The Case of the Missing Elf: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 2) (16 page)

He came back on the line after half a beat. “Yeah. I’m fine. We’re good to go,”

“Excellent. How about we try Roger Bradley’s new restaurant?”

“The Roadside Cafe? Great. I eat there a lot. I really like his menu.”

“What time?”

“Noon works for me.”

“Me, too.”

So less than an hour later, I piled back into my car and headed out of the newspaper parking lot. Another male. Another meal. Too bad I couldn’t chalk either of them up to a business expense and put them on my father’s tab. But then, I’d have to tell Dad what I was up to, which  for perfectly logical reasons, I refused to do.

The Roadside Cafe was located on the old, two-lane road that connected Cloverton with the Interstate highway. Few of the speeding cars and trucks managed to find their way to our fair town, but a good number of them stopped in to eat at Roger’s restaurant.

Under the previous owner the eatery had been known as Bella’s Place, for its owner Bella Cravits. A lot of people thought Roger had made a huge mistake when he’d renamed the restaurant. It had earned a widely respected reputation under the original that name.

But Roger wanted to separate his operation from the tragedy that had befallen it’s previous owner. Roger insisted the name would continue to call her to mind, and he wanted no part of that.

Fortunately, the naysayers had been proved wrong. Tuckers, vacationers, and others speeding across the flatlands of Illinois had continued to pour into his establishment. But both owners had a knack for turning out food people wanted to eat. Dining at Roger’s place proved as much a treat as it had been under Bella’s steady hand.

I spotted Sparks seated at a table near the wide front window. Waving at Roger, who was seating a couple at another table, I crossed the room and slipped into a chair opposite my target. Sparks smiled.

Whether it’s a teenager wolfing a milkshake or a middle-aged man dreaming of a lush steak, everybody loves free food.

S
omewhere in his late fifties, Harold Sparks had an expanding waist and the receding hairline to prove it. What wisps of his thin hair that did remain were as black as a witch’s gown, and his face had that hangdog look of a man who knows he’s reached the pinnacle of success and is not very pleased about it.

Roger Bradley  bounded up to our table with menus and a welcoming grin. He greeted Sparks, then turned his attention to me. “Melanie, how good to see you. How is Ginger?”

“I’m fine, Roger, thank you for asking. Ginger is, too. She’s busy, but at least the children haven’t staged a coup yet inside the cabin.”

“I never doubted her talents.”

Oh, good grief. The man was so besotted with Ginger. It was too bad the woman in question didn’t feel likewise. “The hot chocolate is a hit, I hear,” I said with a bright smile.

“Is it? I’m so glad.” He handed us each a menu.

It was hard for me to believe a man who could have put together as robust a restaurant operation as this could go so far off the rails over a woman
—
especially one
who was so obviously disinterested in him.

“I’ll send your waitress right over.” Roger scurried off to make good on his promise.

“So,” Sparks spoke up on his departure, “what’s this little session really about?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, obviously you’re after more than just details about my spat with Scroggins last year. Those answers would hardly justify buying me lunch here.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I were you.”

“You’re gonna go on with that line, huh?”

“Only because it is not, as you say, a line.”

His mouth drew down into a dissatisfied smirk. “Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it, fine.”

Our waitress arrived. Young. Pleasant. Pretty. She filled our water glasses and collected our orders. Sparks chose the most expensive steak on the menu. No surprise there. I bypassed the fried chicken, a long-term favorite of mine, and ordered a Caesar salad. We both went with coffee.

“So what can I tell you?” Sparks asked as our waitress took off for the kitchen.

“What triggered your problem with Scroggins last year?”

My dining partner spent a moment or two studying the view beyond the restaurant window. Finally, he turned his attention to me. “Scroggins relationship with Santa had become so tight that I felt he was neglecting the children.”

“Really? By all accounts it was his love for and skill with kids that made Scroggins the perfect elf.”

Sparks raised a hand, palm out. “I know. I’ve heard it all time and time again. All I can tell you is what my gripe with the man was.”

“Perhaps it was Farmer’s drinking that attracted Scroggins’ closer attention? Maybe, after all, it was his concern for the children that triggered the very behavior you disliked.”

“Drinking? Farmer? I can’t picture his wife putting up with that for five seconds. Especially not in so public a location. It’s not just the kids that come into the cabin, it’s their parents, too.”

The man had a point. “But I smelled him,” I protested. “On Friday, the day the cabin opened, Farmer reeked of gin.”

“Well, it wasn’t the norm. I’ll tell you that. You’ve worked at the newspaper now, what, about five years?”

I nodded.

“And in all that time you’ve written up about five stories on the opening of Santa’s Cabin, right?”

“Of course.”

“Do you ever remember smelling alcohol on Farmer’s breath before?”

I sagged back in my chair. “No. Never.”

~~~

At ten minutes to four that afternoon, I collected my things and climbed in to my winter gear. Often our early cold spells came and went quickly. But not this year. Some of the oldtimers were predicting freezing temperatures from now until spring.

I only hoped they were being overly pessimistic.

“You’re off early,” Betty said as I walked past her desk.

“I’m slated to meet with Ginger, catch up on early figures for traffic through Santa’s Cabin.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Toby thinks they’re getting quite people coming through.”

“I hope that means local retailers are seeing good foot traffic, too. Tell Toby howdy for me.”

“Will do.”

“Ginger continues to be highly impressed with him.”

Betty smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Out on the sidewalk, I pulled on my gloves and adjusted my fleece scarf over my nose. A strong north wind had put a sharp bite into the air. I shivered and rushed off to my car.

A scant five minutes later I found Ginger and Agnes paired up in Ginger’s kitchen. Their coffee cups and a platter of cookies decorated the table between them.

Ginger waved me to a seat while she took herself off to the coffeemaker, where she poured me a large cup of the dark brew.

Agnes sat at the table, with a worried frown on her face. She was a pale sort of woman, with gray hair and light, pasty skin. The only similarity I could find between her and her more aggressive son was in their piercing blue eyes.

I sat across from her and offered her a greeting.

“Hello,” Agnes replied, politely.

I took her to be in her late fifties and her face bore the wrinkles to prove they hadn’t been easy years
. She eyed me warily as I recalled her son saying she was nervous about this session. Ginger joined us, handing me my coffee and resuming her seat. “Help yourself.” She indicated the platter of cookies on the table. I nodded and said, “Maybe later.”

“Well,” Ginger went on, “as we’re all here now, should we get started, Melanie?”

“Ah….” I began and broke off. Where I’d had no difficulty grilling our other suspects, I was uncertain how to proceed with Agnes. But with both her son and Ginger having warned me to proceed cautiously, I found myself a bit tongue tied this time. I didn’t want to blow things for either of them.

“Ginger and I have been wondering what you could tell us about Porter.”

“Porter?” she asked, her eyes wide with surprise. Obviously, whatever subject she’d expected this confab to address it hadn’t included details about Porter.

“Yes, we know Scroggins was close the man. And you son, today, told me you were close with Scroggins.”

Her eyes grew round. “You’ve talked with Jeremy?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“This morning. Actually, he just showed up at the newspaper offices and suggested he and I have a chat.”

“Why?”

“He was concerned about my speaking with you. He wanted to make sure I tread lightly, considering your recent loss.”

“You mean Barnaby?”

I nodded.

Her face crumpled into the very picture of grief. “I didn’t know Jeremy knew.”

“He strikes me as a young man who misses much.”

“Yes, you’re right about that. I worry endlessly over him. He’s too quick for his own good. I’m terrified he’ll get himself into trouble some day. I suppose he filled you in on Barnaby.”

“Okay,” Ginger said, “‘I’m not following a word of this. Would someone like to fill me in on what’s going on here?”

Agnes sighed. “It’s my fault, Ms Black. There’s something I haven’t told you. Barnaby and I were close… ah… we were lovers, actually.”

Ginger blinked “And you came to me wanting his job almost the day after he was killed?”

“I didn’t mean anything bad by it. I felt I knew the job, Barnaby had talked so much about it. And by being here, I continued to feel close to him.”

“Jeremy thought you’d be embarrassed by revealing that you and Barnaby were lovers,” I said.

“I won’t lie. I was hoping the story wouldn’t come out.”

“And instead your son waltzed into Melanie’s office and spilled the beans on you, eh?”

“That’s about the size of it,” I confirmed.

“I’m sorry,” Agnes said, her face read from Ginger’s earlier complaint. “You’re right. I should have spoken up. But it was all so innocent. Barnaby and I enjoyed spending time with each other. We didn’t have any deep, secretive plans. And certainly neither of us would do anything to put operations in the cabin at risk.”

“What about the warehouse?” I asked.

“The warehouse?” She looked confused.

“Yes, Do you think the warehouse deal could have triggered their deaths? I mean, we have two men connected by one project. Now both of them have been murdered?”

Agnes’ mouth opened and closed a couple of times before any sound managed to come out. “I don’t know. I’m not sure. I mean it was a big deal. I know that. The biggest opportunity my poor Barnaby said he’d ever seen.”

I sighed. “Lester told me Barnaby was expecting a huge windfall of cash. Do you know anything about that?”

“Only that it was true. I heard Barnaby mention it to Lester several times.”

“Do you know the origins of the money?”

“Origins?”

“Where it was to come from.”

“No. Barnaby never talked to me about that.”

I sighed. She might have been physically close to Scroggins, but his business had apparently remained solidly his own.

“Someone has told me Scroggins grew close to  Samuel Farmer last Christmas. Do you have any idea why?”

Agnes’ head swung first left then right. “No. This is the first time I ever heard anything like that.”

“You think it’s unlikely?”

“Maybe. They didn’t exactly run in the same circles, did they?”

~~~

“I don’t think you learned much helpful,” Ginger said after having escorted Agnes out the front door. I was still in the kitchen, still facing down those darned cookies. “But at least you didn’t chase her out of the job on me. For which I’m grateful, by the way.”

“I’d have traded offending her for learning more about the murders,” I responded.

“More coffee,” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

“So what do you think?”

“About Anges?” I asked.

“About all of it,” Ginger said,

“Off the top of my head, I’d say somebody’s lying.”

“You’d better not be pointing that remark at my Christmas elf.”

“I’m not pointing it at anyone specific. But if we believe everything we’re being told, things don’t add up.”

“Like what things?” Ginger asked testily.

“I don’t know. I mean we have a huge business venture that had very little chance of success. Then, there’s Porter, who appeared to be lucky to have two dimes to rub together, convinced he was going to be part of the business deal of the century. Then, we have the alleged mastermind of the deal, who had no meaningful employment, announcing he was about to come into a massive amount of cash.”

“And?”

“And then we’ve got Agnes, who according to Valerie Farmer, was in dire need of money, and her son who ran errands for Scroggins and insisted his tasks were all honest and above board.”

“In other words,” Ginger chimed in, “you can’t see the killer yet for all the suspects.”

“Exactly.”

Ginger’s eyes flashed. “Well as far as Agnes goes, I think you can rule her out. I like her. She’s not a killer.”

“And I’ve met  her son, and despite his rough edges, I like him.”

“Doesn’t mean he couldn’t be a killer.”

“No, you’re right. Nothing is ever that simple. For either him or his mother,” I added pointedly.

“Maybe we’re overlooking someone. What about Sparks? I never followed up on him.”

“I did. I met him for lunch this afternoon. He didn’t stand out as the likely killer, either.”

“Oh sure, one lunch and you’ve got the guy all figured out, right?”

I pulled a deep breath. “Ginger, we’re both tired. I know I am. Let’s sleep on it. See how we feel in the morning.”

“Suits me just fine. But you keep your hands off my elf.”