Murder With All the Trimmings (23 page)

So far this morning, they’d baked six different kinds of cookies, including colorful candy-stripe cookie sticks, cherry tuiles, Earl Grey cookies made with real ground-up tea leaves, and black-and-white cookies. Now they were working on yet another Martha Stewart recipe for apple currant cookies. Josie thought it was ungodly difficult.

“What’s wrong with bringing chocolate chip cookies to the cookie exchange party?” Josie asked. “I like them.”

“Everyone likes them,” Alyce said.

“And they’re easy to make,” Josie said. “Even I can bake a good chocolate chip cookie.”

“That’s why I can’t bring them. They’re too easy. We have to bring cookies that show some culinary skill. They have to look like little works of art on the serving plates.”

“So this isn’t really a cookie exchange, it’s a bake-off,” Josie said.

“It’s a show-off,” Alyce said. “Remember Shirley, who lived in my subdivision for about three months?”

“Shirley with the orange hair and the gold tennis shoes?”

“That’s the one. She begged for an invitation to the Wood Winds cookie exchange. Her husband was a big-deal broker and she wanted to be accepted here. She knew the cookie exchange was one of the ways into Wood Winds society. We’re one of the last groups of full-time homemakers in the area, and we still follow the old ways.

“Shirley brought slice-and-bake sugar cookies with walnut halves stuck in them. They were broken walnuts, too, probably from the generic bin. She never lived down the scandal. The neighbors cut her dead and canceled her kid’s play dates. She and her husband sold the house at a loss and moved a month later.”

“So you’re making show cookies,” Josie said, “even though everyone would rather eat chocolate chips?”

“That’s pretty much it,” Alyce said. She had lined up unsalted butter, flour, baking soda, cinnamon, and brown sugar on the counter like a culinary army. The nutmeg grater looked like a tiny spaceship. Josie watched her friend deftly sift the flour, baking soda, and spices together into a smooth white-brown mound.

“Josie,” Alyce said. “That man who was killed in the shoot-out at the storage locker late yesterday. The TV said his name was Mitch. Was he the Mitch who threatened Amelia?”

“Yes,” Josie said.

“The guy who got shot in the leg was named Harvey. Was he the drunk who sang ‘Frosty the Deadman’ at Nate’s memorial service?”

“That’s him,” Josie said.

“Remind me not to tick you off,” Alyce said. “You got rid of two guys in less than twelve hours.”

“I didn’t do anything to them,” Josie said.

“You tipped off the police, didn’t you?” Alyce said. “That’s why you had the sudden urge for pizza. There’s a pay phone at the California Pizza Kitchen entrance of the Galleria, one of the few left. Most of the pay phones at the hospitals and the airport are gone.”

“You must think I’m awful,” Josie said.

“Honey, if some creep threatened my son, I wouldn’t wait for the cops. I’d kill him myself.”

Alyce used some weird paddle device on her mixer to beat the cookie dough into submission. “You did the right thing—and you left the shooting to the professionals,” Alyce said. “Are you worried this Harvey creep will rat you out?”

Josie swallowed her laughter. Alyce’s “rat you out” sounded hilarious amid her Williams-Sonoma perfection. “No. Harvey will probably suffer a severe attack of amnesia. I’m betting that he’ll claim Mitch invited him to the storage unit to help him move furniture or something. Besides, there’s nothing to connect me—no fingerprints, no DNA, fibers, or hair. I’ve never been to that storage unit, and I wiped the key before I gave it to Mitch. That money is at least ten years old and Nate is dead.”

“Do you think Mitch or Harvey killed Nate?” Alyce said.

“With poisoned chocolate? Too chancy. Nate rarely ate sweets. Besides, he bought that chocolate snowman for Amelia.”

“Omigod,” Alyce said. “If you’d let Nate give her that cake, she’d be—”

“Dead,” Josie finished. “The thought still gives me nightmares. Thank goodness Nate was drunk and I didn’t let him in the house. These currants look about as plump as they’re going to get.”

“Good. Drain the cider down the sink and put the currants in the bowl with the rolled oats. Now you can shred one of those apples with the box grater. It’s in the third cabinet on the right, second shelf.”

Josie opened the cabinet and pulled out a round yellow plastic device with an odd metal oval in the middle.

“What’s this?” she asked. “An ice hockey mask?”

“It’s a mango pitter,” Alyce said. “Those big seeds are hard to remove.”

“They make my life miserable,” Josie said.

“Come on,” Alyce said. “I bet a mango has never crossed your threshold.”

“Maplewood is the mango capital of the Midwest,” Josie said. “Ah, this looks like a box grater.” She pulled out a squarish metal item covered with sharp steel warts.

Alyce handed her the bowl of dough. “Start shredding the apple into this,” she said. “Be careful to avoid the seeds and core.”

Alyce cored three more apples, then sliced them into thin rings. “Josie, who do you think killed Nate? He had a lot of unusual friends.”

“Mitch wanted that storage-unit key,” Josie said. “But he wouldn’t kill Nate for it. He’d make sure Nate stayed alive until he found it. Harvey had his faults, but I don’t think he’s mean enough to kill. Besides, he’s too drunk and disorganized.”

“Then who wanted Nate dead?” Alyce said. “Who benefits?”

“I do,” Josie said. “Or rather, my daughter does. My name is on a hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy, but it’s really for our daughter. Nate wanted the money held in trust for Amelia’s education.”

“Is that in writing?” Alyce said.

“No,” Josie said. “But I’ll honor his wishes.”

“I’m sure you will,” Alyce said. “I’m more worried about what the police will think.”

“Oh, my good neighbor Mrs. Mueller put the icing on that particular cake. She told the cops Nate was talking about taking Amelia back to Canada.”

“Is that true?”

“Unfortunately, yes. And we were probably talking loud enough that she heard us. But I wouldn’t have killed him over that. He would have never gotten his hands on Amelia.”

“That old battle-ax is nothing but trouble.” Alyce sliced an apple into thin, fine circles.

“Tell me about it,” Josie said. “She also sicced the police on Mike as a possible murder suspect. Here’s Mike’s big crime: He drove a drunken Nate back to his hotel. I followed in Nate’s rental car, and we took him upstairs to his room. Nate was well enough to drive his car the next day and create all kinds of havoc, but Mrs. M couldn’t wait to tell the police that Mike and Nate had an ‘altercation.’ ”

“So she has two men fighting over you,” Alyce said. “I know you or Mike didn’t kill Nate, but we’re overlooking something major. What about the other woman who died of antifreeze poisoning? She was in that weight-loss contest on the radio. Maybe she was the real target, and Nate just died by accident. What do you know about her?”

“Nothing,” Josie said, helping herself to an apple slice. “The news stories said she was fifty pounds overweight, on a diet, and lived in Maplewood. I think she was a widow with a grown daughter. My mom or Mrs. Mueller might have known her. Between the two of them, they know just about everyone in the neighborhood.”

“She’s worth checking out,” Alyce said. “Did you ever wonder if Nate committed suicide when you wouldn’t take him back?”

“Alyce, I’m not the sort of femme fatale that men kill themselves for,” Josie said.

“Well, Nate was drunk,” Alyce said.

“Thanks a lot,” Josie said.

“I didn’t mean that,” Alyce said. “But alcohol can impair judgment. How does Mike’s awful ex fit into this? Maybe Doreen killed Nate to get even with Mike. She wanted Mike blamed for the murder.”

“Mike is her child-support gravy train,” Josie said. “If he goes to prison, she doesn’t get any more money for her nasty daughter, Heather. From what I can tell, Doreen is spending Mike’s money on herself, not on Heather. If the accidental poisoning happened at Doreen’s, that might make sense. Her shop was badly run, and Doreen and Heather were a surly pair. But Elsie was little, cute, and careful.”

“Then why was Nate killed by poisoned chocolate from Elsie’s Elf House?” Alyce asked.

“Maybe we should go there and see what we can find out,” Josie said. “But we should make it soon, before both places close.”

“Good,” Alyce said. “This cookie batch should be baked in twenty minutes. We can stop by the Elf House and then go mystery-shopping.”

“But what about the rest of your cookies?” Josie said. “You still have four more Martha Stewart batches.”

“It’s more important to keep you and Mike out of trouble,” Alyce said. “Martha Stewart would understand. She’s been in prison.”

Chapter 25

The three Christmas stores were huddled together like refugees in the dirty city snow. Their blinking lights were too bright. Their colors were too bold. Their forced cheerfulness made Josie want to run.

I have to do this, she told herself. I have too much at stake—my freedom and my future with Mike.

“It’s hard to believe two people died because of that kitsch,” Alyce said.

“Almost three,” Josie said. “Don’t forget that poor woman who was nearly killed by Santa. Is she still in a coma?”

“Don’t know,” Alyce said. “The media seem to have lost interest in her.”

Naughty or Nice, Doreen’s building with the steeply pitched roof and wooden icicles, was plastered with big red GOING OUT OF BUSINESS signs. The Santa butt in the chimney was starting to deflate.

“What happened to Santa’s rear end?” Alyce asked. “It’s sadly diminished.”

“Looks like Santa lost his ass on this venture,” Josie said.

“Maybe it’s half off,” Alyce said.

The stalwart flock of churchgoers still circled the sad little building with their signs, chanting slogans. Mrs. Claus winked lewdly at them.

“Those protesters are staying till the bitter end,” Josie said.

“Which is soon, I hope. I’m glad that store is closing,” Alyce said.

“You and a lot of other people,” Josie said. “Doreen’s pornographic Christmas ornaments were nasty. I do feel sorry for Elsie. I liked her and her Elf House.”

Elsie’s fake Tudor cottage was also festooned with screaming GOING OUT OF BUSINESS! signs.

The two tiny shops were overshadowed by the huge and successful Christmas All Year Round, a big red box with a twenty-foot Santa waving from the roof. His mechanical “Ho, ho, ho” sounded mocking.

Intertwined with the hearty “hos” were the tinny sounds of competing Christmas songs from the dying stores. Madonna sang a whorish version of “Santa Baby” at Naughty or Nice. A syrupy “Little Drummer Boy” oozed out of Elsie’s Elf House.

“I hope the drummer boy gets shot in the next battle,” Josie said.

“Aren’t you full of Christmas cheer,” Alyce said.

“I know. I should be ashamed,” Josie said. “But I’ve heard too many bad versions of that song. The only song more annoying is ‘It’s a Small World.’ Might as well see Elsie before her store closes.”

“You need to see the video where Bing Crosby and David Bowie sing ‘Little Drummer Boy,’ ” Alyce said. “I promise you’ll like the song again.”

Josie pulled her car into a parking spot behind the Elf House.

“There’s no problem finding a space,” Alyce said.

Elsie’s lot was empty except for a rusty brown Toyota parked in the back. The bell on the door jingled merrily. The shelves were packed with Christmas ornaments and decorations, all sporting red discount stickers.

Elsie was one sad little elf. Her costume was wrinkled, her hat was askew, and her nose was as red as Rudolph’s. She greeted them with a mouselike sneeze. “Sorry, ladies. I have a cold.”

“And I’m sorry your store is closing,” Josie said. “I liked it.”

“I thought we were going to make it,” Elsie said. “Early December sales were actually ahead of my projected business plan. Unfortunately, I didn’t take into account the deaths of two customers.”

“Any idea how they were poisoned?” Josie said. She decided she’d learn more if she didn’t mention she knew Nate.

“I haven’t the foggiest. I told the police that.” Elsie gave another elfin sneeze. “Why would I want to kill my own store? If it didn’t sound paranoid, I’d say that b—I mean that Doreen person next door did it. But her store is closing, too, so nobody benefited from those terrible deaths.”

“Any details from the police?” Alyce said.

“Nothing except that it was ethylene glycol poisoning, which is regular old antifreeze. Lorraine Whuttner, the dead woman’s daughter, raised such a fuss over the cake her mother ate that the cops came here and confiscated the sauce so no one else was killed. Thank the Lord for that. But I think the daughter is going to sue me, and I don’t have a cent.”