Deadly Traditions, page 31
Irene made it back to Mourning Arts just before Libby and Sadie, enough time to tell Viv what she did not find–and what she found.
“All that cash...he must be up to something.” Viv leaned on the counter and crossed her arms. “I have a family like that. They don’t keep their money in banks.”
“But to travel with it like that?” Viv used. “Well, at least nobody spotted you.”
“I slipped out the back.”
The door flung open and Libby and Sadie walked in with their arms full.
Whether or not Culpeper Mike was up to no good, one thing was for certain, these ladies were
ready to party–and craft.
The shop closed, with card tables set up in a long group, bayberry and cinnamon candles lit and
sitting on the gleaming counters. Women trickled in with baskets of goodies and bags of crafting materials. Viv, Libby, Sadie and Irene had piled card stock at each seat, along with glue, glue stick and trays of glitter packs, buttons, and stickers. Red, green, gold, and white splashes of color almost made Irene feel better about the holiday. Everybody was right. Moving ahead with the party would help her to keep her mind off things, things like finding Carol in her office. Though it was just beneath the surface of her skin, in the folds of her mind.
Irene shoved a nut cup into her mouth. It was so delicious. She decided more eating of delicious cookies could help as well. She reached for another.
“You’ve not gotten very far.’’ Viv pointed at her red card.
“It’s folded,” Irene smoothed over the red cardstock. “I’m awaiting the muse.”
“I saved this for you.” Viv handed her a delicate black paper doily.
Irene’s mood lifted. “Black paper lace. One of my favorite things. Thank you.” She cut it into
something resembling a female figure, then fashioned tree branches to look as if they grew out of her. “That’s nice, dear,” Libby said, glancing at her creation for the side, trying to not look horrified. Libby finished cutting a paper angel for her cards and dipped it in light blue glitter.
“Angels again?” Sadie said. “You do angels every year. I remember the year you did lace angels.
They were so pretty...and the gingham...My aunt used to only do candles on her Christmas cards.”
“To each or her own.” Angie’s card had two stickers on it; she moved at a decidedly slow pace as
well, and drinking her second glass of Rose. Not that Irene was counting. But like any excellent hostess, she tried to monitor the alcohol consumption.
“In France, Christmas is not so commercial,” Cee Cee glued a paper candle on the front of her card. “I can’t remember ever getting a card when I was growing up. But perhaps we did and I just don’t remember. We received a lot of food. And wine.”
“I always said I must have a bit of France in me,” Libby said and giggled.
Irene couldn’t help but laugh, though the others pursed their lips and sipped their tea.
After they calmed, Libby asked Sadie about her cards. She already had a stack of them finished.
“You’re on a roll.”
“I plan out every year. A different farm animal each year.” She bit into a cookie. “Last year it was
sheep.”
“I remember!” Irene said. “And you sent me a black one. So thoughtful.”
“This year, I’m doing chickens. Christmas chickens.” She held up a card to show everybody.
Chickens wearing Santa hands. Chickens wearing boots and scarves.
“Very cute!” Libby exclaimed.
“I’m going to make red chickens, you know, the old rooster color.” She reached for the red stock.
Cee Cee handed her a box of feathers.
Feathers: where did they come from?
Irene hadn’t noticed, but she and Viv exchanged looks. They were craft feathers, not the kind of
feathers found on Carol’s body. Still, a shiver traveled along Irene’ s spine.
“Wonderful!” Sadie clapped her hands together. “I’m going to use these feathers.” She picked
purple, black, and red feathers out of the containers.
“I’ve never seen a chicken quite that red.” Cee Cee laughed.
“Oh, I have.” Angie spoke up and poured herself another glass of wine.
“Angie! I heard you’re taking over Carol’s lease,” Cee Cee said. “We’re going to be neighbors.”
Angie’s face reddened. “That right.” She looked around, as if in embarrassment. “I know it’s soon after her death, but there were already others inquiring. I’ve been waiting so long for a place to open I’m hoping to buy it, eventually. Her family wants to get rid of it ASAP.”
A long, awkward silence enfolded the ladies making cards. Scissors snapped and landed on the table. Cee Cee cleared her throat.
“Look at my purple chicken!” Sadie said with glee, breaking the awkwardness.
Has the conversation really turned to chickens again? Christmas chickens, or otherwise, Irene hoped to steer the conversation away. “You know, my favorite bird has always been the bluebird.”
“I like them very much, too.” Aunt Libby reached for her scissors. The group of women at the other end of the table giggled within their own circle.
“Oh, I could tell you stories about the beautiful bluebird houses my daddy used to make...” Sadie said. “They were always two toned. He’d painted the shutters and doors a complimentary color. Oh, my...Remember helping him paint those shutters.”
“They look very fake purple.” Angie pointed at the feathers. Her words slurring.
“How do you know? Since when are you an expert on chickens?” Libby said.
“I’m raising fancy chickens,” she replied. “I know more than you think I do.”
Sadie laughed. “Okay, you’re the fancy chicken expert. I give up.” She reached for another purple
feather.
“If you like purple feathers, my chickens have gorgeous purple feathers, edged in a deep purple.
It almost looks unreal.” She lifted her glass to her mouth and sipped.
Viv and Irene locked eyes. Chicken feathers— scattered in Carol’s apartment and near her body.
Nobody else knew anything about the feathers.
“Where could I get a chicken like that?” Irene asked.
“They are Purple Wyandottes and I’m the only local who’s raising them.” She sat her wobbly
glass on the table.
“How do you know?” Irene asked, trying to keep the conversation nonchalant, while chills were moving through her.
“Because there’s a registry,” she said, as if Irene should be aware of it.
Irene looked for Viv, but she was gone. She hoped she was calling the police. Why would Angie kill Carol and drag her body into Mourning Arts? How did she do it? Angie was the only person who had access to those feathers.
It clicked into place. Angie wanted to take over Carol’s shop. It was already happening. She’d already said she planned to buy it, knowing that her family would want to get rid of it as fast as possible.
Was that cause for a murder? Irene suspected if one had the leaning toward murder, it wouldn’t take much, but it seemed flimsy. There had to be something else. Was Irene looking into the bloodshot eyes of a killer?
She searched for Viv, but she was already gone, standing outside on her phone. No doubt she had it figured out and was calling Stone. This would be a party to remember.
Later, Irene found Viv in the storage room, sitting on a bin of black lace curtains, sniffling.
Irene’s heart sank. Poor kid. So much had fallen on her shoulders while Irene was recuperating and investigating, and her friend Carol had died. “Are you okay?”
Viv raised her watery eyes. “Carol was a good person. Angie killed her for what? A store?”
Irene sat next to her on the bin, ignoring its slight buckling. “Evidently, they’d been fussing at each other for quite some time. Carol and Angie. They’ve known each other for years.”
“I’ll never understand people.”
“Me neither. But you helped. That’s the best we can do, be as helpful as possible. We can’t control other people.”
Viv stood. “So let me get this straight. They argued about the store. Angie had made what she considered a fair offer.”
“Right. And Carol didn’t want to sell. Though she gave her space for her books. We shouldn’t talk about this now.”
Viv ignored her. “So Angie shoots Carol. And calls her cousin to help her?”
Irene nodded. They’d already nabbed Culpepper Mike as an accessory. And they found white powder in his vehicle. Just as Irene suspected.
“Why all the feathers?”
“Drama, flair.” Irene shrugged her shoulders.
“Why here?” Viv gestured to the shop.
“Because we’re the only shop with no camera. Evidently, it was too cold to dispose of the body
outside.” Irene stood and wrapped her arm around Viv. She was between weary and wound-up and needed to unwind. She was certain Viv needed the same thing.
They walked out into the front of the story, where aunt Libby and Sadie had finished cleaning up and were sitting at a card table drinking glasses of whisky. Jazzy Christmas music played on one of their phones.
“Smells like what I need.” Irene reached for a glass and poured the caramel-colored whisky. “What a day.”
Viv sat next to her.
“Justice has been served here tonight.” Aunt Libby raised her glass. “It’s not often one gets to witness it right in front of her own eyes. Thank you, both, for the part you played in it.”
Irene didn’t feel like she’d done much at all–passed out, investigated a bit to no avail, and threw a party where it all came together. “To Viv, who held it all together when I couldn’t.” She lifted her glass.
Viv beamed, reaching for a tin of cookies and opening it with a thwack. She reached in and drew out a white sugary snowball cookie and plopped it into her mouth. “If it wasn’t for your search, the police wouldn’t have known about the money.”
Irene tucked a hair behind her ear. “That’s good to know. Where did he get it?”
“It was Carol’s,” Viv replied. “Turns out he helped himself to her money right after he dumped her body here.”
“Of course he did.” Aunt Libby twirled her glass around, the ice crackling.
“How will we have Christmas?” Sadie said. “I mean, how will we manage to get in the spirit, and sell our wares, chat-up the tourists? I mean, I feel as if I’m living in a nightmare version of this town.”
The women sat, circled around the table, jazzy jingle bells playing, each in her own thoughts.
“That’s a good question, Sadie.” Irene tapped her fingers on the table. “Let’s focus on the swift justice in Carol’s death. That’s a blessing where we can begin to heal.” She drew in air. “It won’t be easy. She’ll be missed. It’s hard to make sense of all of this. But we must press on. In a few weeks, we’ll be inundated with shoppers and tourists.”
Viv stood, poured herself a whiskey, held up the glass. “To Carol. We’ll miss you.”
It was the perfect gesture to end the not-so perfect day. The women left the shop a little wobbly on their feet, arm and arm, down the snowy streets of Victoria Town, the moon blazing white gold in the sky.
If you’d like more of Viv and Irene, check out the Victoria Town Mysteries.
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About Mollie Cox Bryan
Mollie Cox Bryan writes cozy mysteries with edge. She's the author of several bestselling mystery series, also writing under the pen name Maggie Blackburn. Her books have been selected as finalists for an Agatha Award and a Daphne du Maurier Award and as a Top 10 Beach Reads by Woman's World. She has also been short-listed for the Virginia Library People's Choice Award. She's also penned a historical fiction: MEMORY OF LIGHT: AN AFTERMATH OF GETTYSBURG. She's the mother of two nearly perfect daughters, each pursuing careers in music. She lives in Crozet, Va.
A Little Christmas Villainy
MELICITY POPE
When Holly Sharpe agrees to escape L.A. for a winter break at her English friend’s family villa in Italy, she finds herself unraveling a series of mysterious events threatening to ruin Christmas. Will Christmas in Italy end up a “Fatale Natale”?
Chapter 1
“Just come!” my childhood best friend, Charlotte Hinley, urged me on our monthly-ish, bi-continental catch-up call. “Besides, a little Italian minibreak will give you some space to figure out what’s next.”
I did need to figure out what was next. California’s “no fault” status meant that everyone split assets down the middle in a divorce, and Mike had opted to take his cut in cash. Not only was our house now on the market, but it was also looking like I would have to sell the businesses to pay him off. It was the absolute worst time for me to jump on a plane and leave L.A.
“I don’t know, Char. I don’t think I can right now. Besides, if I went to Europe, I’d be expected to swing through England to spend time with the grandparents, especially at Christmas.”
“Never stopped you before.”
“Hey!”
“Paris, Milan, Berlin… We just had to sit by Burney River waving at your plane as it passed us by all those times.”
I started to protest, but she ignored me.
“I know, I know, Little Witherburne’s hard to get to when you’re on a tight schedule.”
I rubbed the lines between my eyebrows. “I’m sorry I’ve been away so long.”
“And now you can make up for it,” she answered brightly. “To me, anyway.”
“It’s just that I’ve got a lot to square away with—”
“Didn’t you tell me one of your Love and Luxe success story couples are getting married here?”
“Ugh. One of my high-maintenance success stories. Don’t remind me. Besides, it was Venice.”
She pivoted. “What about researching a new recipe for Ginger Luxe?”
While mentioning that gingerbread was more Polish than Italian, my stomach turned to lead. How must she view me now if she believed the only way to motivate me into visiting was in service of one of my businesses? Was that who I’d become?
Char exhaled into the phone and paused. “Will you do it for me, then, Holly? Ever since I got here, things have been strange. Something’s going on, and I could really use the moral support…”
And that’s how I found myself two days later in this picture-postcard, Italian hamlet of Miele di Rosa on Christmas Eve afternoon, choking down sips of limoncello at a rickety wooden table at La Rosa Rosa, the only restaurant for five miles. I blinked at Char through bleary, post-fourteen-hour-flight eyes. Maybe it was my hazy vision, but she totally hadn’t aged in the ten years since I’d seen her in person. Her thick, straight black hair still hung to the middle of her back and framed a gorgeous face accentuated by dark eyes and lashes that wouldn’t quit.
I could only imagine how my tangled, cinnamon-colored messy bun and puffy face, straight from the long-haul journey, compared to my shy but glamorous-looking friend.
“So, let me see if I’ve got this.” I grabbed a napkin to take notes. “The villa – manor – whatever, and the vineyards belong to your great uncle, Ralph.”
“Yes.”
“And he has an Italian live-in butler.”
“Carlo.”
“Carlo,” I repeated. “Right. And also in the household is Uncle Ralph’s fiancée—”
“Much younger fiancée.”
“Jackie.”
Char nodded.
“And the guests for Christmas, besides us, are Ralph’s brother, Bob, and Bob’s daughter…?”
“Barbie. And Barbie was the one calling my dad night and day saying something’s not right about Jackie and asking if any of us in England could come over and find out what’s going on. Preferably before the wedding.” Char took a swig of my limoncello and grimaced. “I was glad to do it, but honestly, I still don’t feel any closer to an answer for her. Jackie’s so lovely, and they seem really happy…”
“Despite the age difference,” I finished for her. I’d matched a few May-December couples through my Love and Luxe boutique, and it was typical for family members to jump to the same conclusions. “When’s the wedding?”
“Boxing Day.”
“Wow. Nothing like leaving it to the last minute.”
Char threw her hands up in mock despair.
I finished my drink. “Maybe Barbie’s overreacting?”
“I think so, but now she’s got Uncle Bob all in a tizz, too.” She sighed. “Thanks for agreeing to come, Hols. You’ve always been so good at reading people. I just want us all to have a happy Christmas, and I don’t think we can until this is sorted.”
I didn’t know how great my powers of perception were going to be when all I wanted was my book and my bed, but I smiled. It really was good to be together again.
At that moment, several men dressed as shepherds came in and began serenading us with bagpipes, putting an end to any further conversation.
“It’s tradition!” Char shouted at me over the table.
“It’s nice!” I shouted back, stifling a yawn. I actually did like bagpipes, and these were fashioned differently than any I’d ever seen. Up until then, I’d only known them as a Scottish thing, so that was fun. Every day’s a school day.
Char pushed her chair back and motioned to the door. “I should probably get you to dinner.”
All across the medieval village square, little wooden stalls began to close up, ending last-minute shoppers’ experiences of Miele de Rosa’s Christmas Market for the day. As I set my carry-on down next to me, I breathed in the crisp December air and took in the scene. Villagers called out a chorus of “Buon Natale!” to one another while rushing home with their treasures. Strings of twinkling lights wove around every lamp post and criss-crossed above our heads, illuminating each market stall. But the giant fir tree decorated with hundreds of cool white bulbs would not be outshone. Towering over it all was the village church, its cream-colored stones reflecting the glow of the village square.
