The Case of the Missing Elf: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 2)

By Anna Drake

Copyright 2014 by Anna Drake

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used, fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

I
t was bedlam from the moment I stepped inside the door. One child, pounding a small drum, sat on the floor just inside the cabin. Across the room, two boys hurled tiny toy tractors at each other. I raced over and stationed myself between the fighting pair.

“Put those things down now,” I ordered. Two pairs of wide, innocent eyes snapped my direction.

“You both know better.”

The taller boy, lean with dark hair, pointed an accusing finger at the boy opposite him. “He started it.”

“I did not,” the other child yelled back. This one was blond with a petulant mouth and a decidedly stubborn-looking chin.

“I don’t care how the fight began,” I thundered. “I’m telling you both that... as of right now... this fight is finished... over... kaput. Do you hear me?”

My foot slammed hard against the cold floor. Now, I knew foot stomping was a childish gesture. And it was a habit I’d been trying to rid myself of for ages. But so far, I didn’t have much to show for my efforts. Deep down, I could swear that foot had a life of its own.

But at least the boys lowered themselves to the floor and began using the tractors the way good little boys should. I breathed a sigh of relief. My outburst had restored, at least, some measure of order to the place. Even the drummer boy had stopped pounding out his incredible racket.  But I couldn’t help wondering how long peace would last with all of these kids coming and going? Sighing, I turned and sought out my friend, Ginger Black.

As an up and coming member of the Downtown Business Association, Ginger was in charge of Santa’s Cabin this year. I spotted her at the other end of the room yammering away at Santa Claus. Given the scowl on her face, I approached the pair cautiously.

Ginger’s a redhead, and while I know it’s a cliche, she’s also known to possess a quick temper. But I couldn’t imagine why she was so upset with Santa. Then, I caught the scent of gin and understood.

A drunken Santa was not what parents expected when dropping their children off for free babysitting. I doubted members of the Downtown Business Association would approve, either.

Finally, Ginger’s rant ended, and I sidled up beside her and tossed out a timid, “What’s going on?”

She whirled on me, her frown deepening. “First of all, that throne the DBA commissioned for Santa isn’t finished. The darn arm is loose. Our dear Santa keeps knocking it off whenever he gets up or sits down.”

“I can’t help it,” the man said, his words slurred.. “It’s all this padding.” He looked down and patted his tummy.

Ginger glared at him before dragging her attention back to me. “And if you should happen to come across Barnaby Scroggins anyplace around town, would you please tell him to get his sorry self down here...
now?”

“What’s happened?”

“That skunk didn’t turn up here today. That’s what.” She let her gaze circle the cabin and sighed. “This whole place is falling apart on me. I need him to watch the children.”

Scroggins had played the elf in Santa’s Cabin for about five years, now. Rumor had it the job was the highpoint of his life.

“Come on, Ginger. Scroggins would never put this job at risk. He loves it. Something has obviously come up, or maybe, he’s forgotten what day it is. Have you tried calling him?”

“I have, and without any luck.” Ginger put her fists to her hips and glared at me. “Do you know that under Association Bylaws, I have to take over babysitting duties here until a replacement can be found? Really. Can you imagine me locked in a cabin filled with out-of-control children?”

Well, I couldn’t. My dear friend was many things, including a good business woman, but a childcare angel, she wasn’t. Especially when a drunken Santa Claus was tossed into the mix. “Maybe you should  retire Scroggins and hire a more dependable elf? The man has to be in his mid-seventies at least.”

“Right. I ask you, who’s gonna sign up for a four-week job that barely pays minimum wage? Besides, even if I could find someone, what are the odds they’d be small enough to fit into his blasted costume?”

“There must be other vertically challenged people living in Cloverton.”

Ginger grunted.

“Look,” I said, “I’m more than willing to search for Scroggins for you if you have any idea where I can find him.”

Ginger shrugged. “How should I know? I’m not his keeper.”

I glanced at Santa. “Maybe I should check the taverns?”

“No,” Ginger replied. “That’s jolly Santa’s vice.” Ginger stared pointedly at the red-faced man seated before us, who hiccupped, smiled, and let out with a hearty, “Ho, ho, ho.”

My friend’s jaw flexed and a nasty gleam came into her eyes.

“Ginger,” I warned, “behave yourself.”

She glowered, first at Santa and then at me.

“Never mind,” I said. “I know Scroggins’ cousin. Maybe she’ll be able to help me track the man down. By the way, that little girl in the corner is fingerpainting the blonde girl’s hair. You might want to get over there and tell her to knock it off.”

Ginger roared and took off running.

Figuring a quick exit was my wisest move, I rushed across the room and out the cabin door. And as I descended the stairs to the street, I thanked my lucky stars that I had no long-term involvement with Santa’s Cabin.

The world I stepped into beyond the cabin door was a welcome change. Here there were no fighting children, no plastered Santa. Only blues skies. A brilliant sun. And a brisk, warm breeze. The glorious day made it hard to believe this was Black Friday, the kickoff of the official Christmas shopping season. But such was the case, and the hoopla in our fair town was now officially underway.

I’m Melanie Hart, by the way. When I’m not trying to calm Ginger or straighten out misbehaving children, I’m a reporter with the
Cloverton Gazette
, a tiny paper that covers a two-county area at the western edge of Illinois. I was down here collecting facts to work into a story on this special day.

Santa had arrived in our fair town on the fire truck during a late-morning parade. And the entire square was spruced up for Christmas.  Baskets, hanging on lampposts, sported holly, evergreen boughs, and large, crimson ribbons. Store windows were decorated with everything from Christmas trees to Victorian carolers. Every downtown merchant, it seemed, had gone out of their way to feature the coming holiday. And why not? It was the shopping-est season of the year.

I sighed and headed for my car. I had an elf to track down.

~~~

With distances being short in our dear town, I quickly arrived at Wendy Cartwright’s home. The well-maintained Victorian was located in a quiet neighborhood populated mostly with elderly residents, much like Wendy herself. She greeted me at the front door dressed in a paisley caftan with a yellow cat cradled in one arm.

She was a tiny woman with twinkling blue eyes and white, wispy hair, which that day she’d tucked up into a tight bun. She smiled warmly up at me, “Melanie, please come in. What brings you my way?”

I stepped inside the door. “I’m sorry to intrude, But Barnaby didn’t show up at Santa’s Cabin this afternoon. I’ve come in hopes you can help me track him down.”

Wendy blinked. “Goodness, is it that time of year already?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well, I’ll see if I can’t raise him.” She led me deeper into the room. “Can I fix you a coffee?”

“No, thank you. I need to hurry back to the newspaper. I’m only here in search  of Barnaby.”

“Then do sit down. It isn’t like him to miss an appointment. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll try calling him. The phone is in the kitchen, but I’ll be right back.”

As she turned to leave the room, the cat jumped from her arms and stationed itself opposite me. I had an uncomfortable feeling its mission was to make sure I didn’t run off with the family treasures.

There were enough of them to be had in the room to add up to a hefty haul. I counted two Westlake dressers. And a beautiful marble-topped table stood to the right of the red-velvet couch on which I sat. Small vases and statues, doubtless also antiques, literally smothered the surfaces around me.

From the other room, I heard the squawk of a radio. I recognized the noise as coming from a police scanner. Monitoring a police radio wasn’t an unknown pursuit for people around here. More than a few of us liked to keep a close watch on our neighborhoods.

Finally, I heard Wendy enter numbers into an old-fashioned dial up phone. I didn’t know any of those things still existed. At least, I thought, if Scroggins is home, I wouldn’t have long to wait to round him up.

Having turned up jobless and hopeless here nearly a decade ago, Scroggins had moved into Wendy’s carriage house, after she’d remodeled it and turned it into a residence just for him.

Wendy came scurrying back into the living room now with a worried frown marring her forehead. “I’m so sorry, but Barnaby’s still not answering his phone. I can’t think where he’s got to. It’s not like him not to turn up. He loves playing the elf. I hope nothing’s wrong.”

“Is it alright with you if I go pound on his door?”

An additional wrinkle of concern inserted itself onto her brow. “If you’ll just wait here a minute, I’ll  grab the spare key and join you. That way we can check inside his place and make certain he’s okay. Back in a jif.”

With that said, she rushed back to the kitchen and reappeared a few seconds later with a key grasped tightly in her right hand. “Okay,” she said, “Let’s do it.”

Once outside, Wendy and I scurried around the side of the dwelling. Ahead of us sat the carriage house. It looked rather stylish with its turquoise gingerbread trim and mauve walls. They matched exactly  the paint scheme on Wendy’s home. Two wide doors on the lower level of the carriage house provided admittance to a dark interior. I assumed the space now housed cars. Apparently, it was the upstairs that had been converted into an apartment.

A clump of naked rose canes to the right of the building proclaimed someone here was a gardener. In another bed, tall stalks of dried flowers jerked back and forth in the a newly risen stiff breeze. And when we’d almost reached the carriage house, a bunch of fallen leaves got caught in a sudden gust of wind and spiraled up before us. Today might be good weather, but I had the feeling that was about to change.

Wendy and I trudged on and crossed to the exterior stairway. I started up the steps to the second floor with Wendy trailing in my wake. Reaching the narrow door, I rapped on it firmly, assuring myself that the noise was loud enough to wake anyone who might be sleeping. But no one responded to my summons. I repeated the trick and got the same result.

“Here.” Wendy offered me the door key. “Use this.” Her voice was strained, her face pale.

I took the key from her slender hand and glanced at her encouragingly, “I’m sure everything’s all right.”

“Yes, dear. I’m sure you’re right. It’s just that at our age….”

I inserted the key and opened the door. “Barnaby,” I called out.

“Barnaby?” Wendy echoed from behind me.

I turned. “You wait here,” I said in nearly a whisper, the quiet of the place making me reluctant to speak in my normal tone. “I’ll check the other rooms. If he’s here, I’ll find him.”

Wendy nodded and seated herself on the small, floral couch centered beneath the living room window. “Yes,” she said, “I think I’ll let you do that. Thank you very much.”

Moving forward slowly, I stepped into a tiny kitchen. It held a sink and an assortment of cupboards and appliances but offered not a clue as to the whereabouts of the missing man. I exited the room and made my way down a narrow hallway. The door to my right was open and gave me an unimpeded view into a bathroom. That room, too, was bare of any sign of Barnaby.

I came to a third door. But this one was closed. And after swinging it open, I took a hesitant step inside. And there he was. Barnaby, tucked up neatly, in an old, four-poster bed
—
and obviously dead.

Ginger, I thought, you owe me big time for this. And for the second time in my life, I had to let the police know that I’d come upon a dead body.