdre, and Elizabeth when we knew we had to investigate the ginseng murder. We couldn't let them get away with murder then, and it wouldn't be right to allow the villains to get away with it this time, if there were any villains in this story. “Let me see what I can do. But, I can't promise anything.”

“When do we start?” Martin's eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. It wasn't hard to like him.

I winced slightly at the word “we.” “Tomorrow's Christmas Eve. Whatever I can do will have to wait until the twenty-sixth. We can all think about it until then. Meanwhile, don't go looking for trouble.” I smiled. “Try to have a nice holiday.”

Martin winked, grinned, then rubbed his hands together.

That look...I didn't like. I stood up to leave and wished all of them a Merry Christmas.

Sarah walked me to the door. “Thank you, Kay. I thought I had gotten away from murder when I moved here.”

* * * *

Every year I made a double batch of cutout cookies. When the kids were still at home, Phil, Andy, Will, and I would spend a good part of an evening decorating all the snowmen, Christmas trees, stars, and bells. Phil's specialty was putting yellow sugar down the legs of the snowmen like they had wet their pants. He and the boys always thought that potty humor hilarious.

As I cleaned up the mess from baking the cutouts, the phone rang.

“Hello, Mom. I hope you don't mind, but I sort of invited Frances' mom, Linda, for Christmas dinner.”

“William, you sort of invited her?”

“Yes, and I haven't had time to buy her a gift, what with finishing up my school job before Christmas and packing up my things for my new apartment. Do you think you could pick something up and wrap it for me?”

“Do you want me to write a personal note on it from you also?”

“Sure, Mom...sounds good. I have another call. See you tomorrow afternoon.”

I could hear Phil playing his guitar in the lower level. I went downstairs.

“Phil, that was Will. He needs a gift for his girlfriend's mom, and I need to get out of the house. I'm going to walk downtown. Want to come along?'

“I just started practising songs for our show.”

“I'll pick up something small to eat, to hold us over until we go to Elizabeth's Christmas party tonight.”

“Tonight? I forgot about her party. Suppose I have to go.”