Софи Келли - A Midwinter's Tail

I folded my fingers around my cup and watched Marcus eat for a minute. “You didn’t find anything in Olivia’s kitchen, did you?” I asked. “Or am I asking a question you can’t answer?”

He set his fork down. “No, we didn’t. And she insists she didn’t put nuts of any kind in the chocolates she made for your party because of her own allergy.”

“That was why she reacted to the chocolate that she ate at the theater.”

Marcus frowned at me.

“Cashews and pistachios are in the same family.”

“I didn’t know that,” he said.

I knew he’d file that little piece of information away in his head somewhere. It was like that with everything he learned.

He picked up his fork again. “Well, there were no pistachios in the kitchen where the chocolates were made, or any nuts, for that matter, or in her house, either, and she gave us permission to search both places.”

I leaned over, grabbed the container of marshmallows from the counter and dropped two into my cup. “Not the kind of thing someone would be likely to do if they had something to hide,” I said. “Did you talk to Georgia and Earl?”

“Uh-huh. Neither one of them uses nuts in anything.”

“According to Abigail, Georgia makes anything with nuts at Fern’s.” I leaned back in my chair with my mug and took a long drink. “I don’t think I told you. Abigail helped pack the chocolate boxes.”

Marcus finished half a dumpling before he answered, “I know. I talked to her and to Nic Sutton, who made the boxes.”

“I wish people could have taken them home,” I said.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said.

I smiled at him. “It’s okay.”

My cup was empty, so I got up to make another cup of hot chocolate. I knew where the other half of the dumpling would go as soon as my back was turned. I poured more milk into my cup along with a big spoonful of the dark chocolate cocoa mix I’d gotten at the Farmers’ Market and put the whole thing in the microwave. When I did turn back around, Owen was licking his lips, Hercules was washing his face and Marcus was spooning a carrot out of his bowl. It was cute how they actually thought they were fooling me.

I leaned against the counter while I waited for the milk to heat. “So the nuts weren’t in anything Eric served or even with the coffee or the tea?” I asked.

Marcus reached for his glass. “No. We checked the kitchen at both places. Nothing.”

“Wait a minute,” I said slowly, turning to get my drink from the microwave. “You didn’t actually say the nuts weren’t in the chocolates. You said there didn’t seem to be any way Olivia could have put them in.”

Marcus looked at me, just the tiny hint of a smile flickering across his face. “You’re right, that is what I said.”

I sat down across from him again with my cup and the marshmallows. “So? What haven’t you told me?”

He swiped a hand over his neck. At his feet both cats seemed to be listening intently. “All three of the chocolates in the box that Dana Chapman had were coated with pistachio oil. None of the other boxes that have been sampled had anything on the chocolates inside.”

There was one piece of chicken left in his bowl. He pulled it apart with his fork and leaned over to give half to each cat, not even trying to hide what he was doing.

“So that’s how you know somebody meant to kill Dana Chapman?”

Marcus nodded, wiping his fingers on his napkin. “Yes. I’m not telling you anything that won’t be common knowledge in a few hours. In fact, maybe it already is.”

He started to get to his feet and I stood up instead, reaching for his dishes with one hand and putting the other on his shoulder to tell him to stay put.

“The paper?” I asked. The Mayville Heights Chronicle was one of the few smaller newspapers in the state whose readership was actually on the rise.

“Yeah. Everywhere we went, one of Bridget’s reporters was right behind us.” He exhaled loudly. “Sometimes I think it’s impossible to keep anything secret in this town.”

Dayna Chapman had been murdered. Murdered, just a few hours after she’d arrived back in town. Why, and by whom?

Maybe it was impossible to keep some things secret, but clearly not everything.

10

On Sunday, I caught up on all the chores I’d let go during the week and talked to my parents in Boston. I told them what had happened with the fundraiser and they were sympathetic, which made me feel better.

“I’ll look back through my files and see what we’ve done for fundraisers over the years at the school,” my mother promised. “If I come across any ideas that might work for you, I’ll let you know.”

She went on to tell me that her laptop was being repaired—something wrong with the space bar—again—probably having to do with tea or cheesecake was my guess. So I didn’t tell her it looked as though Dayna Chapman’s death hadn’t been an accident. Mom normally read the Chronicle online, but without her computer she wouldn’t be doing that, which bought me a few days before I had to tell her I was connected with a murder.

Again.

After lunch I made stinky crackers for Owen and Hercules, and a pan of date squares for Rebecca and me to have with our tea.

When Rebecca arrived, she spent several minutes talking to the boys, who loved to see her even when she wasn’t bringing them treats. Rebecca actually had conversations with the cats and didn’t seem to think there was anything odd about it.

Even though there was no paper on Sunday, the news about Dayna Chapman’s death was already circulating. Rebecca confirmed what little I’d learned from Burtis.

Dana had originally come to Mayville Heights on vacation with her parents. The only thing she’d seemed to like was Burtis. Her parents hadn’t shared that enthusiasm. Dana had run away, coming back to Mayville Heights as soon as she was back home, and she and Burtis were quickly married.

No one was surprised that the marriage didn’t last, but it seemed that many people were surprised it lasted as long as it did.

“And she never came back to visit?” I asked Rebecca.

“No,” she said, adding a little sugar to her tea. “The boys didn’t really spend a lot of time with her.” She pressed her lips together for a moment. “Some people don’t have what it takes to be a parent.”

That was the closest to criticism I knew I’d hear from Rebecca. I sent her home with two date squares and a reminder about our Friday trip to Red Wing.

* * *

Ruby was waiting for me Monday morning as I pulled into the parking lot behind River Arts. I backed into Maggie’s parking spot behind the former school, the way I usually did if I was there for some reason and she wasn’t.

Ruby’s collection of Christmas ornaments was packed in two wooden boxes sitting at one end of the big worktable in the middle of her top-floor art studio.

“Ruby, I can’t take all of them,” I said.

“Sure you can,” she said with a smile. “I told you we’re not using them at the store this year, and I have a collection that belonged to my grandmother that I use on my tree at home.” She laid a hand on top of the closest crate. “There’s a list inside both boxes so you’ll have an idea of what there is. I’m warning you. There are a lot of different Santas.”

“That’s okay with me,” I said. “I like Santa. I promise I’ll take good care of them.”

I noticed that the newspaper was spread over the other end of the long worktable. Ruby noticed me noticing.

“Dayna Chapman’s death wasn’t an accident,” she said.

I shook my head. “It doesn’t look like it.”

She sighed softly, looked away out through the tall windows and then back at me again. “You didn’t know my grandfather, Kathleen,” she said, “and I don’t exactly know how to describe him to you, except to say he had a flint-hard streak of ruthlessness in him.”