Redstonesf 14, p.3
Thanksgiving Treachery (Holiday Cozy Mystery Book 7), page 3
As we neared the seaside, the fall winds picked up, carrying with them the salty tang of the ocean. High above, colorful kites danced, their tails fluttering like flags of joy against the azure sky. During the fall, that was a common sight.
Finally, the trolley took a right down Peppermint Court.
“Tara was more than just a friend, Violet. She was family. And today, I fear what this news will do to her,” Goldie sighed.
“You don’t think she already knows?” I asked when we passed by a group of women carrying food dishes in their arms.
The Harden residence, nestled at the heart of Peppermint Court, was a quintessential representation of autumn's embrace. The front yard boasted a beautifully curated landscape where rows of marigold, aster, and chrysanthemums flourished, encircled by a picket fence draped with garlands of red and gold leaves, intertwined with twinkling fairy lights. A cluster of hay bales was neatly stacked near the entrance, and close by sat carved pumpkins, their faces lit with soft, warm candles, giving the yard a magical glow.
Sitting atop one hay bale was a decorative scarecrow in a plaid shirt and overalls, its straw hat tilted just so, as if it were tipping its hat to everyone who passed by. A wooden sign stood beside it, reading, "Give thanks. Celebrate love." Swirls of colorful leaves had been painted onto the path leading up to the Hardens' front door, guiding visitors on a festive journey.
As I took in the serene autumn beauty of the Harden home, Goldie's voice pulled me back to the drama unfolding on the street.
“Look there,” she spat with venom, pointing to a tall, slender woman with raven-black hair. “Who does Clarissa think she is? She and Tara never got along. Just look at her with that casserole dish. She's only going to nose around!”
Without waiting for me, Goldie charged forward like a bull, her face red and indignant.
“You stop right there, Clarissa!” she ordered, holding out her hand authoritatively, reminiscent of Mrs. Bailey, the crossing guard at the local elementary school. “I dare you to step another foot into that yard!”
Clarissa, momentarily caught off guard, looked from the casserole dish in her hand to Goldie's furious face, her own expression a mix of surprise and defiance.
Clarissa put her hand on her hip, and the casserole dish teetered in one hand.
While the two of them hashed it out with all eyes on them, I took the dish from Clarissa. She gave me a thankful look when I got the opposite from Goldie.
Then Clarissa and Goldie started pointing at each other, wagging fingers and making all sorts of claims about one another as I slipped past them, casserole in hand, going around the house to see if I could notice Tara inside.
“Hello?” I called into the screen door from the porch. “Mrs. Harden?” I asked before I saw the kitchen table set for lunch or what looked like a luncheon of sorts.
There were tiered dishes with finger sandwiches and some little petits fours. Some sort of luncheon was definitely meant to happen here.
“Mrs. Harden?” I called again, taking a step closer to the door. “It’s Violet Rhinehammer.”
I balanced the dish on a flat palm and covered my brow with my free hand, taking a closer look through the screen door and into the house.
My gaze traveled down to the kitchen floor.
Tara Harden lay there, her head tilted toward the door, eyes open.
Dead.
CHAPTER 4
The afternoon sun cast eerie shadows across Tara Harden's quaint kitchen. The once inviting space now felt cold and foreign, tainted by an unspeakable tragedy. I swallowed the lump forming in my throat as the situation pressed heavily on my chest. It was unfathomable—two deaths in the same family within mere hours.
Chief Strickland moved about carefully, ensuring he didn’t disturb any potential evidence. His deep-set eyes scoured every inch of the scene, pausing momentarily on Mrs. Harden’s still form before continuing with the meticulous attention of a seasoned detective.
“I can’t believe we're standing in another crime scene,” I whispered more to myself than to anyone around.
Strickland’s gaze found mine, reflecting my own shock and disbelief.
“Rhinehammer,” he said, breaking the silence between us. “I know this might sound unconventional, but we need your help.”
I raised an eyebrow, my curiosity piqued.
“Our photographer is still tied up at the Leisure Center,” he explained. “We need photographs of this scene before we can move Mrs. Harden.”
I nodded and took out my phone. "Of course, Chief. Whatever you need."
As I began taking photos, my journalistic instincts kicked into high gear. The shots I took were not just for evidence but for a story, one the people of this town deserved to know. The overturned furniture, the shattered pieces of porcelain scattered across the floor, the stark contrast of Tara’s pale, lifeless face against the vibrant fall decor of her home—they all told a tale of chaos and desperation.
After snapping a series of photos, I noticed a drawer slightly ajar with papers strewn about inside. Could the intruder have been looking for something specific? What was so important that it drove them to commit such heinous acts?
The room buzzed with an electric tension, the presence of unsolved mysteries thickening the very air around us with anticipation. Murmurs began to ripple through the crowd gathering outside the Harden residence. Word traveled fast in small towns, and the twin tragedies had already become the talk of the hour.
I approached Chief Strickland, showing him the photos I had taken. “Looks like they were searching for something,” I said, pointing at the disheveled drawer.
He nodded. “Yes, and whatever it is, they're desperate enough to kill for it. We need to find out what it is—and fast.”
“Does that mean you’re looking into their deaths as a homicide?” I asked, since I’d yet to hear this tidbit of news.
“I didn’t say that,” Matthew Strickland snapped back, as though he didn’t mean to let those thoughts slip past his mouth.
“Right.” I nodded. “You mean just because the delivery truck was obviously torn apart by someone looking for something, Albert’s death, and now this. I see that there looks like a correlation. I can see why you’d think this was a double homicide with both the Hardens dead. But you’re right. I mean, you know, I’ve heard of couples dying on the same day hours apart because of broken hearts and all that.”
I knew there was no way these deaths were accidents. Both husband and wife dead, both places that were all torn up as if they held deeply buried secrets.
What I did know was Matthew Strickland’s ego was of giant proportions, and if I’d kept pressing him on what he let slip by his mouth, he’d kick me out of here and wait however long he had to for the deputy who usually took the photos and bagged a lot of the evidence.
“I’ll go take some more photos,” I said and pointed up the stairs just off the kitchen while he looked over more of the items dumped on the floor near Tara’s body.
I made my way up the creaky stairs, trying to move silently, though I wasn't sure why. I supposed I just didn't want to disturb anything. Every step I took was like walking through an autumn wonderland. The Hardens had clearly loved this time of year. Garlands of rich golden and deep-red leaves draped the stairway railings. On the landing, a welcome mat rested under my feet with the cheerful proclamation "Happy fall, y'all."
More fall decorations adorned the hallway. Lanterns filled with tiny LED fairy lights and surrounded by an assortment of pumpkins were placed along its length. Painted wooden signs leaned against the walls, with phrases like "Fall is my favorite color" and "Harvest blessings."
I entered what seemed to be a home office or a study. The first thing that caught my eye was a beautifully decorated desk calendar.
Curious, I moved closer. A list of names was scribbled on the square for today’s date, and they were all for a brunch Tara had planned. My eyes scanned through the unfamiliar names until one caught my attention—Betsy Carmichael. I knew her. She was the charming lady who owned Flowerworks Florist.
The realization made me even more anxious. If Betsy was meant to be here for brunch, did she know about the tragedy? I pulled out my phone and captured a quick shot of the calendar. It was a long shot, but perhaps these women had answers, or at the very least, Betsy might.
I needed to tread carefully. This scenario wasn't just a story; it was the lives of people in my community, and I needed to respect that. I took one last look around the room and made mental notes of any other potential clues before I headed back downstairs.
As I descended the stairs, my shoes gently tapping against the wooden steps, I saw Matthew rise from his hunched position by Tara’s body. Curtis Robinson, the town's lanky coroner, had joined him. He was taking a preliminary look at Tara's lifeless form, his brows furrowed in concentration.
Matthew's gaze met mine as I approached. He had a mix of curiosity and impatience in his eyes.
"Violet," he began, his voice measured, "did you find anything... out of place upstairs?"
I took a moment to gather my thoughts.
"Not particularly," I began. "The upstairs seemed... normal. Organized, even. Nothing like the state of this kitchen. It's strange." I gestured to the room around us, the drawers emptied and contents strewn about. "Why cause such havoc here and not elsewhere?"
Without looking up from his work, Curtis chimed in, "Perhaps the search was interrupted? Or maybe they found what they were looking for?"
Matthew's jaw tightened. "Or they knew exactly where to look," he murmured, more to himself than to us.
I met his eyes.
"Which means they might have known Tara personally or were familiar with the house," I suggested. “It’s just a hunch.” I shrugged, trying to be casual without stating the obvious and appearing as though I was a deputy or the lead detective, which I definitely knew I could do.
Matthew nodded slowly.
"Everything's on the table at this point. But if you're right, it complicates things even more,” he said.
Curtis cleared his throat, drawing Matthew’s attention and mine.
"From my initial assessment," Curtis began cautiously, "it seems she may have suffered a sudden cardiac event. But of course, an autopsy will provide a clearer picture."
"So it's possible that her death was natural?" I blinked in surprise.
Curtis shrugged slightly.
"Possible but not conclusive. The scene here raises questions. Until I complete the autopsy, everything's speculative.”
The room fell silent, the gravity of the situation pressing down on us. Two deaths, a ransacked house, and more questions than answers. This mystery was only deepening, and nothing at this point made sense.
CHAPTER 5
I stepped out into the crisp fall air, leaving the disarray of the Harden home behind me yet still feeling that pressure on my chest. After pulling out my phone, I speed-dialed Mama.
Before I could even hear the first ring, movement caught my attention.
Betsy Carmichael, the owner of Flowerworks and one of the names written on Tara’s calendar, stood a few feet away, clutching a stunning floral arrangement—a mix of burnt oranges, deep reds, and golden yellows, evoking the very essence of fall.
Our eyes met briefly. I could discern a myriad of emotions: shock, fear, and something else I couldn’t quite place. Before I could say anything, Betsy’s face paled, and she looked away.
Without uttering a word, she hurriedly walked over to her parked golf cart and placed the arrangement on the passenger seat. With a swift motion, she took off, the wheels of the cart crunching over the fall leaves littering the road.
"Strange," I muttered to myself. The phone in my hand buzzed, indicating Mama was on the line, but I was momentarily lost in thought, wondering why Betsy made such a hasty exit.
"Violet? Honey, is that you?" Mama's voice pulled me back to the present.
"Yeah, Mama, it's me. Just wanted to check in on you. Are you okay?" I asked, not yet telling her about Tara.
Before I could hear her reply, a voice called out from the house next door to the Harden residence. "Hey, Violet!"
I squinted against the afternoon sun, recognizing Mrs. Penelope Caldwell, a petite woman in her sixties, waving at me from her porch, a curious look in her eyes.
"I've got to go, Mama. Mrs. Caldwell is calling me over. I'll call you back," I told Mama.
“Penelope Caldwell?” Mama asked. “Why on earth—” She abruptly stopped talking as though she knew. “Violet Rhinehammer, are you over there bugging Tara for a story?”
“Not at all, Mama.” I sighed and waved back at Mrs. Caldwell. “She is the story,” I said and quickly gave Mama a rundown about what had happened.
“Well, you get on over to Penelope’s and see what she’s got to say, that meddlin’ old coot.” Mama would never say that in front of anyone but me.
Penelope Caldwell, the Hardens’ next-door neighbor, had always been a fountain of information. With her house perfectly positioned to oversee most of the comings and goings on Peppermint Court, she had an uncanny ability to know almost everything that happened in the neighborhood.
She was always calling the Junction Journal hotline with gossip to put in the paper’s society pages. Most of it was nosy and didn’t make the news, but today, matters just might have been different.
I walked over to the white picket fence separating the two properties, offering a half smile. "Mrs. Caldwell," I said to her, "how are you today?"
"Oh, Violet, dear, never mind that. What on earth happened next door? It's been a flurry of activity all morning!" Her voice was filled with a mix of genuine concern and unabashed curiosity, a classic trait of small-town life.
I hesitated, choosing my words carefully.
"It's a bit complicated, Mrs. Caldwell. I promise, once things are clearer, you'll know. For now, it might be best to give the Harden house some space,” I said, not wanting to mention any details that would give Matthew a clue that I’d told someone something I shouldn’t.
She sighed dramatically, pouting like a child denied candy. "Very well. But you'll tell me if you hear anything?"
I nodded, suppressing a smile. "Of course, Mrs. Caldwell." Then I sensed an opportunity.
“Actually, Mrs. Caldwell,” I started, walking around the fence line and meeting her at her porch, “what do you mean there was a flurry of activity this morning?” I tried really hard to walk away. I did. But curiosity got the best of me.
I blamed that on my inner journalist.
She looked away for a moment, scanning the horizon as if digging deeply into her memory. But by the way she looked at me from the corner of her eyes, she was itching to tell me something.
“Well, since you ask, there was a little... incident this morning. Someone from the art district came down. They were having quite the animated discussion with Albert. I wasn't intentionally listening, mind you, but they weren't exactly keeping their voices down.”
Intrigued, I raised an eyebrow.
“Do you remember what they looked like? Or maybe what they were arguing about?”
Penelope pursed her lips, her forehead creasing in thought.
“Tall, lanky fellow. Wearing one of those fancy hats... a beret, I think. And a scarf, even though it’s not that cold. Typical artiste attire if you ask me. As for the topic, they were going on about some kind of ‘agreement’ and ‘promises.’ Albert seemed upset, but the other man, he was downright angry.” She didn’t give a whole lot to go on, but it was a start.
I nodded, filing away this information.
Villagers had whispered about conflicts between the new residents and the old-timers. But nothing concrete had ever surfaced.
“Thank you, Mrs. Caldwell. That’s quite helpful,” I said.
“I just hope everything gets sorted out soon.” Her voice carried genuine concern. She gave me a wistful smile.
“I hope so too,” I replied softly, making a mental note to dig deeper into the goings-on in the art district. The morning’s altercation was too significant to ignore. If the artists had any quarrel with Albert, I needed to find out.
“By the way,” she called out from the porch, “if you want to know more about the goings-on around the shops and districts you live in, you should probably come to the chamber of commerce meetings and not that feller who runs the paper now.”
“He doesn’t run the paper,” I quickly retorted. “He just works for me.”
“Oh, word around town is that he runs it.” She tapped her chin. “Or did he say that at the chamber meeting?”
Mrs. Caldwell's words laid down on me, causing my pace to quicken as I took the familiar path down Peppermint Court. How dare Radley? The audacity he had to misrepresent his role at the paper, especially in front of the chamber of commerce.
I tried to shake the frustration, focusing instead on the calming rhythm of the ocean—using the zen stuff they tell you to use, you know, taking and holding deep breaths and all the rest.
Over the last few years, I’d tried to get better at those things. Not jumping the gun, slowing down, but it was hard. My personality didn’t agree with all of those things, and when the mind said you gotta just take a deep breath, my personality said, “Go, go, go.”
Right now, I was listening to my personality.
CHAPTER 6
The sea had a different hue than in the hotter months. Instead of the usual deep azure, the waters had become a cooler shade of steel blue, mirroring the overcast sky above. Waves lapped lazily against the shore as if they, too, were trying to savor the last warmth before winter’s chill set in.
The salty aroma was also different in the fall. It carried a crispness, mixed with the faint tang of seaweed and the distant scent of wood smoke from fireplaces that had begun to warm the nearby homes.
