The Case of the Missing Elf: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 2) (10 page)

“Maybe he stashed the cash in a lock box. That way it couldn’t be traced through bank records.”

“I suppose the police will check that possibility out. But I doubt they’ll tell us about it.”

“What bank did he use?”

“First Trust.”

“I could find out if he had a lock box there.”

“You couldn’t.”

“Yes, I can. I know a gal who works there.”

“Do you think she’s allowed to give out that kind of information?”

“I can’t see why not. All I want to know is if he had a box.  It’s not like I’m asking for his bank balance. Besides, who’s going to know but the three of us?”

Sometimes, Ginger scared me.

“So, what else can I do?” she asked.

“Do you know any real estate agents?”

She raised a shoulder. “Who doesn’t?”

“Maybe you could put out a feeler. Find out how much they’re asking for that old warehouse Scroggins was after?”

“Why don’t you do it?”

I shook my head. “Nobody would believe I was interested. I’m not exactly known to be flush with money. But you’re a successful businesswoman. Or if you think that won’t fly, you could say you’re checking  for a friend who doesn’t want to be identified.”

“Yeah, like someone is dying to buy a falling down warehouse? Really?”

“At least your interest looks more logical than mine.”

“So why is this important?”

“With Scroggins expecting to come into more money, I’d like to know how much more. I figure the difference between cash in hand and the price of the warehouse would give us a clue as to the amount..”

“Maybe he was going to take out a mortgage.”

I snorted. “Who’s going to loan someone his age a fistful of cash? Besides, he was barely employed.”

“Hmm, good point. Okay, I’ll get on it. In the meantime, sleep tight.”

T
he moon was up by the time I left Ginger’s house. It reflected off the snow, reminding me of that old poem about Santa and chimneys and reindeer that landed on roofs. That Santa, I thought,  didn’t bear much resemblance to ours, who apparently spent most of his time pursuing young little dears in short skits.

I shook my head and pulled my hood up. With clear skies, the temperature tonight was expected to plummet to near zero. I felt sorry for the merchants. If this cold spell continued long, all of Cloverton would be heading for a shopping mall or ordering gifts over the Internet.

I fired up my Fiesta and sat blowing into my hands as I waited for the car to warm just a bit. Finally, I shifted into gear and drove the short jaunt from Ginger’s place to Wendy’s.

The Victorian glowed brightly with all the lights shining from it’s many windows that night. Wendy was obviously unwilling to put up with any darkness just now. I could understand her being frightened of all those empty, unlighted rooms. I pulled my car to the curb and locked its doors behind me.

After racing up her front steps, I pounded on the door, which instantly swung open. “I’ve been watching for you,” Wendy confessed.

I held my overnight bag before me and grinned. “I’m here for the night.”

“Thank you, my dear. Follow me.” She led me up the stairs and down a short hall. Nero trailed behind us, ears twitching. I suspected I had more to fear from him than any potential burglar. 

“I’ve decided to put you next to my room,” Wendy said. “I don’t know about you, but I’d feel better that way.”

“Sounds fine.”

She ushered me into a charming room filled with a large, four-poster bed, a beautiful old rug, and a heavy walnut dresser complete with a white marble top. The bedside light had been converted from an old oil lamp. It featured a red-glass shade that gave the room a comforting, rosey glow.

I set my bag down on the bed and removed my parka, dumping it there also. Nero remained on the floor, his tail twitching.

Wendy picked up my jacket, crossed the room, and hung it in the wardrobe. “I cleared this out for you. Feel free to hang whatever you need in here. In the meantime, I have tea downstairs and a poppy seed cake in case you’re hungry.”

Of course I wasn’t. But Wendy had obviously taken special care to make me feel comfortable and welcome. How could I refuse?

After getting me settled in, we returned to the first floor and proceeded to the kitchen. The table had been set with delicate china plates and tea cups and highly polished silverware. Glistening white cloth napkins completed the place settings. Wendy apparently liked to fuss in the kitchen and seemed to enjoy setting an impressive table. She and Dad would make a good pair, I thought.

“This is lovely. Thank you.”

She beamed. “It will just take me a minute to make the tea.”

I sat at the table. Nero hopped up to the top of the fridge.

“How are you holding up?” I asked.

Wendy paused as she poured hot water into the teapot. “I won’t lie. I miss Barnaby. He was a rascal. But he was family to me.”

“It takes time,” I said. I grabbed a breath and then went on, “I don’t think I mentioned what Barnaby planned to do with his winnings, did I?”

Wendy blinked. “Plans? I thought he’d just blow it. Money easily gained is seldom valued.”

“No, no. He wanted to buy that empty warehouse on the other side of town.”

“Why would he want that old thing?” Wendy set the teapot on a tray which already held a sugar bowl and creamer along with the seed cake.

“He was going to remodel it and turn it into an antique and craft mall.”

Wendy picked up the tray and carried it to the table. “Why would he want to do that?”

“I don’t know. He never mentioned any of this to you?”

She placed the tray on the table and sat. “Not word one. He probably thought I’d tell him he was too old for dreams.”

“I’d wondered about that. I can’t imagine his taking on a big project like the warehouse at his age.”

Wendy shook her head and smiled sadly. “You didn’t know him when he was young. He’d start one business after another. They all failed... eventually. Everyone of them.  But in the meantime, Barnaby enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle. I guess I could see him wanting to try his luck again. I wish he’d asked me, though. I would have gladly given him seed money.”

“He probably thought you’d done enough.”

Wendy sliced the cake and put a piece on my plate. “I suspect you’re right. He was a proud man when he was younger.”

After serving herself a slice, she poured our tea.

I stared down at the cup. Normally, caffeine never cost me sleep. I hoped my luck would hold. Including the coffee at Ginger’s, I’d consumed an awful lot of the stuff tonight. I took a bite of cake. It was delicious, and I told Wendy so.

“Thank you,” she said. “I was so worried. I know your father is a wonderful cook. I was so nervous that you might find my offerings beneath his high standards.

“You’re right about one thing. Dad spoils me with his cooking. But based on this cake, I’d say you rank right up there with him.”

Wendy shook her head. “I seriously doubt that. But it must be fun to learn to cook at the hands of such a talented man.”

“I think I’ve absorbed a lot of wisdom from Dad at the newspaper. The kitchen, though, is something else. I’ve been known to scorch a pan trying to boil water.”

Wendy laughed. A delightful, tinkling sound. “I tell you what, you can practice here tomorrow morning. I’ll let you make breakfast.” She smiled at me as though she’d just bestowed the greatest honor she could lavish on me.

“Mark my words,” I answered, “you’ll be sorry.”

“Nonsense. You can make us eggs Benedict,” she replied.

Eggs Benedict?
I nearly choked on the bite of cake I’d just taken.

~~~

The next morning, I woke to sunshine pouring through the bedroom window. As best I could tell, I’d slept straight through the night. I hoped Wendy had. The scent of coffee prompted me to rise. Then the thought of eggs Benedict had me wanting to crawl back under the covers.

“Maybe she’s forgotten about the cooking deal,” I murmured to myself, as I wrapped a housecoat around me. Once presentable, I scurried downstairs and found Wendy, as expected, in the kitchen.

“Good morning,” she chirped.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Like a lamb, my dear. If anyone broke into Barnaby’s place last night, I have no knowledge of it nor do I wish to.”

“Good.”

“Now,” Wendy said, her head twisting toward the stove, “I’ve set out everything that you’ll need to make eggs Benedict.

Drats.
She’d remembered.

“First,” she said, “we’ll tackle the Hollandaise sauce.”

Butterflies sprang to life in my stomach. “Isn’t that a terribly difficult thing to make?”

“Not at my age.”

“What does that mean?”

“When I was younger, I  made all my sauces from scratch and was proud to do so. These days, I use mixes. They come in little packets from the grocery store. That’s the one we’re using today.” She pointed to an envelope sitting on the counter beside the stove. “Pick it up and do whatever the directions tell you to do.”

So, after melting half of a stick of butter, I whisked in the the dry mix. When it was well blended, I removed the pan from the stove and poured in a cup of milk. Once that was done, I returned the pan to the stove and simmered the resulting mixture for one minute while watching it nervously.

“Relax, Melanie. It’ll be great.”

I bet my lip. “Sure.” The timer rang. I took the pan off the stove. “Does this look right?”

Wendy peeked into the pan. “Perfect. Now, let’s get the water going.”

I did as ordered, and Wendy shoved another pot at me. “I’ve put the water in here. What I want you to do is add vinegar and salt.”

“That’s it?”

“Until it comes to a soft boil, yes.”

“What does a soft boil look like?”

“I’ll tell you when the water’s doing what we want.”

I pulled in a deep, deep breath and wiped my sweating palms on my housecoat. “Okay.”

The vinegar went in as did the salt. I placed the pan on the stove and fired up the burner. From there, Wendy introduced me to the toaster, where I ed two halves of an English muffin. “But don’t push the button down yet,” Wendy said. “We don’t want to let the muffins get cold while waiting for the eggs to cook.”

“Right.”

“You’re doing very well.”

“Right.”

“Now check your water.”

I ran back to the stove. “It isn’t doing anything yet.”

“That’s fine. Just keep checking it.” Wendy handed me a package of Canadian bacon.

“What do I do with this?”

“While the eggs are cooking, you’re going to warm the bacon in this pan.” She pointed to a little cast iron skillet.

“Okay.”

“Now, let’s go ahead and prepare the eggs.”

“Sure. How do I do that?”

“Take an egg and crack it open.”

I grabbed an egg and slammed it onto the counter, crushing the shell and spilling the egg out onto the countertop. “Oops. I bet that wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“That’s fine,” Wendy said. She grabbed a rag and cleaned up my mess for me.

“I’m so sorry.”

“You’re learning. No one’s perfect starting out. Now, try again. Do it gently this time. You only want to crack the egg, not destroy it.”

I grabbed another egg.

“Once the shell is broken,” Wendy said, “put the egg into this little cup.”

I tapped the egg gently on the counter. “Yes!” The shell cracked. I spread the shell and dumped the egg into the cup.

“Well done,” Wendy said. “Do a second one. Put it in that cup just behind the other.”

I did as directed and stepped back to admire my handiwork.

“Check your water.”

“Oh, right, the water.” I raced back to the stove. LIttle bubbles were showing on the surface. “Is this okay?”

“That looks perfect. Now, stir the water in a circular motion and lower one of the cups into the water and let the egg spill out.”

I bit my tongue and followed her directions.

“See how the white sort of wraps itself around the yolk as it spins in the pan?”

I nodded.

“That’s exactly what we want. Now, do it again with the second egg. Stir the water and lower the cup.”

A few seconds later, I stared at a pan that had two eggs softly floating in it. “They’re not spinning anymore.”

“That’s okay. They can just sit and simmer as they are. Set the timer for four minutes.”

“The timer? Where?”

“Up here.” Wendy pointed to a panel above the burners. I leaned forward and fed in the appropriate number.

“You can breathe now,” she said.

“Of course, I can.” I laughed. “I knew that.”

“Let’s heat the Canadian bacon.” She shoved a package to me.

I opened it up and removed two slices. I placed them into the skillet which Wendy had already oiled and warmed. Then I peeked over at the eggs.

“They’re doing just fine,” Wendy said.

“Should I start toasting the English muffins?”

“Yes. That’d be good.”

I pushed the button down and had to restrain myself from following up with joyous yelp. “This is fun.”

“And it will taste even better after you’re finished because you’ll know you cooked it.”

Cooking could be satisfying, I thought.
Who knew?

And in short order, Wendy’s prediction came true. The dish I ate might not quite measure up to Dad’s high standards, but it impressed the heck out of me. “Thank you,” I said, as we carried our dishes to the sink.

Wendy nodded. “You’re welcome. I enjoyed it, too. How about you sleep over again tonight? You never know when that no-good burglar might return and break into the carriage house again. I feel so much safer with you here.”

“You’re on.”

“Good. You can make lasagna for us for supper.”

“Lasagna?”

“You don’t like it?”

“No, I love the dish.”

“Good. That’s what we’ll have then.”

My face broke out into a silly grin. I’d discovered my own fairy godmother of cooks.