The Gingerbread Bump-Off (18 page)

“That’s more than you can say for some of the folks mixed up with Miz Hallerbee,” Sam pointed out. “And you said yourself this wasn’t a random killin’. Whoever did it knew her.”

“We still have to visit those other people whose homes were stops on the tour,” Phyllis said. “But we’ll get started on that after lunch.”

Those plans didn’t work out, though. Just as they were about to sit down to eat the grilled pear and cheese sandwiches Phyllis had made, Eve came in, looked at Phyllis and Carolyn, and said, “Oh, good, both of you are here. I was hoping I’d find you.”

“Would you like a sandwich?” Phyllis asked. “I figured you were with Roy and would probably be eating out somewhere.”

“We probably would have,” Eve said, “but something came up. I need you and Carolyn to come with me this afternoon, Phyllis. It’s an emergency!”

Chapter 17

“ T
he bows are all wrong,” Eve said an hour later as the three of them stood in the dress shop where Eve’s wedding dress and the dresses that Phyllis and Carolyn would wear as her attendants were being made.

“I had to special-order them, and they sent me the wrong thing,” the owner of the shop explained. She had one of the offending bows in her hand as she gestured toward the elegant and modern two-piece stretch taffeta outfits. The bows were to be used on the attendant bouquets and they were obviously not the same shades as the formal wear. “But there’s time to send these back and get the right ones.”

“At this time of year?” Eve asked. “Everything is slower around Christmas. Don’t you think that’s cutting it awfully close?”

“I’m sure we can make it,” the woman said. “But in the meantime, since all of you are here, this would be a good chance for you to try on your dresses, so I can mark them for any alterations I need to make.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Eve said. She looked at Phyllis and Carolyn. “Is that all right with the two of you?”

Phyllis nodded. “It’s fine,” she said . . . even though what she really wanted to do was get back to visiting the homes that had been part of the Jingle Bell Tour.

She had to admit, though, that she enjoyed seeing Eve happy and caught up in the preparations for the wedding. Now that the matter of where she and Roy would live had been, if not settled, at least smoothed over a little, Eve was starting to relax. Only slightly, though, because no woman with a wedding coming up in less than three weeks was going to be completely relaxed.

Phyllis was pleased with the dresses Eve had picked out for her and Carolyn. The two-piece dresses were actually mother-of-the-bride outfits. Neither of them would have been caught dead in one of those strapless little dresses they had for bridesmaids. Their two-piece dresses had sleeves with V-necklines that didn’t plunge, and pretty jeweled buttons. The trumpet skirt was slimming and created curves in all the right places. Phyllis’s outfit was sapphire blue and Carolyn’s was ice blue. Phyllis even thought she wouldn’t mind wearing this dress again, if she had a chance and Carolyn wasn’t going to wear hers. The top would also look really pretty with nice black pants.

When they were finished at the dress shop, Eve said, “I want to go by the florist to check on the flowers and let them know the bows had to be sent back.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Carolyn said. Phyllis heard a tiny touch of impatience in her friend’s voice. Carolyn had been a widow for many years, had no interest in ever getting married again, and generally didn’t have a high opinion of the state of matrimony to start with. She was willing for Eve’s sake to put up with all the hoopla of a wedding, but it was far from her favorite thing in the world.

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind stopping at the florist, either,” Phyllis said. She explained about the ruse she had adopted in talking to the people whose homes had been on the tour. “I probably ought to go ahead and see about getting the arrangement for the funeral.”

“That’s fine with me,” Carolyn said. “Anyway, you’re driving, so you can go wherever you want.”

It was true, they were in Phyllis’s Lincoln, but she didn’t want to do anything that was going to make Carolyn too uncomfortable. A trip to a flower shop shouldn’t fall into that category, she decided.

Between the time they had already spent on the dresses for the wedding and the two errands at the florist, most of the afternoon was gone by the time the three of them got back to the house. Phyllis noticed right away that Sam’s pickup wasn’t parked in its usual spot. She wondered where he had gone, although it certainly wasn’t unusual for him to go and do things by himself. He was a grown man, after all, and she wasn’t his keeper.

For some reason she couldn’t fathom, though, when she looked at the empty spot at the curb, she felt a faint stirring of unease.

 

 

 

He had pulled off that little scam of pretending to be an insurance investigator about as well as anybody on TV could have, Sam thought. He had even been quick thinking enough to use his cell phone instead of Phyllis’s landline, so no name would show up on the store’s caller ID, just the number, if that much.

Since there was no telling how long Phyllis was going to be gone with Eve and Carolyn tending to those wedding problems—Sam didn’t know much about that and didn’t want to—he thought he might as well put the time to good use. Phyllis had the list of Jingle Bell Tour homes in her purse, but while she was studying it earlier, he had looked at it over her shoulder long enough to memorize a couple of names and addresses. He was good with such things; directions came naturally to him.

And Phyllis would be surprised when she found out he’d already talked to some of the folks. Pleasantly surprised, he hoped. If he could rule them out, that meant less work she would have to do and she could move on to investigating the others.

Of course, it was possible these people wouldn’t be home, either, he thought as he pulled his pickup to a stop in front of a house that appeared to be only two or three years old. This was one of the newer residential neighborhoods in Weatherford, and the area where the developers had come in was heavily wooded, with lots of old, tall trees. Sam hated to think about all the ones that had been cut down to make room for these houses, but at least a lot of them had been spared. So there was more foliage and shade around these McMansions than usual. Sam had never been able to figure out why somebody would build a big fancy house in the middle of a bare lot, but to each his own, as the old saying went.

He got out of the pickup and went up a concrete walk. The house didn’t have much of a porch, just a place to stand out of the weather while you rang the doorbell. The door, like the other places they had visited and like Phyllis’s house, too, had a big, pretty wreath on it. The yard was full of decorations, and the tree trunks were wrapped with lights. Sam had spotted Santa and a sleigh on the roof.

He rang the doorbell and waited for somebody to answer. He didn’t expect that Santa himself would respond to the summons, but that was what happened. When the door swung open, the big jolly fat man stood there, with gleaming black boots and belt, red suit and hat, white beard, and all.

“Yes?” a voice asked from behind the beard. “What can I do for you?”

The voice didn’t sound much like Santa Claus . . . that is, unless Santa had a faint British accent and sounded a wee bit tipsy, like he’d gotten into the eggnog when Mrs. Claus wasn’t looking. And Sam supposed Santa could be British. He wouldn’t know, since he’d never talked to the fella before.

“You mind if I take this off?” the man asked when Sam didn’t respond right away. “It kind of itches.”

“No, go right ahead,” Sam told him.

The man took the Santa cap off, then unhooked the plastic loops around his ears that held the fake beard on. Without the cap and beard, he had a round, florid face that was certainly Santa-like, but topped by short, curly brown hair.

“That’s much better,” he said. “There are so many people driving by every night to look at our Christmas decorations that my wife got it into her head I ought to stand out on the lawn dressed like Saint Nick and wave at them as they go by. A bit daft, if you ask me, but what can you do?”

“Wave and say, ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ I expect,” Sam said.

The man grinned. “Spoken like a truly married man!” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Alan Trafford.”

Sam ignored the comment about him being married. He shook hands and said, “Sam Fletcher.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sam. Now, what can I do for you?”

“I’m here about that Christmas Jingle Bell Tour.”

Alan Trafford’s grin disappeared. “That was several days ago. You missed it, chum. Anyway, it’s broad daylight.”

“I know. I want to talk to you about Georgia Hallerbee.”

Trafford’s neutral expression turned into a suspicious frown. “No offense, but you look a little old to be a policeman. And the missus and I have already talked to a detective. Stocky fellow name of Latimer, I believe.”

Sam nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m not from the police. This is about the group of homeowners on the tour gettin’ together and goin’ in on some flowers for Miz Hallerbee’s funeral.”

Phyllis had had good luck with that story, so Sam thought he might as well give it a try, too.

“Oh,” Trafford said, his expression clearing somewhat. “I understand now. Come in.” As he stepped back so Sam could enter the house, he went on, “You must’ve thought I was crazy when I opened the door dressed like Santa Claus. I thought it would be a good time to try on the suit, since my wife and kids are out shopping right now.”

Sam nodded. “You look good in it.”

Trafford patted his belly. “I carry around my own padding,” he said, smiling again. He led Sam into a living room. “Sit down, Sam. You say you’re taking up a collection?”

“That’s right.”

Trafford started unfastening the black buttons on the red coat. “I don’t recall seeing your name on the list of homes on the tour that the newspaper printed.”

“Well, that’s because I don’t own the house. My friend Mrs. Newsom does. We’re sort of working together on this, because I live there, too. Rent a room from her,” he added, so Trafford wouldn’t get the wrong idea.

“I see.” Trafford took the coat off and dropped it on a sofa, revealing that he wore a long-sleeved knit shirt under it. “Bloody thing’s hot, although I suppose it would come in handy at the North Pole. Nobody ever takes into consideration the fact that Santa has to travel all over the world to make his deliveries, including the tropics, eh?”

“That’s a good point. Maybe flyin’ as high as his sleigh does, though, it stays cool.”

“More than likely,” Trafford said with a solemn nod, then grinned again. “Silly discussion, isn’t it?” The grin pulled another vanishing act as he sighed. “But it’s better than talking about something as grim as a woman being murdered. Poor Georgia.”

“You knew her pretty well?”

“For several years now, anyway,” Trafford said as he sat on the sofa next to the Santa coat he had tossed down. “She’d been doing Brenda’s taxes for a while, and she did our joint return a couple of times since we got married.”

“You and your wife, you mean?”

Trafford nodded. “That’s right. I’m the stepdad. Brenda had two youngsters by her previous marriage. Love ’em like they were my own, though.”

“I’m sure you do,” Sam said. The man seemed to like to talk, so he was going to try to take advantage of that. With a smile, Sam went on, “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Alan, but you’re not from these parts, are you?”

“No, born and raised in London. I’ve been in the States for fifteen years, though. Came over here as a young man when I got involved in international banking. I’ve a position with a bank in Fort Worth now, handling their international department.”

“That must be pretty excitin’.”

“Oh, not as much as you’d think. Money’s money, wherever you go. But you didn’t come here to talk about me.” Trafford’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And I recall now where I’ve heard the name Newsom before. That’s the name of the woman who owns the house where Georgia was attacked, isn’t it?”

Sam knew there was no point in denying it, and he wasn’t surprised that Trafford had recognized the name. Phyllis hadn’t been mentioned in the newspaper stories about Georgia, but her name had been on the list of participants in the Jingle Bell Tour and everyone involved with it seemed to have figured out that the attack must have taken place there. Georgia wouldn’t have any other reason to be there on that block. Otherwise that Fisk woman wouldn’t have showed up at the house the next day. So Sam nodded and said, “That’s right. You can imagine how upset she is about the whole thing. That’s why she decided to get all the other folks on the tour to chip in for a really nice bunch of flowers.”

“A worthy cause,” Trafford agreed. “It must be terrible to have a thing like that happen right on your doorstep.”

“Yeah. We’re all bothered by it.”

“Of course Brenda and I would like to contribute. How much are you collecting?”

“Whatever you want to give,” Sam said. “Most folks have been chippin’ in fifty dollars.”

“That sounds reasonable. Is cash all right?” Trafford smiled again. “I’m a banker, you know.”

“Cash is fine. I’ll write you out a receipt.”

“That would be good. Got to document everything. Taxes, you know.” Trafford reached back to his hip, then laughed. “No pockets in a Santa suit. I’ll have to go fetch my wallet. Be right back.”

While Trafford was gone, Sam looked around the room. It was elegantly and expensively furnished. The Traffords were doing all right for themselves. Of course, bankers usually did, Sam thought.

Trafford came back with two twenties, a ten, and a notepad and pen. He gave all of them to Sam, who tucked the money in his shirt pocket and took the pad and pen to write the receipt for the donation. As he handed it to Trafford, he commented, “You said Georgia Hallerbee wasn’t doin’ your taxes anymore?”