The Case of the Missing Elf: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 2) (6 page)

A
lthough the snow had stopped falling sometime overnight, driving over the back-county roads remained a serious challenge. It was so bad that I almost wished I’d delayed my scheduled meeting with Larkin to the following day.

Icy patches scattered here and there on the highway caused me a couple of heart-in-the-mouth moments, and howling winds piled up snow drifts across the east-west roads. Each time I encountered one, I closed my eyes and prayed my car would push through them.

But I kept a dozen bags of kitty litter in my trunk for extra weight over the rear tires. And with their help I managed to reach my destination, a forlorn plot of snowcovered ground a few miles east of Cloverton. And while doing all that I kept a close watch on the two coffee’s I’d picked up on my way out of Howies. Larkin had a serious addiction to coffee.

Nearing my destination, I slowed. Normally, Larkin and I parked our cars behind a decaying shed in an abandoned plot of land there. But today, the snow was too deep to pull into what had once been a farmer’s barnyard. But Larkin had reached the location ahead of me. His squad was parked across the entrance to the old barnyard. He waved me over beside his car and rolled his window down. I pulled my vehicle up beside his and followed his lead with the window.

“Follow me,” he yelled over the howling wind.

I nodded, and turned my car around, and lined it up behind his. He led us maybe a half dozen miles then pulled into a plowed driveway between a row of low-hanging evergreens. Our cars weren’t completely hidden, but any passersby would have to be looking hard to notice us tucked up in the driveway.

I switched off my car’s ignition, picked up the carrier with the two coffees from the seat beside me, and exited my vehicle. Larkin swung his passenger door open. I quickly slid in out of the howling wind, and settled myself into the warm comfort of his car. After pulling a coffee cup from the carrier, I handed it to him. “I hope you haven’t made a recent caffeine stop.”

He flipped the little tab on the lid open. “Even if I had, a man can never be too rich, too good looking, or consume too much caffeine.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “Right. And modesty so becomes you.”

He grinned back.

I had to admit, when it came to looks, Larkin wasn’t too far off in his self assessment. Tall, broad, with a nose and chin a bit too prominent to rank him as handsome, he was still a man who looked good in most settings. His sandy hair and laughing blue eyes meant a lot of women wanted to spend time with him, but I wasn’t among their number. Larkin’s value to me lay in his treasure trove of in-depth information. Plus, everyone knew reporters and cops were a bad mix. We usually approached every topic from opposite ends.

I sighed. “You should have someone open your veins and just pour the coffee in.”

He laughed. “Then, I’d miss all this wonderful flavor.” He tipped the cup up and swallowed down a mighty portion. I couldn’t imagine slugging back a gulp of coffee while it was that hot.

Relaxing in his seat now, he shifted his attention back to me.

Larkin and I had gone to school together. While little, he’d chased off bullies and generally looked after me. Even in  high school, I never quite outgrew his protective reach. He’d have probably continued his act through college, if he’d followed me there. But after high school graduation, Larkin had marched off with the Army.

I never could quite figure out why he thought I still needed his oversight today. I was doing okay on my own. Or so I thought. But he’d come up trumps for me more than once. And as a news snitch, he couldn’t be beat.

“Nasty day to be driving around out here,” he said. “What’s got you so fired up that we needed to meet today?”

“Ginger’s stressed out over the elf’s death.”

He chuckled and nodded. “That’s right. She’s heading up Santa’s Cabin this year. Somehow, I can’t picture her being real comfortable surrounded by all those kiddies. So what does she need help with?”

“She’s going bonkers with Scroggins’ death. But at least she’s found a replacement for the elf. Agnes Plummer stepped up and volunteered for the job.”

“That was quick. Scroggins was only found dead Friday.”

“I think its grand she got a volunteer so quickly. Heaven knows Ginger’s glad for the help, but we’re both a little nervous. I don’t know anything about Agnes. Neither does Ginger.  I wondered if maybe you could fill us in?”

Larkin’s eyes twinkled. “Hmm, deep background for an elf, huh? This could be fun.”

I scowled at him. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying this. In the meantime, Ginger’s in that cabin trying to keep the children of Cloverton safe.”

“And you’re out driving around on icy roads trying to minimize Ginger’s risks for her.”

“She’ do the same for me.”

Larkin nodded. “She probably would.”

“So,” I said, “do you know Agnes Plummer or not?”

“Of course I know her. I’m surprised you don’t.”

“I’ve seen her around town, okay? We just don’t happen to run in the same circles.”

“I should hope not. She’s got a good thirty years on you.”

“And?”

“And…,” he shrugged, “she’s fine as far as I know. She doesn’t chase kids off her lawn. She’s widowed and has a couple of grandchildren. I’ve heard they adore her. She attends the Baptist Church on Larch Street so I doubt she’ll  swear at any of your little angels.” He took time out for another swig of coffee. “What she also has is a younger son. A change-of-life-baby. He’s in his teens now. There might be a few rumbles about the kid, but nothing’s stuck so far.”

That’s what I mean about Larkin. He knew the people of Weaver County. Even Ginger, with her wide assortment of friends, couldn’t match this man for knowing details about local residents.

“Do you think Agnes can keep Sam Farmer in line?”

“That’s the guy who plays Santa, right?”

“It is.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“When I was there Friday, he stank of gin.”

“Farmer?”

“Yes.”

Larkin’s mouth turned down in a look of disbelief. “That’s odd.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never heard the man was a heavy drinker.”

Yes!
Score one for me. I knew more about someone than he did. “What about Lester Porter?”

“What’s he got to do with Ginger?”

“Nothing really. I was just curious about the man, that’s all.”

“Porter,” Larkin muttered. “Now, if you want an alcoholic, there’s one. He was a good drinking buddy with Scroggins.” Larkin scowled at me. “Melanie, don’t tell me you’re sticking your nose into another murder.”

Honestly, Larkin could be so small minded when it came to my sleuthing. He was nearly as bad as Dad. But I had no desire to tick him off, so I batted my eyes, and asked. “Who, me? When I know how you feel about that?.”

Larkin grimaced. “Would that I could only believe you.”

“You calling me a liar?”

He sighed. “It’s been known to happen.”

“Geesh. One innocent question, and you’re all over my case.”

“Just make sure your research on this story remains innocent.”

“Meaning?”

Larkin sighed. “Meaning leave the murder investigation to the professionals.”

I smiled at him sweetly. “But that’s exactly what I am doing.”

Larkin toned down his scowl a notch, apparently trusting me to do what he considered the right thing.

In response, my conscience reached out and gave me a sharp blow to the tummy. I really hated lying to such a good friend.

~~~

After my session with Larkin, rather than heading home, I stopped by the newspaper office to track down Lester Porter’s address. The telephone directory showed Porter living on what could be called the wrong side of the tracks. I scribbled his address on a scrap of paper and stuffed it into my coat pocket.

Being a Sunday, I knew Porter’s local watering hole would be closed. Our entire county was dry on Sundays. People wanting drinks had to drive at least thirty miles into the neighboring county to get one, or they kept a bottle at home. I figured Porter for a bottle-at-home kind of guy, so I headed straight for his house.

His place turned out to be a one story affair badly in need of repairs. A fresh coat of paint wouldn’t have gone amiss, either. Heaping mounds of snow covered the front lawn and sidewalk, but I couldn’t help wondering if other things weren’t buried there too, like old tires or piles of rubbish. It looked to be that kind of a setting.

I trudged through a deep snowdrift to reach the front porch and  was astounded when I pushed  the doorbell, and it  worked. I listened quietly to footsteps pounding their way toward me from inside the house. Then, the door swung open.

An unwelcoming sort of man stood before me. He was tall and slender, almost scrawny. His eyes were red rimmed. His matted hair looked as though a comb hadn’t found its way through it for days.

“Yeah?” He said, gruffly. Like Santa, the scent of gin pouring off the guy was unmistakable.

“Lester Porter?” I asked.

“That’s me. Who are you?” he demanded.

I plastered a large smile on my face. “I’m Melanie Hart from the Cloverton
Gazette.
I’m writing a human interest piece about Barnaby Scroggins. I’ve heard you were friends. I hope you’ll grant me a bit of your time.”

Porter grunted, looked me over, and shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” He swung the door wide.

Looking at the debris in the room ahead of me, I had to stifle a desire to turn around and flee. But I let Porter lead me further into the small living room where he waved me toward a worn out couch. I perched along its front edge. No way was I leaning back in the thing. The sofa looked like it predated the house, and I doubted a vacuum cleaner had waived its magic wand anywhere near it in decades. The table next to the couch sported a couple of plates with dried up food and silverware.

“Can I get you some coffee?” he asked.

Not on your life, I thought. “No thank you. I just had some.”

“Then let’s get to it.” Porter slapped his hands onto his knees and sank into a faded armchair. “What is it you want to know?”

“I’m wondering what kind of a man Scroggins was. A lot of people know he was the Christmas elf. But I wanted our readers to get a sense of the real man behind that role.”

Porter nodded and pushed a clump of greasy hair off his forehead. “Barnaby was a good guy. Helpful. He took care of his friends, too. He was gonna take real good care of me. And just my luck, now he’s dead.”

“What was he going to do for you?”

Porter pulled a face. “He had a real solid plan. We was gonna start a business. Earn us some money. Now, though.” He shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s all history.”

“It takes money to start a business. I thought Scroggins was broke.”

“Not a chance. Never. Only last week, he won big at one of them riverboat casinos over in Hadleyville.”

“How big?”

Porter pulled his long frame upright and grinned at the memory. “Almost nine thousand bucks.”

“That is a lot of money.”

“I’ll say.”

“And he was going to pump his win into a business venture?”

Porter’s head bobbed up and down. “He was gonna buy that old warehouse on the east side of town.”

“Really?” The warehouse had been abandoned along with several large buildings when a small manufacturing plant pulled up stakes and moved away more than a decade ago. Even so, I doubted nine thousand dollars would come close to buying the building. This was getting interesting. “What did he plan to do with the place?”

“He wanted rent out space to antique dealers and craft people. I was gonna toss in a couple of dollars of mine. We was both gonna get rich, see?”

Considering Porter’s living conditions, I wondered how he could have any free cash to  spare, or if he did, if Scroggins was planning to fleece this poor fellow, too. Wendy had said her cousin had done so before. I couldn’t see any reason why he wouldn’t do so again. Had Porter spotted the plan? Had he then killed Scroggins before the man could make off with his cash?

I pushed on, “Did Scroggins have a good track record with setting up businesses? Did you check his background?”

“Nah, didn’t need to. The thing couldn’t fail. Not with him at the head, see?”

“Still, starting up an operation like you’ve described was ambitious,” I said. “I’m surprised Scroggins would want to take on such a large project at his age.”

Porter chuckled, a low, oddly ominous sound. “Huh. That shows what you know. Barnaby had more energy than a teenager. Always did. He got even more ramped up after all that gambling money landed in his lap. Besides, he had that young kid to do his legwork.”

“Who was that?”

“A boy named Jeremy. A teenager. That’s all I know.”

I frowned. “Still, I’m sure an old building like that warehouse would have needed a lot of work. Even if he managed to buy the place, how could he afford to fix it up? It’s been empty for more than a decade. Revamping it would take more than a can of paint or two. Where was Scroggins going to come up with that money?”