Murder by eggnog, p.1
Murder by Eggnog, page 1
MURDER BY EGGNOG
KARIN KAUFMAN
Winter Tree Books
Copyright © 2023 by Karin Kaufman
Cover design by Molly Burton of Cozy Cover Designs
Published by Winter Tree Books
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. This includes reprints, excerpts, photocopying, recording, or any future means of reproducing texts.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imaginatin or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Author and series information at KarinKaufman.com
Contents
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
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CHAPTER 1
I was setting a plate of gingersnaps on the table when eighty-something Sandra Teller leveled her camera like a shotgun and snapped a closeup of my face, temporarily blinding me.
I smiled, wished her a merry Christmas, and felt my way back to the grocery bags I’d left on the room’s storage cabinet.
“She’d better not try that with me,” Angela Drummond whispered as she pulled Styrofoam cups from one of the bags.
I retrieved a gallon jug of the best gourmet eggnog in Colorado and put that too on the table.
With his eyes glued to the cookies, Eddie Greenleaf nudged his blue mobility scooter closer to the goodies. “Kelsie, can we dive in?”
“Eddie, can you not wait one minute?” Sandra moaned.
“No, please go ahead,” I replied. “Don’t wait. There’s plenty more.”
Angela passed around the cups and put a plate of raspberry thumbprint cookies on the table. And I chided myself for not bringing a festive tablecloth or centerpiece. Something cheery to distract from the old, tattered wreath on the wall, the room’s only nod to the season.
Clearly the conference room at the Mapleton, Fairwood’s independent living home, had been decorated by someone who disliked Christmas nearly as much as the pre-visitation Scrooge.
Sandra leaned in and snapped a photo of the thumbprint cookies.
“They’re so pretty, Angela,” said Jean Charles. “It’s almost a shame to eat them.”
“We’ll manage to overcome our shame,” Angela replied.
Another eighty-something resident, Jean was on the diminutive side, with short gray hair and lake blue eyes. She wore a navy sweater under a black cardigan, and as further protection from any December draft, she’d wrapped a red, cowl-like scarf about her neck.
“Gwen Hadley made those for us,” I said.
“Oh, dear Gwen. How I loved going to Fig’s.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“Coffee doesn’t sit with me like it used to.”
Eddie laughed. “Nothing sits with us like it used to.”
I had met Jean, Eddie, and Sandra in November, when I’d donated copies of The Nine Tailors to their book club. Though all six Mapleton Crime Club members were mystery fans, not a single one of them had read that Dorothy Sayers gem. Naturally, it was a situation I had to rectify.
Angela passed around the napkins while I circled the table, pouring eggnog, and the book club members dove into the cookies. When I finished, Jean pointed to a couple of chairs at the table’s end. “Sit now, you two,” she said with an authority forged by decades as an elementary school teacher. “This is your mystery party too.”
Though Jean was a good fifteen years older than Angela, the two had formed a friendship years ago, and that friendship had continued after Jean’s move to the Mapleton a year ago. They shared a love of books and the sorrow of widowhood—both strong bonds.
I knew the latter bond better than many—having lost my husband, Adam—though perhaps not better than most in that conference room. They were all single, it seemed, and all in their late seventies to mid-eighties.
“I want to hear more about the Mapleton Crime Club,” I said, sinking into a chair. I tapped the seat, calling my dog Stella to my side, and took a shamelessly large gulp of the most intensely nutmeg-rich eggnog I’d ever had. Major delicious.
“Oh, but first my manners,” Jean said. “This is Kelsie Butler, everyone. Angela’s friend. You haven’t met our other members, Kelsie.”
The man on my left, one of only two men in the room, sat a bit straighter. “I’m Dennis Harrington, and I’ve been in the club for, oh, two years now. About as long as I’ve been at the Mapleton.”
Broad chested and stocky, with wavy gray hair and dark, bushy eyebrows, Dennis was a few years younger than Jean, I thought. And like the others, he appeared vibrant and healthy, more than able to take care of himself, though maybe not a house and yard.
“I’m Diane Becker,” a woman said, pressing a veiny hand to her collarbone. She dropped her gaze, and the can light above her highlighted the white roots in her otherwise auburn-dyed hair. “You brought your dog.”
“Her name’s Stella. She’s an Aussie mix.” I glanced around the table. “This is a dog friendly place, right?”
“You’d better believe it,” Eddie said. “There are three dogs on my floor alone, and I wish I had one.”
Diane drew a long, ragged breath, and said, “Oh, me too. If I had the energy to walk a dog.”
“Get yourself a Yorkie or Maltese,” the woman across from Diane said. “They only need a walk around the block, and you should be doing that anyway. I’m Mona Swan, by the way,” she said, turning her full, round face toward me. “Thank you both so much for these treats. We usually have our meeting at the end of each month, but with Christmas coming up, and with our December book, we thought a few days before Christmas was perfect timing.”
She spoke in a refined, precise voice, her delivery accentuated, almost comically, by her prominent front teeth.
“How do you choose the book each month?” I asked.
“We each get a turn,” Eddie said, “and we all agreed on a change of pace for Christmas.”
Sandra laid her camera on the table and reached for her cup. “I haven’t read A Christmas Carol since I was a teenager.”
“I’ve never read it all the way through,” I said. “I keep meaning to.”
“It’s a smashing Christmas ghost story,” Angela said.
“Yes, and quite spooky in parts,” Jean agreed.
Angela smiled. “My father told the best Christmas ghost stories. We’d gather around the fire, listen to the wind howling outside, and he’d tell them from memory. That man could talk for twenty minutes without pause.”
Diane scowled in disgust, took a long gulp of eggnog, and abruptly changed the subject. “What’s the weather forecast? Anyone hear?”
“It’s snowing lightly for now,” I said. “We’re supposed to get about four inches by morning.”
I rose and pulled back the drapes on the room’s single window. Snow glistened across the Mapleton’s front lawn and danced in the lights of the parking lot’s lampposts. After a warm autumn, winter weather had finally settled in. “Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold,” as Shakespeare had it.
But I loved the season. I loved how the earth rested in it and the snow wiped all slates clean.
“I hope the fools are wrong about four inches,” Diane said with a shiver.
“You’re not enjoying our book, then,” Eddie said. “It’s full of snow and frost and poor Cratchit freezing on the job.”
“I don’t mind snow in a book, only in real life,” she replied.
“In real life, I think I’ll have more eggnog,” Jean said.
I strode to the eggnog jug and poured her another cup. “Anyone else?”
“I love it,” Diane said, sliding her empty cup my way.
“Cookies for me,” Eddie said. As he leaned forward and reached for two more gingersnaps, the crumbs from previously eaten cookies tumbled down his sweater. He chuckled contentedly, brushed the crumbs from his lap, and carried on.
“Let’s talk about the book,” Sandra said. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but the final ghost, the phantom, gave me chills. My drapes morphed into black shadows and came at me all night.”
Diane took a long drink and set down her cup. “Me too, with my drapes. I thought the book was going to be Christmasy.”
“There were mince pies and chestnuts roasting on fires,” Dennis pointed out.
Diane ignored him. “But did you see shadows, Sandra? You said you did. Because I did.”
“They were only my curtains, Diane, and it was my overactive imagination playing games on me.”
“What about
“Eddie motoring down the hall?” Sandra asked.
“Can’t help it,” Eddie said amiably. “I ride a motor and I have insomnia.”
I laughed. Suffering from diabetes and confined to his scooter, Eddie nevertheless struck me as a happy man, and though I’d only met him twice now, I already wished I could spend more time in his company.
He deserved more gingersnaps, I decided, and luckily I had more. I went back to the storage cabinet and lifted another plate from the bag. As I turned around, I saw Jean pull a miniature bottle from her cardigan pocket and spritz her eggnog with its contents.
Rum in an airline-sized bottle? I pretended I hadn’t noticed.
Diane was now slumping dejectedly in her chair. It seemed to me she’d broached the subject of strange noises before but had been dismissed by her friends. And now she’d been dismissed again.
I set the plate on the table, making sure it was within Eddie’s reach. “What sounds did you hear, Diane? Can you describe them?”
She rewarded my interest with a faint smile. “It wasn’t Eddie’s motorized thing. I know what that sounds like.”
“Right.” I sat. “But can you describe these sounds?”
“Sounds that didn’t belong.” She bit her lower lip, and for a moment I thought she might look away or leave the room. “And I know how ridiculous my words are.”
“Not really,” I said. “There are sounds that don’t belong in my house. I couldn’t tell you what they are—not now—but if I heard them, they’d bother me because I’d know they were out of place.”
“Don’t encourage her, Kelsie,” Jean said.
“Diane is our resident ghost believer,” Sandra added.
“You believe in ghosts, Sandra,” Diane argued, “or so you said. Did you lie to me? Everyone lies about what they’re doing and saying. Or are you lying for the benefit of our guests?”
“Ghosts might exist elsewhere—I don’t know. I’m only saying the Mapleton doesn’t have ghosts, and if you don’t stop worrying about them you’re going to make yourself sick.” Sandra reached out, laying a hand on Diane’s arm. “It’s the Christmas season, and you’re safe. Let’s have a good time.”
Diane grabbed her cup and upended it, draining the last drop of eggnog. “Are any of us really safe in this horrible place?”
In my peripheral vision I saw Dennis roll his eyes.
Angela cleared her throat and ran a hand through her unruly white-gray bangs. “I saw a notice in the lobby for a special Christmas Eve party. Is anyone going? They went all out decorating the tree down there. It must be ten feet tall. And the garland on that elegant staircase!”
My no-nonsense friend wasn’t about to let the evening devolve into a ghost versus anti-ghost fight.
Diane had other ideas.
“Listen to me, everyone. I heard things in my room last night, but when I turned on the lights, there wasn’t anything there. Then opened the door, and I didn’t see anything.”
“There’s a simple explanation for that,” Jean said flatly. “There wasn’t anything.”
“Fine, ignore what I’m saying. You always do.”
“Diane, dear, I’m right next door and I didn’t hear a single sound.”
“It wasn’t just sounds.” Diane reached for the jug and poured herself some more eggnog, splashing almost as much around as in her cup.
“Careful,” Sandra said.
Once again Diane emptied her cup in a single long draw. The woman was bottomless.
“Good thing there’s no alcohol in that,” Sandra said. “Right, Jean?”
Jean’s reply was a wordless, piercing stare.
“No, listen to me,” Diane pleaded. “I had to close my eyes until my drapes stopped . . . stopped forming shapes.” Wild-eyed, she stared at the window. “They’re forming shapes now. Those drapes. Don’t you see it?”
Dennis leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table. “What do you mean ‘forming shapes’?”
“Better not let our esteemed director hear you talking like that,” Mona said. “You’ll be sent off to some assisted living facility.”
“Mona, stop,” Eddie chided.
“I’m only trying to keep her from being kicked out.”
“Diane, what do you mean by shapes?” Dennis repeated.
“Figures, figures,” she breathed. “They come close and they tell me what to do.”
Dennis reared back.
“Okay,” I said, getting to me feet and slinging my backpack over my shoulder. “Diane, let me take you to your room. Angela, can you bring some cookies?”
“Good idea,” she replied. “Let’s get you upstairs, Diane.”
“I’ll go with you,” Jean said. “Some strong coffee will help too. I’ve got a coffeemaker in my room. Meeting’s over, folks.”
Diane was rooted to her seat, her lips parted, her eyes on the conference room window. “I’m not safe. I know that.”
“You are safe,” Mona said, exchanging glances with Jean.
“We’ll stay with you for a while,” I told her.
“And we’ll check every inch of your room,” Angela said.
“I’ll patrol the hall,” Eddie added. “Nothing’s going to happen, Diane. You’re safe in our hands.”
CHAPTER 2
Diane sat on her living room couch, a shawl across her lap. Though she’d claimed to be exhausted, she was on full alert, twitching like a jittery bird at every movement we made. In the conference room I’d briefly wondered if Diane was drunk, but this looked more like a mental breakdown than inebriation. Before going to her room to brew up some coffee, Jean told me Diane had been acting erratically for days but that tonight was the worst she’d seen. For some reason, no one had thought to tell the director or on-staff nurse.
“Do you want the drapes open or closed?” I asked her.
“Leave them open, always leave them open. That way there’s only two places they can hide. The ends where the drapes gather. See?”
Angela sat down next to her. “Who is ‘they,’ Diane?”
“If I knew, I’d have them thrown out. Is that a dog?”
“That’s Stella,” I said. “She’s very sweet and protective.”
“She has nice brown eyes,” Diane said. “Now check the balcony. If anything’s there and I can't get to the door, I’m trapped.”
I went through the motions for her sake, opening the balcony door, standing in the falling snow, turning to my left and right. It struck me that hers was a beautiful location, three stories up with a view of the wide lawn below and a neighborhood park beyond that. It was especially beautiful in the glow of the evening’s moonlight. And her living room, though small, was clean and pleasant. Not a bad place to spend your elder years.
I came back inside and shut the door, shaking the snow from my brown, shoulder-length hair. “I’ll check your bedroom now.”
“Yes, but I won’t be sleeping in there.”
I joined Angela on the couch. “Why don’t we call you a doctor? Or at least let me call the nurse.”
Diane nearly bounded from her seat. “You can’t! I know what I have to do. They’re telling me now, but it’s a terrible thing. Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”
This—whatever this was—was insane, and I wasn’t going to promise her any such thing.
The sound of a key turning in the door’s lock was followed by Jean’s entry. “This is just the trick,” she said, swinging around the end of the couch and offering Diane a steaming mug of coffee. “Drink it down.”
On seeing Diane’s quivering hands, Jean dropped the keys on the end table, scooted me to the side, and held the mug until Diane had a firm grip on it.
“It’s hot,” Diane said.
“Not too hot to drink. I’ll keep my hands under the mug.”
Diane took a sip, then lowered the mug until it rested on her lap.
“You should eat, too,” Jean said.
The small paper plate of thumbprint cookies Angela had brought from the conference room was on the square coffee table in front of Diane, next to four plates and bowls topped with various cookies and Christmas fudge. I’d thought food might help with whatever ailed the woman, but I could see now that she lacked for nothing in that department.
