Peppermint Murder: A Frosted Love Cozy Mystery - Book 22 (A Frosted Love Cozy Mysteries) Read online

  “Poor little lamb,” Echo clucked, her heart breaking for the traumatized child.

  “What were the parent’s names?” Kel asked, leaning forward with a frown.

  “Melany and Garret Anderson, but they weren’t the only ones who were murdered,” Missy replied sadly. “There was another woman at the house…”

  “Let me guess, Marcia Stanton?” the artist supplied.

  Missy stared at him in astonishment. “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “The two have been best friends their entire lives, it wasn’t much of a challenge.”

  “But why on earth would someone randomly kill everyone in the house except for a young child?” Echo wondered.

  “The social worker said that Emi hid in a kitchen cabinet when she heard the screams and shots. She came out after the noise stopped, and not knowing what to do, she went to her bed to hide, eventually falling asleep. She woke up yesterday morning and wandered out of the house in shock.”

  “Nothing like this has ever happened in Calgon,” Kel shook his head. “Does Chas have any leads?”

  “He hasn’t said anything about it, other than to say that there was no sign of forced entry, so whoever it was, most likely had some sort of connection to the family.”

  “That’s pretty typical,” the artist replied. “Murders tend to be personal, rather than random.”

  “Did you know the Andersons?” Missy asked.

  “Not personally. I knew of them because Melany’s parents were art collectors. Garret worked for the local TV news station as a reporter. The friend, Marcia Stanton married well and attended every social and charitable event in town. We worked on the Annual Art Fair together a few times. I have some suspicions that I’m going to check out,” Kel set his mug down, nodding to himself.

  “You think you might know who did it?” Echo asked, her brows arched in surprise.

  “Possibly. I’m going to try to sniff some things out.”

  “Well, keep us posted, so that I can let Chas know what you’re up to,” Missy directed.

  “In good time, my dear.”

  Carla’s arrival at the cupcake shop was heralded by the bells at the door.

  “Hey all,” she said, looking better than they had seen her looking in months.

  “Hey girl. How are you holding up after all the excitement yesterday?” Missy asked.

  The decorator shrugged. “I can’t get the image of that precious little girl covered in her parent’s blood out of my mind.”

  “I’m so glad that you were there to take her in. Who knows what might have happened if you hadn’t seen her.”

  “I just wish I could’ve done more. That poor kid is going to be scarred for life,” Carla shook her head. “She left her bear at my house,” she held out a shopping bag to Missy. “Can you make sure that it gets to her?”

  “Of course.” Missy took the bag and tucked it away under the front counter.

  “Marcia Stanton was a client of yours, wasn’t she?” Kel asked.

  Carla looked at him quizzically. “Yes, why?” When all three were silent, she looked from one to another, realization finally dawning on her. “Oh my…was she…?”

  Missy nodded sadly.

  “Good criminy,” the decorator paled, sighing heavily. “Why the heck does all of this have to happen when I’m busy trying to get sober. If there was ever a time that I could use a good, stiff shot…” she muttered.

  “I know of some herbal remedies that might help,” Echo offered quietly. She and Carla had nearly no charitable feelings toward one another, but the fiery champion of all things good had nothing but respect for the decorator’s efforts. “I think it takes a lot of strength to do what you’re doing.”

  “Thanks, I might take you up on that,” was the simple response.

  Kel and Missy exchanged a quick glance, both were amazed at the first civilized exchange that Carla and Echo had ever shared.

  “Hey, since you’re here, do you mind if I pick your brain a bit? I have a holiday party happening this weekend, and I could use some help with the extra decorating, if you have time,” Missy asked Carla, wanting to get her more involved in positive endeavors.

  “That sounds just like what the doctor ordered,” the decorator nodded. “Would you happen to have a Salted Caramel cupcake for me to munch on the way? I’m starving.”

  “Well, that’s a good sign, and yes, as a matter of fact I do,” Missy smiled, going to fetch the treat.

  Kel looked at Echo after the two of them left. “Do I see a shred of compassion in your soul for Miss Carla?” he teased.

  “You know me…champion of the underdog…even if she’s catty,” Echo stood and started clearing the dishes. “What’s on your agenda this morning?” she deftly changed the subject.

  “I’m going to start exploring a few of my ideas about whodunit before I head to the gallery. I’m assuming that you’re holding the fort down here while Missy keeps Carla busy?”

  Echo nodded, heading for the kitchen. “Those cupcakes won’t frost themselves.”

  Chapter 5

  Betsy’s Diner was a gathering place for locals that was famous for its abundant breakfasts and heavenly slabs of pie. The décor hadn’t changed since the seventies, and that was just the way that the townsfolk liked it. Betsy Boggus, the owner and sole proprietor was a reliable source of gossip, particularly since she typically saw townspeople when they came in drunk after a night on the town, or hungover the next morning. Her place was open 24/7 except for Christmas day, and on other holidays, she often fed those who needed it for free.

  “Well, Phillip Kellerman, as I live and breathe,” Betsy rasped when Kel took his seat at the counter. There were patrons at a couple of booths in the back, but otherwise the diner was empty, giving the artist an ample opportunity to pick the owner’s brain. “The usual, Sunshine?”

  “Yes, please, my lovely,” Kel grinned, looking forward to his buttermilk pancakes, eggs over-medium, bacon, sausage and home fries. The only downside to eating at Betsy’s was that the woman could not make decent coffee to save her life. The food was spectacular in every cholesterol-filled, fat-inducing way, but to accompany it, he always ordered Earl Grey.

  “Don’t think that I don’t know why you’re here,” Betsy accused good-naturedly, setting down several plates in from of him.

  “Witty conversation and sublime breakfast?” the artist waggled his eyebrows playfully.

  “Mmhmm…” the iron-haired gal made a face. “I heard about what happened to the Andersons and the Stanton woman, so I know that you heard about it too.”

  “It may have been mentioned.”

  Wiping down the counter in front of him and speaking softly enough that none of the other patrons could hear, Betsy asked him what he knew.

  “Nothing, really. No details.” Kel popped a bite of syrup drenched pancake in his mouth while she picked up a tray filled with clean glasses and began stacking them behind the counter nearby.

  “My dishwasher, Leroy, moonlights over at Sam’s Grille in Mescola,” she said in a low voice, referring to a town in the middle of nowhere, about 45 minutes away from Calgon. “He works the midnight to six a.m. shift, and said that Melany was a frequent flyer out there,” Betsy raised her eyebrows.

  “A youngish wife and mother, spending her time at a dive in the boonies? That doesn’t make much sense,” Kel frowned, taking a bite of crisp bacon.

  “It does if you take into account the company that she was keeping.”

  “Do tell…”

  “A Mr. Calvin Cramer,” Betsy raised her eyebrows knowingly.

  “But…wasn’t he married to…?”

  “Her bestie, Marcia Stanton? Yes, he was,” she nodded, pursing her lips.

  “And they were…engaged in intimate behavior?” the artist said delicately.

  “Yes, they were. At least, it appeared that way to Leroy.”

  “Was it a murder/suicide then?” Kel asked, astonished.

  “Not from what I
heard. One of my waitresses dates a forensics guy, and from what I understand, everyone in the house, except for the poor little girl, was murdered in the same way, with the same weapon. One thing that I’ve always found a little bit interesting is the fact that both Melany and her husband have coal black hair and brown eyes, yet they managed to produce a beautiful little blonde, blue-eyed girl,” Betsy looked at him pointedly.

  “Just like Calvin Cramer,” Kel actually put down his fork for a moment.

  “You said it, not me,” she raised her hands.

  “I wonder if he has an alibi,” the artist mused.

  “I don’t know, but if I was looking to find out, I’d check over at the Cambridge Club. I hear tell he spends a fair bit of time there,” Betsy placed another pot of hot water and a fresh tea bag on a plate and set it in front of him.

  “I’ll have to dust off my membership, and enter that hallowed space that reeks of cigars and money,” he replied wryly. Kel was more than successful, but pretentious people made him itch. “So if Cal was dallying with Melany, who was keeping his lovely wife satiated, I wonder.”

  “Well, that’s where it gets a bit complicated…”

  “You don’t mean…” the artist blinked. He wasn’t a man who was easily shocked, but this particular morning had been full of surprises.

  Betsy shrugged. “If the rumors are to be believed. Think about it, Kel. You’ve got a husband and wife who are stepping out, and a husband and wife who are left behind. Doesn’t it make sense that they might turn to each other?”

  “That’s a whole lot of infidelity and subterfuge for just two families,” the artist observed.

  “Which could make for an explosive situation,” she pointed out reasonably.

  “Yes, but why would Cal kill his lover along with his wife and her lover?”

  “Maybe he just wanted out of the whole mess. Who knows?” Betsy shrugged.

  “Or, perhaps, there’s something more powerful that motivated him.”

  “I’d be careful with this one, my friend,” she warned. “Cal Cramer has lots of friends in high places. If he did do this, and finds out that you’re on his trail, it could get dangerous.” She cleared a mountain of empty plates while Kel dabbed at his mouth with a paper napkin.

  “The greater they are, the harder they fall, dear woman,” the artist replied with a gleam in his eye.

  Chapter 6

  Missy bustled about, emptying bags of sparkly fabric, blankets of cotton “snow”, and boxes of icicles, ornaments and garlands for the “White Christmas” theme party that her guests had requested. They were a group of friends from a city a couple of hours away, who thought that it would be great fun to host their annual Christmas party at the stately B&B. No one would have to drive home, and other attendees had rented hotel rooms locally, so everyone would be safe. They were expecting around one hundred guests, which necessitated use of the ballroom, rather than one of the parlors, and had hired a caterer for the drink and hors d’oeuvre service.

  Carla was supposed to be there at any minute, and Missy was thankful to have her help with the decorations. Spencer had brought all of the bags and boxes in and was standing by to climb ladders, hammer nails and whatever else was needed for the decorating process. There were literally thousands of twinkle lights to be wrapped in cotton “snow” and suspended from the ceiling, doorways, pillars and around the windows that overlooked the beach. The patio area outside the ballroom’s French doors would also be aglow with a central fire pit and more “snow” twinkle lights. While Missy was excited to see the ballroom decked out for the holidays, she was feeling the time crunch and her stress level was beginning to rise.

  “You can stop frowning, I’ve come to save the day,” Carla teased, coming up behind Missy as she punctured the plastic bag containing one of the faux snow blankets.

  “Oh my goodness, I’m so glad to see you,” Missy exclaimed, giving the decorator a hug.

  “Clearly,” she chuckled, surveying the supplies and the undecorated room.

  The two women, with Spencer’s help, had decorated the rest of the Inn, but had left the ballroom until last, knowing that the end result had to be magical. The massive mahogany fireplace in the center of the room would be the focal point, and the rest of the room would be turned into a wintry fairyland as well.

  “Hey, Muscles,” Carla addressed the young Marine. “You ready to put your back into this?”

  “Awaiting orders, ma’am,” Spencer replied amiably.

  The three of them worked for nearly four hours before taking a lunch break, and as they sat out on the patio, enjoying thick sandwiches made from last night’s ham, Maggie came out with a worried look on her face.

  “Missy…can I speak to you for a moment?” she asked.

  “Of course.” She put down her sandwich and followed the innkeeper back inside. “What’s wrong?”

  “Mr. Jeppson, the gentleman who made the reservation for the party, is thinking about canceling,” Maggie told her in an urgent whisper.

  “What? Why?” Missy’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “I’m not sure exactly, something about a death. He wants to speak with you. I had him wait in the Wedgewood Parlor.”

  “The food has been ordered, we just spent hours decorating, the DJ has been scheduled…if he cancels, it’s going to be costly for him,” Missy sighed, dreading the conversation that she was about to have with her guest. “Okay, Maggie. Thanks. I’ll go talk to him.”

  Steve Jeppson was staring out the window, hands in pockets, when Missy entered the parlor.

  “You wanted to see me, Mr. Jeppson?”

  The handsome, sandy-haired guest turned from the window.

  “Mrs. Beckett,” he nodded a greeting. “Yes, I’m afraid I have some bad news. I just learned this morning that the wife of one of my invited guests has, tragically, been murdered. That whole sad state of affairs has put quite a pall on our enthusiasm for the event that we have scheduled, so I’m seriously considering canceling it.”

  Missy’s heart went out to him. “How awful for you. I’m so sorry. Was it a close friend of yours?”

  Steve shook his head. “No. A business associate from this area, Cal Cramer. I actually only met his wife, Marcia, once, briefly. Do you know him?”

  Working very hard to not react at the mention of Cal Cramer’s name, Missy kept her sympathetic expression firmly in place. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. What an awful thing to deal with, particularly this close to the holidays.”

  “Agreed. Which is why I’m thinking of canceling the party.”

  Instead of approaching the situation with the realities of deposits that would need to be forfeited and inconveniences caused, Missy chose a different strategy.

  “Don’t you think that perhaps a gathering of people who care about and support him might be just the thing to ease his pain and help him see something positive in the midst of his grief?” she proposed.

  Steve raised his eyebrows. “I hadn’t actually considered that, but you may be right. Let me talk with the others and see what they think.”

  “And if you think that a huge, grand party might overwhelm him, you could always scale things back a bit and only invite those who actually know him,” she suggested.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” he nodded. “I’ll see what the gang has to say and get back with you in a bit, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course, take your time.”

  Chapter 7

  Kel straightened his bow tie after handing off his keys to the valet at the Cambridge Club, convinced that he looked dapper enough to rub elbows with the elitist masters of the universe who spent their evenings sipping scotch, smoking cigars and making multi-million dollar deals inside the mahogany-clad walls of the revered establishment. It had been a very long time since he’d graced these hallowed halls with his presence, but tonight, he was a man on a mission, and if he had to grossly overpay for a filet mignon accompanied by fine imported wine to accomplish his goal, so be it.
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  “Mr. Kellerman, welcome. It’s lovely to see you again,” Francois, the concierge, greeted him like an old friend. Kel was one of the few club members who treated the Frenchman like a person rather than a servant, and because of that, he always received the best of service in return.

  “Francois, it is always a pleasure,” he shook the concierge’s hand.

  “Feel free to take any table that you’d like in the lounge. I’ll have a server bring you a menu and a cocktail once you’re seated.”

  “Thank you,” Kel nodded at the man, and slipped him a fifty dollar bill, just because he was glad to see a friendly face in a room full of magnates who passed judgment upon him for making a living as a “lowly” artist. The fact that his work was world renowned impressed few people in this particular venue.

  He heard the creak of fine leather, as bottoms covered by five thousand dollar suits shifted in their chairs. Ice tinkled in glasses of scotch that cost nearly as much as most folks’ monthly grocery bills, and thin smoke from Cuba’s finest drifted lazily upward, getting smoothly sucked into the room’s silent central vac system. A few members looked up curiously at the artist’s arrival, then went back to their conversations with no acknowledgement of his presence, most ignored him entirely, not bothering to even glance in his direction, and a couple of gents who were avid collectors of his work nodded politely.

  As predicted by Betsy, Cal Cramer was there, holding court at a table with two other gentleman. By all outward appearances, he seemed perfectly content, sipping on a Manhattan and deeply engrossed in conversation. Kel couldn’t get a table close enough to him to be able to listen in on the conversation, but he did find one that gave him a discreet sightline through the fronds of a potted palm, so that he could observe the “grieving” widower.

  Francois was true to his word, as always, and as soon as Kel was seated, he was presented with a refreshing vodka tonic and a menu with no prices. If you were a member here, price wasn’t an issue and one knew better than to ask. The server took his surf and turf order, and brought out his goose liver pate appetizer almost immediately. He had no idea how long Cal Cramer and friends would be in the Club, so he was preparing for a marathon evening. By all outward appearances, the artist was merely scrolling through the news feed on his phone and enjoying a mellow evening at the Cambridge. In reality, he was watching Cal Cramer like a hawk, hoping to glean whatever knowledge he could from his less-than-ideal location.