The Case of the Missing Elf: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 2) (18 page)

Back in my office, I flipped a coin as to which man to investigate first, and Harold Sparks lost. Besides Dad, my most ready source of background information on local businessmen was our sales woman, Lillian Whitcomb.  Every day
—
rain, shine, sleet, or snow
—
Lillian was out there, pushing ads, and raising the money that kept our operation afloat. She lived, breathed, and ate the local business happenings.

But with darting in and out of the building all day selling ads, Lillian was a tough person to catch. So I was nearly stunned when I buzzed her office line and she answered.

“Lillian,” I trilled.

“Who else?” she asked.

“Do you have a minute?”

“For you? Always.”

I set off for her office at a dash.

While Dad, Betty, and I all had clear views of each other from our desks, Lillian had the only office with four solid walls. She’d requested an office without a view into her neighboring worker’s space when she signed on, saying she liked her privacy. And with her record for bringing in advertising, Lillian got just about whatever she asked for.

“Howdy,” she said as I stepped through her doorway.

Tall, slender, and gorgeous, even at thirty five she remained unmarried, and none of us had heard a word about how she entertained herself on her own time. Lillian apparently  liked solid walls surrounding more than just her office.

She looked up and smiled at me. “Please, take a seat.”

Lillian had started working for us about a decade ago, bringing with her a stellar record for sales from a local radio station. Dad had figured anyone who could sell radio ads would excel at a newspaper. And so far, his assessment had been spot on.

“How can I help you?”

I seated myself in the small chair in front of her large desk.  “I’d really love it if you could give me the lowdown on Harold Sparks.”

She laughed. “Really, you should set your sights higher.”

“Come on,” I countered. “You know what I’m asking.”

“Right. Let me see. What can I tell you about dear Harold?” Her gaze drifted to an art poster on my right. It was a bold thing, saturated with vital, pounding colors.  “First of all, he’s married. He has a couple of older daughters, both off in college, I think. He’s a member of a Thursday night bowling league, and his wife believes the sun rises and sets on him.”

“Oh come on. Can’t you come up with something more interesting than that?”

“There are rumors.”

“Such as?”

“There’s a sweet, young thing. She waits tables out at the Roadside Cafe. She’s said to have a soft spot for the big man.”

“Really? He’s half bald and in his forties.”

“What can I say? She’s a poorly done bottle blonde and desperate.”

“What about income? Does he make enough that he could pay somebody off if they threatened to destroy his domestic bliss?”

“Not him,  his salary, maybe, just about covers their daily expenses, but his wife apparently inherited a fisfull of cash. Why?”

“No reason.”

Sometimes, it terrified me to hear how much we all knew about each other.

~~~

Roger Bradley wasn’t able to free up time to meet with me until about two that afternoon. And upon entering the restaurant I found most of the tables empty. A foursome, who looked to be a road weary group, were wolfing down burgers and fries at a corner table.

Roger spotted me and came rushing over. “Sorry to have put you off, we’ve been swamped today, but there’s almost always a break about now.”

“No problem.”

“What can I get you?”

“Coffee would be good.”

He raised a beckoning hand and a waitress trooped over and then scurried off for the coffee. I found myself wondering, as she hurried away,  if this young blonde woman was the one who was simply wild about Harold?

Bradley ushered me toward a table.

“You’ve done a good job with the place,” I said, as I took a chair facing the door.

“Thank you, I try. How’s Ginger?” He asked sitting opposite me.

“She’s fine.”

“So what brings you my way?”

“Roger, there’s no nice way to put this. But I’ve found a diary that looks suspiciously like it might have belonged to a blackmailer, and your name is in it.”

Our coffee arrived, We both fell silent.

As I watched the man take in the meaning behind my statement,  I wondered if I’d taken the best approach with him? A part of me suspected that I should have waited until I’d learned more before laying my case out in the open like this. It whispered that this man could be dangerous. That he could be the victim who rose up and took Scroggins’ life. But I didn’t believe it.

Although Bradley might be a talented
restaurateur,
and on top of every aspect of his highly competitive business, there was something decidedly puppy-dog-like about Roger. In the way he tried to win favor by giving away hot chocolate, or how  he followed Ginger around despite her obvious disinterest.

I could not see this man summoning up enough anger to kill anyone. Whine, maybe. But kill? Never. So what could this mild mannered man have done to warrant inclusion on a blackmailing list?

And now, he sat facing me, his face pinched, his cheeks pale. “Ah….”

“It was Scroggins wasn’t it? He was blackmailing you?”

Bradley’s shoulders slumped. His jaw sagged. “I didn’t kill him. You have to believe me. I might have paid him off, but that’s all I did.”

And there it was, I thought, confirmation that Scroggins had indeed been a blackmailer.

“My only crime,” he went on, “my only shame, really, is that my ex-wife is in prison. She was put there for embezzling money from the local charity she ran. Apparently the boyfriend she was seeing on the side was an expensive toy to keep. I was embarrassed. My manhood felt threatened. So I paid whatever I could to keep that story from following me here.”

“Roger, knowing what your ex did doesn’t change my opinion of you one iota. Your ex-wife’s doings are her responsibility. They have nothing to do with you.”

“You won’t tell Ginger, will you? My wife made such a fool of me.”

“No, Roger. I won’t.”

~~~

Snowflakes were drifting past my nose as I walked up to Ginger’s front door that night. I’d stopped off on my way to buy wine. I didn’t know what she was serving, so I’d bought one bottle each of red and white wine. I figured one of them was sure to be okay.

“Oh,” Ginger chirped upon spotting my gifts. “Aren’t you the dear one?”

“I aim to please,” I answered, stepping through her doorway. “Something smells good.”

“You must be kidding. I’m cooking steaks, and I haven’t put them on yet.”

“Ah…. “  I had no idea what else to say.

“Toss your coat on the couch. I’m headed to the kitchen.”

I dumped my stuff and joined her. There, I walked to the counter and  stuck my nose over a bowl. “What’s this?”

“A rub for the steak.” She gave me a perplexed look. “What’s gotten into you? You don’t usually pay any attention to my cooking. Why now?”

I tried and failed to smother a grin. “Because I’ve been taking lessons.”

“Cooking lessons?”

“Yes.”

“From who?”

“Wendy.”

“Well, you sly son of a gun. Will you move into her empty apartment?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then what gives?“

When we were sitting around my first night there, she asked about Dad. His cooking skills are well known around here, you know?”

Ginge sighed. “I do.” She thought I made too much of the man. “So what all have you made?”

“Poached eggs, lasagna, and fried chicken,” I said with a self-satisfied nod.

She pulled a face. “Not bad.”

“I know,” I said, my head bobbing rapidly up and down.

She grinned. “Have a seat. I’ve got everything under control. Although I suppose you could open the wine on the way to your chair. Let it breathe and such?”

“Fair enough.”

I did as instructed and pulled two wine glasses from her cupboard. “I didn’t know you ate red meat.”

“I don’t often, but I enjoy a steak once in a while.”

“What’s in your seasonings?”

“You’re really getting into this cooking thing, aren’t you.”

“Why not?”

“Okay, there’s some smashed garlic, salt, pepper, a little thyme and a healthy dose of paprika.”

“Sounds good.”

“It is.” She turned and lit the burner beneath the grill pan. “Does your Dad use one of these?”

“Nope. He’s a purist. When he wants to grill he does it outdoors, whether it’s snowing, or raining, or freezing, or hotter than can be believed.”

“I should have known.”

“I suspect I’d come down on your side, though. What fun’s cooking if it leads to frostbite?”

“My sentiment exactly.”

“So how long will you cook the steaks?”

“If I remember correctly, you like yours medium rare?”

“Yup.”

“About four minutes to a side, then.”

I filed the information away for later use.

Ginger glanced up from setting the table and watched me pour the wine. “So what brings you my way tonight? You said you had uncovered interesting stuff. Pray, start interesting me.”

I turned and  leaned back against the counter and studied the rosy liquid in my wineglass and brought her up to date with my session with Lillian and the information she’d given me. After that story ended, I moved on to my report on Bradley.

Ginger gave me a puzzled glance.  “What could Scroggins have on Bradley? He doesn’t seem the sort to do anything to make waves?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

“Why not?”

“I felt it was his business. He was honest and open about being blackmailed. I decided to let it stand there. The bottom line, I guess, is that I like the guy.”

Ginger snorted. “A soft spot for a fella with a past, huh. Some judge of horse flesh you are.”

“Actually, I think a woman could do a lot worse than teaming up with Bradley. He young, he’s handsome, he’s ambitious.”

“Successful people are usually an ambitious sort. And there are a lot of things they’d do to reach their goals. I should know. I’m a member of the same club.”

“Are you suggesting Bradley’s the murderer?”

“I’d say it’s possible.”

“You’re ambitious and successful,” I countered. “Have you ever thought of killing someone?”

Ginger flushed. “Hey, you’ve seen my temper.. But fortunately, the urge passed.”

“What would you have done if you had acted on your impulse,” I teased.

“I’d have felt so guilty, I’d have probably sat down and drained an entire bottle of booze. What about you?” she asked. “Have you ever considered putting together a hit list?”

“Not me,” I answered. “I’m morally superior to you greedy merchant types.”

Ginger laughed and threw a kitchen towel at me. “You’re lying. You’re probably even more ambitious than I am. You’re only hanging around here so you can take over the newspaper when your dad retires.”

“Hey. It’s the family paper. If not me, who?”

I
thought a lot about Ginger’s comment on my way to Wendy’s house that night. It was true that I wanted to carry the newspaper on under the family name someday.  And I was willing to pay the price to do so. It had already cost me my college boyfriend. He’d broken up with me rather than face a future in Cloverton. Not everyone could endure living in a small town. No museums. No concerts. No bright lights or hot clubs.

I pulled my car into Wendy’s driveway and stepped out. The snow was falling heavier now. The flakes were large and wet. They clung to my coat and cheeks. I scurried up the sidewalk. Wendy opened the door before I even could knock.

“I’ve been watching for you,” she explained.

“I hope you weren’t worried about being on your own.”

“Mercy no. I’m just glad to see you, that’s all.”

I hoped Wendy was growing too attached to my presence. Dad would want me to move back home sometime soon. There was another wrinkle. Of all  my friends who had graduated college with me, I was the only one still living at home. Ginger teased me about it. But even without her prodding, my living arrangements had begun to bother me.

“Want to watch TV with me?” Wendy asked brightly.

“Sure.”

I’d thought when I moved in with Wendy I might have taken a step away from the family nest. I thought now, though, maybe all I’d done was swap one parent for another. But at least I’d gained enough confidence in the kitchen that I could see life on my own as a possibility now. That hadn’t been true when I’d arrived on Wendy’s doorstep.

~~~

The next morning was one of the most difficult ones of my young life. It had dawned on me overnight that I couldn’t hide what I knew about the Scroggins’ blackmailing operation. I felt, both by my duty as a journalist and as a responsible member of society, that I had to bring Gossford up to speed with my discoveries.

I dawdled about  upstairs in my bedroom until I heard Dad leave for work. Then, I rushed down the stairs, grabbed my coat, and headed for the Cloverton Police Department.

Their offices are housed in a one-story building near the downtown square. Yellow brick. Brown roof. The building was restrained and unpretentious. I entered through the front door and was greeted by Sergeant Olin Fitzwater on the desk. “Good morning, Melanie.”

All of the local cops knew me, if not as a function of living in a small town, then by the fact that I frequently dogged their steps for news.

“What brings you into our fair camp today?”

“I need to see Gossford.”

“What about?”

“Um… I’d rather wait to tell him.”

Fitzwater sent me a quizzical glance. “I’ll let him know.” He reached down, grabbed the phone, and rang the chief. His gaze caught and held mine while he relayed my message to his boss. He muttered a quick comment or two and then rang off.

“Go on,” he said. “But make it short. He’s got a meeting with the County  Board Chairman in about twenty minutes.

“Thanks.” I dashed down the hall toward Gossford’s office. Maybe his upcoming meeting was a blessing. This way if Gosford were really angry, he’d have less time to visit his displeasure on me.

“Melanie, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

I sighed. “I hope you’ll feel that way once I deliver my message.” I sank down into a chair before his desk, my knees feeling a little weak in light of the news I was about to deliver.

“So?” he said, his eyes betraying a good bit of concern.

I licked my lips before answering. “It’s like this. I’ve happened to stumble upon some information that I think you should know.”

“About what?”

“About the murders.”

He shook his head. “Melanie, what have you been up to? if you’ve been sticking your nose into a murder investigation, I could charge you with interfering with police business.”

I dragged in a lungful of air. “Please, just hear me out.”

He glanced at his watch. “You’d better speed it up, then.”

“I have reason to believe Scroggins was a blackmailer.”

“And where did you learn this?”

“I’ve spoken with one of the victims.”

“And that is?”

“Roger Bradley.”

“And how did you think to talk to Bradley about blackmail?”

“It was something Porter said when I interviewed him after Scroggins’ died.”

Oh man if these lies got any bigger, I was gonna die of shame. But I couldn’t tell Gossford about the little black book. He’d ask me where I got it.

I made myself a mental note to immediately return Scroggins’ diary to where I found it
—
even though that meant I’d have to go back into that blasted apartment in broad daylight. But it couldn’t be helped. Technically, I’d been messing with police evidence. If Gossford caught wind to that, I could end up in jail.

“Anything else you’d like to tell me?” he asked.

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Okay, then. I thank you for the information, but if I find you’ve been messing with my case, I’m not going to be best pleased.”

“Right. Absolutely. Sir.”

~~~

Wendy looked startled to find me at her doorway at an hour when I’d have normally been at work. “My dear, what’s going on?”

“I need the key to Barnaby’s apartment.”

Wendy blinked. “But we’re not supposed to go there.”

“I know, but we did, and I’ve removed evidence in a murder investigation, and I’ve got to get it back before Gossford catches me with the thing.”

“You mean the book?”

“Yes.”

“Heavens. Okay. Wait here.”

“Or,” I said, “how about I run upstairs and get the thing while you fetch the door key?”

She blinked. “Yes, that would work.”

And Wendy was standing dutifully at the bottom of the stairs when I returned from the mad dash to my bedroom. “Should I go with you?” she asked, passing me the key.

“No, you stay here. You know nothing, got that?”

“You bet. Mum’s the word.”

I gave her a hug, and ran to the back door, and bolted through it. And I raced through the backyard, past the evergreen, and the dried flower stalks, and up the stairs, and into Barnaby’s apartment, which appeared much friendlier in the daylight.

My feet didn’t  come to a full, complete stop until I stood in front the dresser, pulled open the bottom drawer, and tucked the offending book back inside the comforter’s folds.

Now, that’s the way I spell relief.

~~~~

“Jeremy,” I yelled from my car. My day was over at the paper, and I’d been driving around hoping to find this child for nearly an hour now. And attempts to reach him by phone had failed more times than I could count

“Can I talk to you a minute?” I called out.

Reluctantly, the boy tore himself away from the girl he’d apparently been trying to impress. He mosied over to my car, his whole attitude screaming
—
macho me.“

Get in,” I said, when he reached the door. To the end of my days, I’ll never know why he did as he was told.

I’d like to say I trusted the boy, but I didn’t. Not completely. So instead of talking with him in some remote and isolated spot, I offered to take him to Howies where I’d buy him a milkshake. Again, Jeremy surprised me and  went along with my suggestion.

Howie’s was reasonably empty when we reached it. We grabbed our drinks and I led us to a booth at the far end of the restaurant. I thought it would be a quiet spot where we could talk with little chance of being overheard.

“I appreciate the milkshake,” Jeremy said, sliding onto the bench. “But I can’t think of any reason for you to want to interview me.”

“Fine. Then just sit back until I ask my questions, okay?”

He shifted on the bench, his restless hands working a nervous pattern on the table.

“I was hoping you would talk to me about blackmail.” I sat and watched with satisfaction as the color drained from Jeremy’s face. The kid knew something. That much was obvious. The only question now was how much of what he knew he’d be willing to share with me.

“So how about it, Jeremy. What was your role in Scroggins blackmailing operation?”

“Blackmail? You’re nuts. Scroggins?”

“Don’t lie to me Jeremy.  I’ve seen his little black book. It lists names and dollar amounts. What I want you to tell me is how he scoped out his victims. You were involved with that weren’t you?”

“Me? Whoa. You’re crazy, man.” He pushed his milkshake to the side. “I didn’t have nothing to do with any blackmail. And you can’t prove I did.”

“Which is it? You weren’t involved or I can’t prove you were. You can’t have it both ways, Jeremy.”

“Look. I didn’t know about the blackmail, okay? They just asked me to follow a couple of guys and report back to them.”

“They being Scroggins and Porter?”

“Yeah.”

“And who was it they had you follow.”

“The guy that runs that big box store and one other guy.”

“Who?”

“I don’t want to say.”

“Was it Roger Bradley?”

“Who?”

“The man who bought the restaurant out along the Interstate.”

“Oh, him. No.”

“Then, who?”

“I take the fifth.”

“Jeremy, this isn’t a court of law. Those rules don’t apply here. Now, tell me who the second man was.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re looking for a killer.”

“It isn’t him.”

“How do you know?”

“Because this guy’s a nothing. A nobody. Even his wife orders him around.” He shook his head disgustedly. “The guy’s such a total wimp.”

“So what was this timid guy doing?”

“Well, there’s this woman, see?”

And the lightbulb in my head finally lit up. “Jeremy,” I said. “You’re going to have to trust me one more time..”

“Why?”

“Because I’m taking you to see the Police Chief. I want you to tell him what you just told me.”

~~~

I’d set my plan up with Ginger and Gossford in advance. And a little before nine that night, I entered Santa’s Cabin. Ginger was standing next to the doorway. Agnes was wandering about the place, picking up toys and depositing them in a brightly painted toy chest. Santa sat on his throne, humming, apparently happy to see the end of another workday approaching.

“Melanie,” Farmer said, grinning broadly when he sighted me. He was apparently getting ready to give me the unwelcome benefits of his manly charms again. “You’re looking luscious tonight.”

I smiled sweetly, knowing his days of treating women obnoxiously were about to end.  “Thank you.”

“Melanie,” Ginger offered up her greeting, her voice a bit more strident than normal. I attributed the unusual sound as being triggered by her concern over what was about to come down here.

“Ginger,” I replied with a quick nod of my head. “Do you want to run along and warm the car up?”

“No,” she said. “I’ll stay. Frigid weather doesn’t bother me all that much.”

My jaw dropped. Ginger had just strayed off script. She was supposed to leave. Take Agnes with her.

In the meantime, Agnes tossed in her own two cents worth. “Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll wander on home.”

“That’s fine,” Ginger answered, never removing her gaze from my face.

Ginger had been ticked that when the last confrontation with a killer had happened, she hadn’t been part of the scenario. Was her determination to remain with me her pathetic attempt to even the score?

I hesitated a moment, wondering what to do? A lot of time had gone into planning this operation. I wasn’t sure how Ginger’s presence would complicate the issue. But she was here, and short of physically shoving her out the door, there was little I could do about it.

Taking a deep breath, I returned my attention to Santa Claus. “So when did you decide to kill him?”

My quarry managed to look confused. “Kill  who? What are you talking about?”

“Scroggins,” I said. ” You murdered him.”

His mouth twitched slightly. His gaze flicked back and forth between Ginger and me. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think I do.”

He glared at me. “Porter killed Scroggins, everybody knows that. You’re just  too dumb to see it.”

“Really? That’s a tidy solution. I’ll give you that. But tell me, who killed Porter?”

“You’re nothing but a reporter,” he snapped. “You need to leave solving murders to the police. Unlike you, they know what they’re doing.”

“Maybe you’re already on their list.”