The Case of the Missing Elf: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 2) (13 page)

S
anta Claus, I muttered as I fired up my Fiesta. How could I have forgotten about him? There was no question I needed to learn more about the man. With Samuel Farmer being somewhere in his mid forties, I figured Dad might make a good resource
—
if I could find some way to get information out of him without arousing his suspicions.

In the meantime, checking out Santa’s wife seemed a good option.

Valerie Farmer had launched her successful business about five years ago. She’d then parlayed that into a springboard into local politics. She served on both the Library Board and the Police Advisory Commission as well as being president of the DBA. Rumors were already circulating that she planned to run for city council next spring. All of which meant, I thought, that when Valerie Farmer spoke, an awful lot of folks around here paid close attention.

I shook my head.
What was she doing married to someone like Samuel Farmer?
From what I’d seen of him, I doubted the man possessed one tenth of his wife’s talent or ambition. Having arrived at my destination, I wheeled my car to the curb and stepped out into the crisp morning air.

The bakery was located in an old storefront just off Main Street. Valerie had remodeled the interior into a charming space. Walls were a cheery yellow. Display cases were built of wood and glass and had an old fashioned air. Small tables with checkered cloths were tucked here and there, providing a comfortable corner in which to sit back and enjoy the tempting pastries. The whole atmosphere made me feel that I was stepping back into a softer, gentler age.

I found Valerie standing behind the counter, feeding fresh donuts onto a tray in the display case. With salt-and-pepper hair, a generous smile, and a solicitous manner, it was hard to believe this woman could be so driven. But rumors said she rose early and retired late all seven days of the week.

“Good morning, Melanie,” she called out when I stepped through the front door.

“Hello, there.”

“Has it warmed up any outside?”

“Probably, but not enough to notice.”

“What can I get you today?”

“I’ll take a dozen muffins.”

If any went uneaten at the office, I knew Betty would be delighted to take them home for the boys. I couldn’t imagine having three teenage mouths to feed.

“What kind would you like?” Valerie took a step to her right and slid the panel behind the muffins open.

“Six banana and six chocolate, please ”

Valerie grabbed a pink bakery box and started filling it with my order

I watched her work for a minute, then said, “You must be missing your best helper now that Santa’s Cabin is open.”

She glanced up and smiled. “You mean my husband?”

“Yes, Sam must really enjoy the part to have played it for so many years now.”

“Well, he’s certainly  not enjoying it as much this year.”

“Why’s that?” I asked, half fearing I’d hear some complaint about Ginger.

Valerie looked startled. “Because of Barnaby’s death.”

“Right. Sorry, how thoughtless of me. They were close, then?”

“Not really, But Barnaby’s death left him shaken. I could tell.”

“How does he feel about the new elf?”

Valerie laughed. “Agnes?”

I nodded.

“He’s pleased Ginger found a replacement for Barnaby so quickly. The cabin needs someone to keep watch on the children. And we both think Ginger’s doing an outstanding job with the program.”

Spoken like a true politician, I thought. She’d given me two complete sentences without answering my question. Plus, she’d managed to compliment my best friend.

And Dad thought I needed toughening up?

“I imagine Agnes will be glad for the salary,” Valerie added.

“Really? I’ve heard the pay isn’t great.”

“It isn’t. But Agnes has struggled financially since her husband’s death. Every little bit of income will be welcome.”

“She has a teenaged son. Maybe he can help out.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

“I’ve also heard the boy lent Barnaby Scroggins a hand from time to time. Do you have any idea with what?”

“Heavens, no. Why ask me?”

“I thought if Sam was close to Scroggins, he might have known something about Barnaby’s other pursuits.”

“I wouldn’t say they were actually close. And Sam doesn’t bother himself much with business.”

Was that a sour note I detected in her comment? “He’s partial to playing Santa Claus at the cabin, though.”

“Yes, but we donate that salary to the free toy campaign for local children. We don’t make a dime from Sam’s work in the cabin.

Valerie placed the box of muffins in front of me. “That will be twelve dollars, please.”

I fished out my billfold and forked over the money.

~~~

Back in the newspaper office, Betty grinned at me as I stepped through the doorway.

“Oh, goody,” she said, eyeing the box. “What have you brought us?”

“Muffins.”

“Why don’t you put two away for us before you alert the rest of the crew? Then, meet me at ten in the breakroom, and we’ll wolf them down?”

After my large breakfast, I really didn’t need anything more to eat. But that had never stopped me before. With my healthy appetite, I counted myself lucky to have my high-speed metabolism. But even so, a couple of hours exercising for the next few days and a month of salads might not go amiss. “What’s your pleasure, chocolate or banana?” I asked.

“I’ll have chocolate, thanks.”

In the breakroom I set aside one chocolate and one banana muffin in a small tin and stashed it in a small drawer. Then, I stopped at Dad’s doorway and announced the treats.

He looked up and smiled. “They sound perfect. Thank you.”

I didn’t see anything of our ad gal, Lillian Whitcomb. But I rarely did. She popped in and out of the offices all day long in her quest to sell advertising to local sponsors. I knew, though, that Betty or Dad would snag her and fill her in.

Finally reaching my desk, I dialed Gossford’s direct line.

“Melanie,” he said on answering. “It’s so good of you to call.”’ Smooth, I thought. The man was so smooth
—
although I’d heard he could be much more abrasive with a suspect. “Considering you’re in the middle of a murder investigation, I’m glad you’re pleased to hear from me.”

He chuckled. “If you’ve called in hopes of picking up a  scoop on the murder, you’re out of luck.”

“Nothing?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Okay, what about the routine stuff, then?”

He filled me in on an overnight traffic accident on Clark Street. “No biggie, just a couple of fenders dinged. Otherwise, all of our bad guys appear to be behaving themselves for a change.”

“Our readers will be pleased.”

He cleared his throat. “Melanie,’ he said, "what are you hearing about the murder on the street?”

“Truthfully, nothing.”

“You wouldn’t be holding out on me?”

Ouch.
I couldn’t help but wonder how much he knew about what Ginger and I were up to. Did he only suspect I was poking around in the case? Or had he heard something specific? Still, what I’d picked up so far amounted to little more than unsupported suspicions. And if I shared any of what I’d learned with Gossford, he’d know for a certainty what I was up to.

So I offered him about as much information as he offered me. “I’ve not heard a thing.”

Beneath my desk, I wiped a sweaty palm on my slacks.

I hated lying.

A few seconds later, after replacing the receiver, in the silence of my office, I sat mulling over what I had learned and what needed to be shared with the police. I don’t necessarily do my best pondering when being questioned. But after a quick review I decided I’d been correct. I had nothing of any substance to share with Gossford yet.

Sighing, I pulled up the preliminary stories I’d keyed into the computer yesterday. I’d hoped to add late-breaking developments to the report on the murder. Now, the story would have to stand as it was written. Through our office windows, I notified Dad that the piece was ready to go.

Then, I wrote up the accident and passed a few other odds and ends on to Father before I turned to face the rest of my chores. And for the next hour, I made calls. Checked facts. Wrote up a few press releases. Cropped a couple of photos. All routine and most unsatisfying but also all part of my daily duties.

At ten, I made a quick dash to the break room. Betty was already there. She was pouring coffee and looked up at me to nod a greeting.

“Thanks for the muffin,” she said, delivering our coffees to the table.

“My pleasure.”

“And I want to thank you again for hooking Toby up with Ginger. He absolutely loves working with the kids.”

“And Santa? Has he been behaving himself?”

“Toby says he’s neither seen nor smelled a drop of gin on him.”

“Amazing.”

“You’re sure Farmer was blotto the day Scroggins died?”

“If you don’t believe me, call Ginger. I’m sure she’d happily give you an earful.”

I cant believe she might have straightened Santa out with just one lecture. But then again, it was Ginger I was talking about. Even being her long-term friend, I  wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of the woman. Many had strayed there and lived to regret it.”

But while Ginger appeared to be on top of her game, I found myself lagging a bit behind that day. And I didn’t manage to corner Dad alone in his office until about three that afternoon. He was seated at his desk, studying something on his computer screen when I stepped through the doorway.

“Melanie,” he said, “I’m so glad you stopped in. Could you spare me a minute?”

“Of course. ” I took a seat in front of his desk. “What’s up?”

“Nothing really. I’m just curious about how you are. Are you getting any sleep at Wendy’s place? Is the food okay?”

“LIfe with Wendy is good. She’s not the cook you are of course, but she’ll do.”

Dad allowed himself a small smile. “Do you have any idea when you might be moving back home? Taffy and I rather miss you being around.”

“That’s good to know.”

Dad chuckled. “What? You don’t miss me, too?”

“Yes, of course, you know I do. The purpose of my visit, though, was to see if you could fill me in on Samuel Farmer?”

“Sam? What’s your interest in him?”

I explained about the cabin and Sam’s offending gin fumes on opening day.

Dad looked perplexed.  “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard of a drunken Sam Farmer. Valerie would never tolerate such behavior. She’s rather serious about appearances, you know.”

Most politicians were, I thought. “Ignoring his drinking for now, what can you tell me about the man?” I asked.

Dad sat back in his chair. “The best I can say about Sam is that he’s lucky his wife’s bakery proved so successful. That may sound harsh, but there it is.”

“Did he have much to do with that success?”

“Not that I’ve heard. Sam worked middle management at the factory before it closed.  He tried several jobs after that. Insurance salesman, car salesman, even dispatcher for the sheriff’s department, but nothing stuck. I think Valerie’s knack for business stunned him more than anything else. Of course I don’t know where they’d be today, if Valerie hadn’t pulled their tails out of the dead end struggle they were living.”

“Some men might resent their wife for that.”

“From what I know of Sam, which is admittedly very little, I can’t say that he seems terribly stressed over the business.”

But maybe, I thought, it was his wife’s successes that had triggered his disrespect of women. Valerie was certainly doing well right now.  A popular bakery. A leading role in city affairs. A budding political career. Those were the kinds of things that could damage a husband’s ego. Especially, if it hadn’t been a very strong one to begin with.

Plus, I reminded myself, Valerie had made a point of mentioning that her husband didn’t take any pay for his job as Santa Claus. Had that been his decision? Or had his wife thought forgoing the salary would enhance her political aspirations? If it was the latter, I could certainly see the move deflating a man’s self esteem.

“What about Scroggins?” I asked. “Did he and Farmer ever pal around outside their jobs in Santa’s Cabin?”

“Sorry, I didn’t know Scroggins well enough to answer that question. However, the guy didn’t appear to be a successful man. Perhaps, he and Farmer had that in common.”

But, I thought, if Scroggins had pulled off the warehouse deal,  Farmer might have wanted to pal up with him. Or maybe Farmer wanted in on the deal. Possibly, like Porter, Farmer thought Scroggins could make him rich?

“Melanie,” Dad said, “where are you?”