The Case of the Missing Elf: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 2) (9 page)

“I’m currently working on the murder story,” I said. “I was wondering if I can mention that  poisoning angle you gave me?”

“Yeah. Go ahead. I got confirmation from the state crime lab about five minutes ago. From the report, it looks like someone had mixed digitalis leaves in with the regular tea leaves.”

I thought it so sad. I’d looked the plant up on the Internet. The flowers were beautiful. I dragged my mind back to my job.  “About the break-in at Scroggins apartment, may I mention that nothing appeared to be missing?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Leave that part out about the money, though, or we’ll have every thief within six counties breaking into the place.”

“Got you.”

“You’re a good reporter, Melanie. It’s a treat to work with someone like you.”

If I worked for a larger paper, I thought, I might not be quite so compliant. But living in a small town, I had to not just work with Gossford but live with him day in, day out for the rest of our lives. Besides, I really didn’t want the entire world traipsing into Barnaby’s apartment. Poor Wendy might never sleep again.

A
bout a half hour after submitting my final stories, Dad gave me the high sign that the day’s edition had been electronically pasted up. From that point, it would be shipped off to be printed in a neighboring town. But my interest this day was not in the paper getting out. I wanted to know how Dad had handled the coverage.

My curiosity remained centered on which article got top billing
—
the murder or the opening of Santa’s Cabin. I pulled up the front page and saw that Dad had refused to take an either/or stance but had cleverly merged the reports.

The piece on Santa’s Cabin pointed out that one of it’s most beloved characters had been murdered. From there Dad shifted into my piece on how Scroggins would be missed by the children and the adults of Cloverton. He next inserted the quotes from Ginger on how important the man had been to the success of Santa’s cabin. Then, the piece introduced readers to the cabin’s new elf, Agnes Plummer. I knew Ginger would be delighted with the way Dad had handled the events.

But the hard news on Scroggins’ death had not been buried. That the man had been poisoned by using foxglove leaves was appropriately highlighted as the piece of late-breaking news it was. The whole was polished off then with my report on the break-in at Scroggins’ apartment.

As I sat reading the stories, I shook my head in wonder. Dad had taken my bits of information and scored another journalistic home run.

Betty stuck her head in my door. “Great stories.”

I shook my head. “Great editing.”

Betty grinned. “You and your father both get my vote. Will that do?”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

“You bet.”

Then it was Dad’s turn to arrive with praise. “That’s an award-winning front page,” he said, beaming.

I smiled and knew Father would be submitting the page for consideration when the state awards rolled around again. Dad was a super competitive fellow, who never missed a chance to prove exactly how good our little paper was.

~~~

Later that afternoon, I looked up to find Dad standing in my doorway. “I’ve been watching you, Melanie. You’re falling asleep at your desk.”

I smiled and nodded. “I didn’t get much sack time last night.”

“Go home. Take a nap.”

“I’m fine,” I protested.

“No, you’re not. As your boss, I’m ordering you out of here.”

I’d have protested further, but I couldn’t suppress a yawn. “Maybe a bit of rest would help,” I admitted sheepishly.

But plans and reality often clash, and this day was no exception. Apparently my being home in the middle of a work day had disrupted Taffy’s routine. The little dog, who usually ignored me, suddenly decided I was her best friend.

After I’d been in bed a minute or two, she jumped up and pressed her cold nose against my warm one.

“Go away,” I muttered. I was stretched out on top of the covers with an afghan tossed over me. Taffy backed away from me, head down, rear end raised, tail swishing. She yipped and charged at me again.

I rolled over onto my other side and tossed the pillow over my head.

She leaped over me, pawed my shoulder, and whined.

“Honestly,” I said, shunting the pillow aside, “what about ‘go away’ don’t you understand?”

She bounded forward to me and licked my chin.

I sat up and glared at her. She pranced about before me, giving me a series of little woofs. Obviously, I thought, this dog was not going to give up.

Sighing, I rose from bed and climbed into a pair of old sweats. What they hey, I thought, I hadn’t been sleeping anyway. Maybe a walk would do me good, too.

Taffy bounded joyously around my feet, nearly tripping me a time or two as we made our way down the stairs.

“Knock it off,” I said, which also turned out to be another waste of my breath.

Into my parka. Into my boots. I attached her leash. Out the door we flew. She burst into the open air with her tongue dangling happily from her mouth and with me trailing behind her. I grunted and reminded myself never to come home in the middle of the day again for a nap.

But the sun was brilliant. It highlighted the white snow, the blue sky. The whole sight cheered me. I pulled in a deep breath, and on we trekked down the sidewalk. At some point Taffy paused to take care of a minor duty.

“Good girl,” I said. I started to set off back to the house, but Taffy tugged against me in the opposite direction. Figuring she had further business, I relented and we continued on to the next block.

As we trod along, I spotted the mailman, Harry Gibbons, coming toward us. Tall and slender, if turned sideways, the man was little more than a shadow. But what he lacked in volume, he made up for with an expansive nature.

“Hello there,” he said when he reached us. “And how are two of my favorite young ladies today?”

“We’re fine.”

As though understanding his statement, Taffy danced about his feet. He leaned over and patted her head.

A mailman who got on with dogs, I thought.
Amazing.

Straightening back up, he asked, “What’s brought you home in the middle of the day?”

“Long story.”

“I imagine you’ve been busy... with this murder and all.”

“That’s part of it,” I said.

“Is there any news on what killed Scroggins?”

“Yes. Gossford released the information this morning. It’s coming out in the paper this afternoon.”

“You wouldn’t be willing to fill me in now, would you? I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

I laughed. I doubted that was true unless Gibbons failed to encounter anyone else before finishing his rounds. I knew how he loved to talk. But fiddlesticks, I thought, the paper would be on the street soon, anyway. “Apparently, he was poisoned with foxglove leaves.”

“No kidding, my wife grows a flower by that name. And, of course, there’s the heart medicine, right?”

“Yes. But the police say it was the leaves that were used.”

“It’s a pity. The flowers are beautiful, but they also take some work.”

“What do you mean?”

“They don’t bloom the first year. Then, after they bloom the second year, a lot of times they don’t come back the third time. My wife’s always starting new plants to keep her garden filled. As I said, she’s mad for the things. Come to think of it, so is Wendy Cartwright. If anyone needed a supply of foxglove leaves to kill Scroggins, they’d certainly have been close to hand in her yard. She’s won awards for growing them. My wife told me.”

Oh, great, I thought, just what poor Wendy needed
— t
o be famous for growing foxgloves. I had an uneasy feeling Gossford had added the facts up the same way. No wonder he suspected Wendy of the murder.

Obviously, Ginger and I needed to double down on our efforts to find the killer.

Dang.

~~~

Taffy and I hadn’t been back inside the house long before the phone rang. It was Ginger.

“Hey,” she said.

“How did you know to call me at home?”

“Geesh, what is this? A federal offence? I called the paper. Betty said you were home. Paranoid much?”

“This had better be good. My father sent me home to catch up on sleep, which you are interrupting.”

“Betty didn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry. She probably didn’t know. Why are you calling anyway?”

“Are we still on for tonight?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll see you then at my place at seven, right?”

“Isn’t that what I’ve already said?”

“Not directly, no.”

“Seven. Your place. Got it.” My foot slammed the floor.

“Good. Good. That’s all I wanted to know. See you then.”

I trudged my way upstairs intent on working in at least a minor nap. When I reached the top of the stairs, the phone rang again. I couldn’t believe it. I grabbed the receiver and dragged it up to my ear.

“Melanie. Is that you?” The voice was female and tentative.

“Wendy?”

“Yes, dear. They said at the paper your were home. Anyway, I hope you’re all right. I’ve felt so guilty about pulling you over here in the middle of the night.”

“No problem. I was glad to help.”

“I’m relieved to hear that, because I was wondering if you’d repeat the experience tonight?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Would you spend the night with me? I’m all alone here. I know it’s asking a great deal, but I’m terrified.  Anyway, I have several spare bedrooms. Would you mind being my house guest again? At least, until I can settle myself back down?”

My mind raced through a thousand reasons to refuse. But each time I came up with an excuse, I pictured Wendy’s sweet face and felt guilty. “I have a conflict early tonight, so I won’t be able to join you until maybe ten. Is that alright?”

“That’s fine. I’ll still be awake. And Melanie, thank you.”

~~~

Ginger was locked, and loaded, and ready for bear when I walked into her house that night. She might have established her business in the old Victorian house she inherited from her parents, but she preferred to do her living in her stretch ranch. She’d bought the house after her business proved wildly successful. That was before most of  the rest of us had even graduated from college. When it came to business and finances, Ginger was astounding.

“I read your story in the
Gazette
tonight,” she said. “Well done.”

“Thank you.”

I followed her to the kitchen which was filled with the delightful aroma of freshly brewed coffee. While I rid myself of my parka, she filled two mugs with the brew and delivered them to the table. Taking the garment from me, she hung it on a peg near the back door. “Poisoned,” she said over her shoulder. “And with flowers, no less.”

“The leaves from foxgloves, more specifically.”

“Who knew?”

It was a valid question. I suspected few people were aware of the poisonous nature of foxgloves. “Until this morning, I’d never heard of the plant, let alone that it could kill people. And worse yet, Wendy is apparently good at growing the things.”

“Does Gossford knows that?”

I lifted my coffee cup. “Probably, he had us pull our old gardening stories and send them to him.”

“And you did that?”

“Sure. He wasn’t asking for any information that hadn’t been published already.”

I took a quick sip of coffee, then asked, “Have you finalized your opinion on Agnes Plummer?”

Ginger smiled. “Yep, she’s a keeper. I can hardly believe my good luck. I mean I was worrying how I’d ever replace Scroggins, and Agnes shows up out of the blue on my doorstep.”

“Playing Santa’s elf may not pay much, but it comes with a certain measure of fame. Scroggins was well known around town, mostly because of his job in the cabin.”

“I never thought about it like that before.”

“That’s because you’re so shy and retiring.”

She chuckled. “Yeah, right.”

“Did you learn anything about  Sparks and his disagreement with Scroggins?”

Ginger shook her head. “I tried, but I couldn’t be too direct, and my sideways approach didn’t seem to work well.”

“Keep at it, okay? With those gardening articles in Gossford’s hands, we need to pick up our pace.” I took a sip of coffee and swallowed. “If you need to reach me, I’m going to be sleeping over at Wendy’s house tonight.”

Ginger scowled. “Whatever for?”

“Last night’s break-in at the carriage house has Wendy feeling vulnerable.”

“Sucker.”

I winced.

“Still,” Ginger continued,  “it’s a small step toward cutting your apron cords.”

“Strings.” I corrected. “Aprons have strings, not cords.”

“Whatever. At least you’re sticking your nose outside your own front door. And don’t forget what I’ve told you about renting that carriage house. Obviously, Wendy already likes you. I bet she’d cut you a very good deal on the rent.”

“Please, could we keep this discussion focused on murder?”

“You’re the one who changed the subject. You asked me about Agnes Plummer.”

“Yes, then I tried to change it back again, and you brought up my living arrangements.”

We fell into an uncomfortable silence.

“So what was up with that break-in at Scroggins’ apartment?” Ginger finally asked.

I shifted in my chair. “Nothing appeared to be missing, but we couldn’t find any trace of that nine thousand dollars, either.”

“Scroggins probably deposited it in the bank.”

“Probably,” I said with a sigh. “But Wendy and I also saw his most recent bank statement. His checking account balance didn’t total up to his winnings. At least after I mentioned the money, the police agreed to make a closer search of his apartment.”