Silent Knife (A Celebration Bay Mystery) (14 page)

“That’s the thing about murder. It screws over a lot more people than just the victim.”

“Is that why you quit reporting and came back to Celebration Bay?”

“I came back here to take over the paper I inherited.”

“A weekly paper with local news.”

“That’s what’s important to the local people,” he said, concentrating on the street ahead.

She looked at his profile. His hair looked dark, only hinting at its true color when they passed under a streetlamp. He had one of those leading-man noses, straight, not too cute, not too big. A face with good bones. He was almost too good-looking. The first time she’d met him, she’d immediately pegged him as a misplaced airhead surfer dude.

Most of the time he acted like a rube. But sometimes, when he wasn’t holding up that façade, she thought she glimpsed something deeper, someone who might care about injustice, someone who had—at least from her Internet search—cared enough at one time to put himself in harm’s way to uncover a story.

She had to respect that person even if the one now sitting beside her in an old, battered Jeep cared only about fishing and sleeping and seemed as shallow as a birdbath.

Against her protests, he drove her all the way up the driveway to the carriage house. But when he cut the engine, she put her foot down.

“I was just going to see you to the door like a perfect gentleman.”

“Thanks, but Whiskey and I can take it from here.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll just wait until you get inside.”

Liv smiled. “Thanks. Good night and thanks for the glass of wine.”

He gave her a two-finger salute and winked.

“That is so annoying.” She closed the door on his laugh.

Liv didn’t go to bed but booted up her laptop. She still had a lot of work to do, which only partially included stemming the fallout from the murder. She pulled up her calendar. Added notes to the “scheduled events” column. Wondered if she should give it up and just add another column for murders.

“You’re being morbid,” she said out loud. Whiskey, who was sleeping on her feet, twitched and lifted his head.

Liv looked beneath her desk. “Sorry, buddy. Don’t get up. You’re comfier than a pair of Uggs.”

Whiskey gave her a look, yawned, and stretched out over her ankles.

She reached down and scratched his ears, then pulled up the next day’s schedule.

Sunday. She had to make an appearance in church. The sisters expected her, and it was something she should do to become a part of the community. Besides, she had to admit, she liked going.

Then after that she would swing by the Trim a Tree store to see if Grace had reopened. Make an appearance at Santa Village, go to the office, make a few calls.

Then she should really drive out to Dexter’s Nursery to check on the reindeer. Later that afternoon she had to meet with Fred for an opening-night traffic-flow report, and maybe get to bed early for a change. Her list was two pages long when she finally closed her laptop.

And remembered that Chaz had never told her the other reason he’d known the Thornsbys were lying.

*

The First Presbyterian Church was packed with worshippers.

The organ was playing a quiet hymn. The front of the church was overflowing in color. Two huge arrangements of red carnations and white roses sat on the altar. Pots of red and white poinsettias lined the communion rail. They would be taken to shut-ins and nursing homes in the week before Christmas.

“Look, there’s Roger Newland,” Miss Ida said. “Let’s say a quick hello.”

Liv followed them to where several people stood around a man in a wheelchair. Roger Newland was all bones and flaccid skin, ravaged by illness. Next to him at the end of the pew, his wife kept a brave smile as people nodded and stopped to talk. She’d once been a pretty woman, Liv guessed, though now she was gaunt and sallow looking. Illness didn’t just strike the victim, but the whole family.

Sort of like murder
, Liv thought.

The organ swelled to a new tune, interrupting her morbid thoughts. Miss Edna hurried them to their pew and stared at the family that was sitting there until they scooted over to make room.

“They only come on holidays,” Edna said and sat down, giving an extra nudge to the child sitting next to her. The kid climbed into his mother’s lap.

“Edna,” Ida scolded.

Liv sat between them feeling a little dowdy in her dark green slacks and sweater. The sisters were dressed in red and green from head to toe: hats, dresses, shoes. Like traffic lights, thought Liv. But they went all out for holidays, even though they were long-retired schoolteachers and didn’t make a dime off the tourist season.

They volunteered for a multitude of tasks. They practically ran the local Toys for Tykes, including collecting, wrapping, and delivering presents out of their old Buick.

“Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming” filled the sanctuary and could probably be heard out on the street. It gave Liv a rush to think of the four Celebration Bay churches all pouring out their hymns at the same time.

The congregation rose, picking up their hymnals as the choir, dressed in white and purple, processed up the aisle. Edna opened her hymnal and pointed to the place. As the choir passed, Liv caught sight of Penny walking with the sopranos, her face uplifted, her hair shining and falling past her shoulders. At least Grace hadn’t demanded that she work instead of going to church.

At the end of the hymn, the Reverend Schorr, a young man with a flair for dynamic sermons, climbed to the pulpit.

“Behold the days are coming . . . .”

In view of recent events it would have sounded like a threat coming from anyone else. But the words were offered in a melodious tenor, and the pastor spread his beneficent smile over his flock as he spoke.

At the end of the sermon, the choir rose and began to sing “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.” On the second verse, Penny Newland stepped away from the choir and sang solo. She was looking at her father, her love so readable that it hurt to watch.

Liv wondered if this would be Roger Newland’s last Christmas and the last time he would hear his daughter’s lovely voice. And it brought an unexpected tightness to her throat and a sting to her eyes.

At the end of the service, BeBe met them at the back of the church. “I was running late and had to sit in the last pew. Wasn’t Penny’s voice glorious?”

“The whole service was just beautiful,” Ida agreed. She had a little sparkle to her eye, and Liv wondered what Christmas would be like for two elderly sisters, who lived alone and had no family. They had gone to friends for Thanksgiving. Liv had grabbed a turkey sandwich leftover from the cast-of-thousands Pilgrims’ Feast and worked at her desk.

That had been necessary with Christmas following so closely on the heels of Thanksgiving, but she didn’t want to do that for Christmas. She’d spent her last several Christmases and Thanksgivings sitting at a computer planning for the next holiday she wouldn’t have time to celebrate. But this year she was determined to do something festive.

“Are you coming with me to the Tour of Homes this afternoon?” BeBe asked.

Liv deliberated. She’d just been thinking she should enjoy the holidays more, but there was so much work. . . .

“You really should. Just to make sure everything is running smoothly and keep your finger on the pulse of Celebration Bay.”

“And we’re the last house on the stop unless you go on to the inn for dinner,” Ida said. She lowered her voice. “Edna made mulled wine. You’re both invited.”

“How can I resist?” Liv said.

“Good.” BeBe buttoned up her coat. “Gotta run. Meet me at the trolley stop at five to three. We don’t want to miss it. That’s the last tour of the day.” She hurried out the door.

“You young girls work too hard,” Ida told Liv as they stopped at the cloakroom to retrieve their coats.

“Does seem that way. But it would be even worse if I didn’t have Ted.”

“And Penny Newland is another one,” Edna said. “Now, there’s a burden on slim shoulders.”

Ida sighed. “When bad things happen to good people, Edna.”

“Seems to be a theme these days.” Edna flourished her scarf around her neck. “And I refuse to let it interfere with my Christmas spirit. Life is short. Come along.”

They’d almost reached the door when Liv saw Roscoe Jackson and Rufus Cobb cutting through the crowd, practically pulling another man along between them. And they were headed straight toward Liv.

Liv recognized Frank Salvatini Sr., who ran the Corner Café. He was a friendly, talkative older gentleman with an eye for news and an ear for gossip.

“Frank has something he wants to tell you,” Rufus said.

Frank’s lips were clamped so tight, Liv doubted if he could speak even if he wanted to. And it didn’t look like he wanted to.

“Go on,” Roscoe urged. He turned to Liv. “I know we put a spanner in the works back in October, but now we aim to help.”

Great
, thought Liv.
What are they up to now?
“What’s this all about?”

Rufus drew himself up to his full five foot six. “Frank saw the murderer going into TAT.”

Liv’s head swiveled so fast—checking to see if anybody had overheard them—she felt like Linda Blair in
The Exorcist
.

“Shh,” Edna said, and she and Ida and BeBe leaned closer.

Liv moved closer, too. “Don’t you think you should go to the sheriff with any information you have?”

“We jumped the gun last time,” Roscoe said. “So we wanted to come to you first. Then if you think—”

“No.” Frank shook his head so violently that his glasses nearly flew off his face. He wrenched his arm loose from Roscoe and pushed them back up the bridge of his nose. “I told Roscoe and Rufus I wouldn’t rat on a friend.”

Oh Lord
, thought Liv.
Please don’t let it be Hank.

“And you better not tell Bill, either.”

This was not the first time Liv had run into people determined to protect their own. It was one of the good and bad things of small-town life. Frank wanted to do what was right, but he was torn between loyalty and honesty.

Liv knew how he felt. “I really think—”

“Ida, Edna, yoo-hoo. So good to see you.” Ruth Benedict, a holier-than-thou busybody whom no one liked, waved. The sisters waved back. Liv and BeBe just smiled.

Frank Salvatini took advantage of the interruption to try to ease away, but Roscoe and Rufus held him tight.

“See you this afternoon,” Edna called out.

The woman nodded and waved and looked like she was dying to join the conversation, but Edna turned her back on her. “Insufferable old gossip.” She herded the little group farther into the hallway. “Now, keep your voices down.”

Roscoe, Rufus, and Frank nodded dutifully.

Liv marveled at how easily Edna had managed that sleight of hand.

“Now, tell us what you saw.”

Frank glanced over his shoulder. Grimaced. Shifted from one foot to the other, like a guilty man.

“Frank,” Miss Ida said.

“I can’t be sure. I only saw the suit.”

Everybody by now knew Hank had been taken in for questioning. It was written all over Frank’s face. He thought Hank was the killer and he didn’t want to be the one who sealed his fate.

Liv felt for him. She’d lived here only a few months, hardly knew Hank at all, and she wouldn’t want to be the one to accuse him. “The sheriff needs to know. It might help clear, um, any suspects, just as well as convict him—them.”

“Well, I’m not sure if it really was—”

Rufus jabbed him in the arm. “Aw, just go on and tell her.”

“It was his suit.”

“Which suit?” Liv asked, wondering if she was going to have to drag every half statement from him. And would it be worth it.

“The Santa suit. He was wearing a Santa suit.”

“And what time was this?”

“I don’t know exactly. It was getting toward the tree lighting. About five thirty, maybe? My kitchen staff was busy, and I wanted to see the tree lighting. I decided I might as well take out a trash bag on my way to the square. So I did and that’s when I saw him.”

Here it comes
, thought Liv.

“And you’re sure it was a Santa suit, not just a red coat or parka?” Edna interjected. “It was dark, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, but the alley was pretty lit up.”

“What did he do?” Liv asked.

“Well, like I said, I was putting out the trash. He had his back to me, walking toward the Trim a Tree store. I didn’t think anything of it, just dumped the bag in the Dumpster and headed for the square.”

Liv’s mouth felt suddenly dry. “Did you see who was wearing the suit?”

“I only saw his back. And I wasn’t really paying attention. Figured it was just that fella over at TAT, going back after a break. He was always out by the Dumpster talking on his phone and smoking. But then I heard he wasn’t wearing it when they found him—you know—dead. Now I’m thinking maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was the killer.”

Liv’s mind was racing ahead, making contingency plans in case they arrested Hank for good. She should insist he go to the sheriff. And yet . . .

Ida beat her to the punch. “It had to be whoever stole Hank’s suit, doesn’t it?”

Or Hank himself
, thought Liv. It was not her job to ferret out the truth, thank God. “You should tell the sheriff. It might be helpful.”

“I don’t know.”

“You do what Liv told you to do,” Ida said.

Frank hung his head. “I really don’t like having to do this.” He slumped off like a chastised schoolboy.

“Happy holidays,” Roscoe said.

Rufus nodded, clearly relieved that their duty was done.

They hurried away.

“Well,” Edna said, “we’d best get home and get ready for the first house tour. There’re two today.”

Liv climbed in the back seat of the Zimmermans’ old Buick, wondering if Frank Salvatini’s testimony could do any good at all. Or if it would be the thing that nailed the Closed sign on Santa Village.

*

Whiskey shot out of the carriage house as soon as Liv opened the front door. He sped around her feet, then took off toward the sisters’ back porch, where he looked back at her, his tail beating an arc in the air.

“Sorry, buddy. You’re banned from inside today. They’re getting ready for the holiday house tour. Come on. Treat,” she called.

Whiskey hesitated. Looked back at the Zimmermans’ door, then back to Liv.

Probably sensing a trick
, thought Liv. “Really, treat.”

Whiskey raced back and into the house.

Liv adjusted her new wreath, compliments of her landladies, and followed him inside.

She found Whiskey in the kitchen, sitting expectantly at the counter right beneath the red-ribboned jar of Dolly’s Doggie Treats.

Liv looked in the fridge. A carton of past-its-prime yogurt. Some limp celery and a container of something Liv was afraid to open. She tossed it, container and all, into the trash and gave Whiskey a dog biscuit in the shape of a candy cane.

She got out peanut butter and a spoon for herself and carried them into the living room. She sat on the couch, and Whiskey climbed up beside her. There were a little over two hours before she had to meet BeBe. She had a list of things to do a mile long. She could get some work done or . . . she could do them tomorrow. She reached for the remote, ran through the channels, found a music channel playing Christmas carols.

“Be right back.” She eased Whiskey over and went to get her laptop. When she sat down again, Whiskey snuggled closer. She opened her laptop, balanced it on her knees, and logged on to the Internet.

As “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” played in the background, Liv typed in “Phillip Cosgrove, private investigator.”

And there he was: Cosgrove Investigations. A photo of him on the bio page. Why would a private investigator have a photo of himself? Wasn’t he afraid of being recognized? Maybe the Santa suit was his disguise. Which was stupid because he’d had his beard pulled under his chin the first day she saw him.

She read down the page:
Domestic Investigation, Surveillance, Pre-litigation.

Had Clarence hired him to inform on Grace? Was he planning a divorce?

Background Checks, Missing Persons, People Finder, Asset Searches.

None of those made any sense. You didn’t have to play Santa Claus to do a background check or search for missing persons.

Asset searches? Maybe Clarence thought Grace was dipping into the till. Maybe that’s why he’d come to town yesterday, to make sure the receipts got to the bank. Or maybe they were both dipping into the till.

But if Phil wasn’t hired by Clarence, who else would need him to play Santa? Or could Phillip Cosgrove really have been moonlighting as Santa just for the extra money? A.K. Pierce had said that he wasn’t all that great at investigating.

She bookmarked him and started a separate e-file for TAT.

Her next search was for Clarence Thornsby. He owned four boat dealerships between Plattsburgh and Saratoga Springs. The man owned a lot of boats. His website called him “the Boat King.” So why did he decide to go into Christmas ornaments? Grace seemed to hate the job, so it couldn’t be to please her. Actually, she didn’t seem to like her husband very much. But it was hard to tell about couples. Sometimes the ones who fought the most were the happiest. Go figure.

Liv wouldn’t know, since the only long-term relationship she’d had was with event planning. There just wasn’t enough time to build a lasting partnership while planning other people’s fun and games. Her longest “serious” relationship had lasted nearly eight months, probably a record in her profession and in his, financial planning.

Thank God she hadn’t let him plan hers. He bit it big time in the Madoff scam. Close call. “Anyway,” she said out loud, pulling Whiskey’s ear, “you’re the only man I love.”

Whiskey cocked his head.

“Really.” Sort of. For now, anyway. But thinking about her ex sent her mind in a new direction. Probably because of some of her former clients. Ones who opened all sorts of businesses for one purpose. Laundering money. But really how much money could you launder with Christmas decorations?

Grace Thornsby had a Facebook profile. Her information was available only to her friends. All thirty-seven of them. Not that Liv really wanted to know all about her. But she was mildly curious. Did they have kids? Liv couldn’t imagine it, but that wasn’t being fair.

Maybe Grace loved children. Then Liv remembered her attitude toward Bobby Newland when her cat scratched him. Okay, not kids. Maybe Grace was an animal lover. Except she’d tossed her lost cat into the shop without so much as a “kitty, kitty.”

She loaded up another spoonful of peanut butter and stared at the screen. Gave up and pulled up solitaire, but that didn’t hold her interest. It was hard to concentrate on anything with murder hanging like a black cloud over her town. A cloud that had come to Celebration Bay with Trim a Tree.

She just hoped the storm had passed with the murder of Phillip Cosgrove.

This was not helping her Christmas spirit at all. She turned up the television. “Jingle Bells,” blared into the room.

Whiskey sat up. “Ar-roo-roo-roooo.”

*

BeBe was waiting for her at the trolley stand. She was standing near the front of a line of people waiting for the house tour to begin.

“I already got the tickets,” BeBe said. “My treat.”

“Thanks. I’ll buy you dinner if you’re free tonight.”

“It’s a deal.” A knit cloche of blue heather was pulled down over one of BeBe’s ears. She was wearing a matching scarf and mittens.

“Let me guess. You bought those at the Yarn Barn.”

“Of course. Support local businesses.” BeBe laughed. “I just wanted the scarf, but those knitters can be very persuasive. And I do feel rather française in the hat, but I put my foot down at the matching sweater.”

“Well, it’s very pretty.”

“I suppose you bought yours at Bloomingdale’s.”

“Actually, I never wore a hat when I lived in Manhattan. Hat hair is a definite no-no in event planning. And I didn’t need one just to step out of a building and yell ‘Taxi!’ I ordered this from an online catalogue when I decided to take this job. Though I guess I’d better get over to the Yarn Barn and make amends.”

The trolley doors opened and the driver climbed down to the street. He was dressed in a navy blue uniform with brass buttons and gold braid. His conductor’s hat had a sprig of holly tucked in the band.

“Welcome to the Annual Celebration Bay Holiday Tour of Homes.” He took their tickets, and Liv and BeBe climbed inside.

Most of the passengers were tourists, but there were a few locals that Liv recognized. Ruth Benedict was sitting a few rows back. Two ladies from the Garden Club, whom Liv suspected of taking the tour to get ideas for the spring Tour of Gardens, sat across the aisle from Ruth. Liv pulled BeBe down into a seat near the front; she had no intention of getting within earshot of the town’s worst gossip.

The doors closed and the conductor slid behind the wheel. “Welcome. The trolley will take you to your first stop where our hostess, Maeve Kingston, will guide you through some of Celebration Bay’s loveliest homes. The trolley will pick you up at the last stop and return here or continue to the inn for those of you with tickets to the Dickens Dinner.” He chuckled. “And you won’t want to miss the inn’s roast beef and Yorkshire pudding or their Christmas trifle or flaming plum pudding.

“Now I’ll turn the show over to Maeve.”

Maeve waved from her seat at the front. The conductor clanged the bell and the trolley pulled into the street.

“Our first stop is the historic Chapman House. Built in 1874, it has been accurately and lovingly restored by the Charles Chapman family.”

The trolley came to a stop in front of a white clapboard cottage decorated with a multitude of white lights. The façade was trisected by three pitched roofs of varying sizes. Icicles hung from the eaves and wreaths hung in every window; a lit candle, which for safety’s sake were actually electric, sat on every sill.