The Case of the Missing Elf: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 2) (14 page)

“Sorry, I was drifting around in my own thoughts, wasn’t I?”

“Are you sure this bunking up with Wendy is a good idea? Maybe you should come back home. Sleep in your own bed.”

“No, I’m fine. Really.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed, then hardened. “Melanie, what are you up to? You’re not messing around in another murder investigation, are you?”

I scoffed. “Of course not. I learned my lesson on that front the last time.”

“I certainly hope so,” Dad replied.

~~~

I pulled into Wendy’s driveway a little past five-thirty that night. I was off duty in the kitchen department. Wendy had announced she was making a roasted chicken instead. Whole chickens had been on sale, and she said she couldn’t resist picking one up. Fortunately, the time necessary to cook the dish had excluded my hands from the affair.

When Wendy admitted me to the house, the scent drifting from the kitchen almost made me drool.

“Brr,” she said, slamming the door closed behind me. “I hope we get a warm up soon. It’s too early to be this cold.”

“We’re bound to,” I said, removing my coat, gloves, and scarf. “It can’t stay this cold through to spring.” I hung my gear in the closet.

“I thought we’d eat in the kitchen tonight. It’s so nice and warm in there from the heat of the oven.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Would you make the salad?”

And I did. It was a simple affair, only involving lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers. As I assembled the ingredients, I wondered what it would be like to surprise Dad by making one of these for him when I returned home.

Wendy swung by and gobbled up a slice of cucumber. “After dinner, I’ll give you my list of Barnaby’s riverboat friends. I put it together this morning.”

“Wonderful.” I really was interested in knowing what Barnaby did with his time and who his playmates were. I thought the killer had to have known the man well to be able to slip inside his apartment and substitute foxglove leaves for the tea. Plus, whoever murdered him would have needed to know that Scroggins used loose tea rather than tea bags.

That night, up in my bedroom, I placed Wendy’s list of names on the dresser and studied it. The only name that popped out at me was that of Harold Sparks. Ginger had agreed to check him out, but if she didn’t come up with something soon, I was going to have to step in.

I
t had been a long, frustrating day, so it was with a huge sense of relief that I collapsed into bed that night. But like many of my plans, this one didn’t stand up to its promise.

“Melanie.” The voice drew me out of a sound sleep. I opened an eye.

A dark shadow loomed over me. “Melanie,” it whispered again.

Realization dawned. “Wendy?” I rose up onto one elbow. “What are you doing here?”

“There’s been a murder.”

“What?”

“On the scanner. I heard all about it. You being a reporter and all, I thought you’d want to know.”

“I thought the scanner was down in the kitchen.”

“I keep another one in my bedroom.”

“Right.” My gaze drifted to the clock on the night stand. The time was just a bit after four in the morning. “Where did this happen?”

Wendy told me the address, and I found myself instantly sitting upright in bed. “But that’s where Lester Porter lives.”

“Shall I make coffee?” she asked.

“Not for me. I’ll be out the door before it’s done. But thanks for the offer. You go back to bed.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am.”

After Wendy withdrew from the room, I rose from bed and flipped on the overhead light. I stuffed myself into a sweatshirt and jeans, grabbed my purse and cell phone, and raced down the stairs. Then, bundled up in my parka and boots, I let myself out the front door.

The night air was nasty, the north wind bitingly cruel. I hustled into my car and fired up the ignition. While waiting for the car to warm up, I rubbed my hands together to chase off the extreme chill.

Porter murdered? Was this death connected with Barnaby’s? And how could it not be? I couldn’t believe Porter’s murder to be merely coincidence. Two men, who were good friends, murdered just a few days apart? Obviously, the deaths had to be tied to each other.

But why would anyone kill both men? Who was the link. What had connected Scroggins and Porter together in life?

The warehouse, I thought. The desire to get rich. Money was often a prime motive for murder. Perhaps, it ruled in this case, too.

Incapable of sitting still any longer, I rammed the car into gear and peeled off into the night.

The flashing lights from emergency vehicles were visible from blocks aways. I counted two city police cars, a crime scene van, and the coroner’s vehicle. I pulled my car up behind the van, and stepped out. Within seconds Officer Debbie Blake rushed up beside me. I couldn’t help but wonder if she wasn’t getting tired of how active this overnight shift of hers had become.

“I’ve heard there’s been a murder,” I said.

She shook her head. “The Chief won’t release anything tonight. You might as well go home. You’re wasting your time here.”

“Come on, Debbie. Didn’t I treat you well on the burglary?. Can’t you give me a break with this case?”

She sighed. “It’s not my decision. And I’m telling you, Gossford’s not going to waste time answering your questions. He’s got work to do.”

My foot did its usual trick and stomped the frozen ground. “Really? Well, I’m spending my nights with a terrified Wendy Cartwright, whose cousin was also murdered. So maybe my interest this time is just a little more than journalistic curiosity.”

“I’ll give him your message. But don’t hold your breath.”

“Fine. You do that.” I climbed back into my car, fired up the ignition, and cranked up the heater. It was freezing outside. But if Gossford wouldn’t tell me anything, I’d at least be warm while he ignored me. Still, I would remain right here. Let him know I wanted information. Maybe he’d feel  guilty and share what he knew with me.

Yup. And maybe elephants really could fly.

In short order, Doc Kirkwood wandered out of Porter’s place. He was in his late thirties with a square face and round glasses, which tended to give him a studious look. He raised a hand in greeting and crossed the street to my car. I powered down the window.

Kirkwood bent over and peered in. “Melanie, what are you doing here? Gossford’s not going to like it.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He issued a sharp bark of laughter. “It’s that old ‘sticking your nose into issues that don’t concern you’ disease. I’ve heard a lot of reporters struggle with that particular virus. Go home.  Take two aspirin, Melanie. And slip back into your jammies.”

I studied his white hair and faded blue eyes.  “I’m not intruding where I don’t belong,” I protested. “I’m a journalist. This is news.”

He pulled his coat collar up and grinned. “If you say so.” He patted my door. “Gotta run. See you later.”

I watched as he meandered up to his van. My gaze drifted back to Porter's house. Oh, how I wished I could walk inside and take a look around for myself.

Instead, I sat in the car another half hour before Gossford finally ambled my way. He crossed to the passenger side door, opened it, and slid in. “This isn’t going to get you special treatment, you know.”

“At least can you tell me if the victim is Harold Porter?”

Gossford’s head sagged forward. “It is. How did you know?”

“I interviewed him here, at his house, after Scroggins’ murder.”

“That’s right,” Gossford said. “I remember reading that piece now.”

“Do you think the two deaths are related?”

“Melanie, you know I won’t answer that question.”

“Then what can you tell me?”

“Porter was struck over the head with a blunt instrument. Time of death was around eight last night. We’re interviewing neighbors, but so far we have no leads.”

I thought about the warehouse, Scroggins’ plans for it. All of which Porter had confided in me, and most of which I suspected Gossford knew nothing about and a burst of honesty struck. “Chief, there’s a lot Porter told me that never made its way into that newspaper article.”

Gossford scowled. “LIke what?”

“Like Porter was involved in some kind of deal with Scroggins involving that empty warehouse on the east side of town. Porter said he expected the deal to make both of them rich.”

“Dreamers. The pair of them,” Gossford said with disgust registering in his words.

“Maybe,” I replied. “But something has managed to get them both killed.”

The police chief offered up a withering glance. “I don’t want to see one word of that in your newspaper, do you understand?”

“Relax. What I know now wouldn’t make a good story. So you’re safe for the moment.”

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“I’m not. I’m just reminding you that reporters have a duty to readers as well as to lawmen.”

Gossford shook his head. “Whatever.”

“Anyway, for what it’s worth, I wanted to share my information with you.”

“Right. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Good night, then.” Gossford opened the door and returned to the dark night.

~~~

“So what happened?”

It was Wendy. Early morning sunlight streamed through the large, kitchen windows. She poured juice from an old pitcher into two small tumblers.

“The victim as we thought was Lester Porter.”

Wendy set the pitcher back onto the countertop and nodded. “But he was friends with Barnaby.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Do you think there’s a connection between his death and Barnaby’s?”

“I have no idea, and Gossford wouldn’t say what he thought. I can only hope he’ll release more details later. The good news is you’re off the hook for this killing.”

She shivered. “I hate being suspected of killing Barnaby. I wouldn’t have liked being suspected of a second death as well. But what cleared me?”

“Gossford said Porter was killed between six and eleven last night. I arrived here at five and didn’t go to bed until nearly midnight. I can swear you never left the house at any time.”

“That is wonderful news.”

“Yes. I’m pleased, as well. And I’m sure with this second murder, Gossford has to suspect that whoever killed Porter murdered Barnaby, too. That should make you a less likely suspect in Barnaby’s death, as well.”

A look of sadness washed over her delicate face. “I’m sorry about Porter. I didn’t know him. Not really.  But I dislike that he should have been killed. But I’m relieved that I’m not a suspect this time.”

“That’s a normal enough reaction.”

“Is it?”

“Absolutely. And if I may say so, you’ve held up very well. It can’t be an easy thing to be thought a murderer.

Wendy’s mouth trembled. Tears filled her eyes. “It is hard. You see,  I loved Barnaby very much.”

I reached across the table and wrapped her hand in mine. “I think we all knew that.”

~~~

Back in my office later that morning, I dug into material I should have studied days ago. It had occurred to me overnight that If our old stories on gardening had been of interest to Gossford, they should have mattered to me, too. But I’d avoided looking at them because I was certain I’d find Wendy’s name there. What I hadn’t considered was that other names might also have been mentioned. One of which just might be our killer.

“Ginger, “ I said, nearly an hour later when I phoned her, “we’ve got to team up.”

“What are you going on about now?”

“I’ve read those old stories. The ones on gardening.”

“So?”

“There are some interesting names there along with Wendy’s. But the one that caught my eye is Agnes Plummer’s.”

“My elf?”

“The same.”

A big sigh came down the line from Ginger. “If you manage to botch operations in Santa’s Cabin because of this murder, I’ll never forgive you.

“Ginger, I can understand your distress, but there’s a killer on the loose. What do you want me to do?”

“Okay, so you have a point. But couldn’t you let this go until after Christmas? Agnes is good with the kiddies. I don’t want to lose her.”

“I’m sorry but with another murder now, I have to look at everyone.”

“Another what?”

“Lester Porter was killed last night.”

There was a long silence from Ginger’s end of the phone line. “Can I at least be with you when you interview Agnes? I don’t want you making her mad, or causing her to storm out the door of Santa’s Cabin. Not if she’s innocent. That wouldn’t benefit anyone.”

“Point taken.”

“So how do we handle this?”

“How about you set up the meeting? Tell her I’ve heard rumors about her skill at growing foxgloves. Tell her people are talking and that we need to speak with her before those stories circulate too far.”

“You’re tricky. Do you know that?”

“I try.”