Hollyberry Homicide Read online

  “I got a call from him earlier,” Anthony said. “He asked me to pick up crullers from the Drop Anchor Diner. They’re in the car. Uncle Everett loved his sugar. One thing we had in common.”

  I held out the white paper bag I’d found on the floor. “It appears he was eating cookies when he passed away.”

  “Do I look like I’m in the mood for cookies?” Anthony snapped. “Throw them away.”

  Diane took the bag from me. “I’ll get rid of them.”

  Up close, Anthony reminded me of a brown bear: big, lumbering, with a prominent nose. And quite hirsute. Looking at his thick brown hair and five-o’clock shadow, I guessed bristly hair also covered his chest and arms.

  While Diane quietly spoke to Anthony, Kit informed the two EMTs that he worked for the sheriff’s department. The trio exchanged words I couldn’t overhear, except for the comment “It looks like a natural death.”

  I gave an audible sigh of relief. I had seen far too much death recently, all of it unnatural. If the holiday season had to be marred with a passing, at least this time it wasn’t murder.

  Chapter Two

  Maybe I had overdone the “deck the halls” bit this year. I turned in a circle, searching for empty wall space in my shop.

  I looked down at the white flocked wreath dotted with red hollyberries and glass ornaments. “Where can I hang this?”

  Dean Cabot marched out from behind the counter. “Give me the wreath.”

  I handed it over. “Don’t you dare stick it in the back room. And be careful. Those ornaments are blown glass from Austria. I’m selling the wreath for a hundred and ten dollars.”

  “Exactly. You’re selling it, unlike the Styrofoam candy canes by the bakery case, the framed vintage Christmas cards behind the ice cream counter, the sleigh bells by the jams, the ropes of garland covering up the last bit—”

  “You made your point.” I stopped him before he could mention the seven-foot-tall spruce tree in the corner. “But you know I love to decorate for a holiday.”

  “All too well. We could barely move in here at Halloween.” Dean rummaged through a drawer in the wooden hutch that displayed berry syrups, many of which I had created.

  “Perhaps I had one too many hay bales in here, but customers love it when I decorate.”

  “Aha!” Dean held up a silver wreath hanger. “I knew we had one left.”

  He opened the door to The Berry Basket and slipped the wreath hanger over the top. After positioning the white wreath on the hanger, he bowed. “Voilà! And you’re welcome.”

  I gave a nod of approval. “This is why I pay you the big bucks.”

  “Yeah, right.” Dean straightened his blue chef apron. “You know I only work here for the gossip and my employee discount. Which comes in handy at Christmas. My cousins love our berry wines. Speaking of that, I need to finish unpacking the latest shipment of blackberry wine.”

  As he returned to the boxes behind the counter, I looked up at my strawberry-shaped wall clock. Beside it hung a hand-painted sign saying WE WISH YOU A BERRY MERRY CHRISTMAS. We opened in fifteen minutes. Time enough to add one more festive touch.

  Even though lights already twinkled along store shelves and the front window, I had special-ordered a string of Christmas lights in the shape of hollyberries. They arrived before I left the house this morning. How could I not find room for that in The Berry Basket?

  After all, Oriole Point lay smack in the middle of west Michigan’s fruit belt. And my shop specialized in all things berry related: berry jams, jellies, wines, salsas, vinegars, pastries, baking mixes, teas and coffees, as well as dinner sets decorated with berries, aprons, berry cookbooks, strawberry hullers, and much, much more. I also hosted berry-themed events, which prompted a glance at the wooden table by the window.

  Spaced out over the red tablecloth were jars of berry jam, covered baskets of crackers and crumpets, small serving plates, and silver spreaders. I had scheduled a free jam tasting at eleven.

  “Best get these up before customers start to arrive.” I sat cross-legged on the floor and began to remove the lights from their box.

  “You’re incorrigible. I’m shocked you haven’t hired someone to play Santa in the shop.”

  “Despite the sarcasm, that’s not a bad idea. At least for the weekend Hollyberry Festival. Santa always draws customers with children. And I can give away the blueberry lollipops we sell. I also saw a Santa suit at the secondhand shop.”

  “Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?” Dean shook his head.

  “But I’d have to scramble at this late date to hire someone to play Santa.”

  “Don’t look at me. And Andrew will be busy overacting in A Christmas Carol.”

  “You’re both too young and snarky to pull it off. What about Gareth Holmes?”

  “The guy who carves duck decoys?”

  “Yes. He’s always in a good mood. And he has a bushy white beard.” The more I thought about it, the better this sounded. During lunch, I’d run over to the secondhand shop and snap up that Santa suit. Gareth seemed amiable, so I was sure he’d agree to play Santa.

  “He does look like Kris Kringle,” Dean said. “Even his cheeks are ruddy.”

  The shop door opened, letting in both a blast of wintry air and Gillian.

  “Hi, girl,” I said. “You do know you’re not on the schedule today.”

  Because Gillian was on college break, she was available to work during the week, something she normally did only in the summer.

  Gillian shut the door behind her. “I had to warn you about A Christmas Carol.” She took a deep breath. “That play is cursed. Just like the barn.”

  Dean and I exchanged confused glances. “Is this about Everett Hostetter dying?” he asked. “Marlee told me what happened last night at the museum.”

  “The man was in his nineties,” I reminded her. “It was old age, not a curse.”

  “You don’t know the whole story.” Gillian sat down at one of the bistro tables by our ice cream counter. “Andrew texted me an hour ago and asked me to come to the Calico Barn as soon as I could. Suzanne called the whole theater group in for an emergency meeting.”

  Andrew Cabot, my remaining Berry Basket clerk and Dean’s younger brother, had been cast in the production of A Christmas Carol. No surprise there. His mother, Suzanne Cabot, a longtime member of the Green Willow Players, had snagged the director’s job this season. This no doubt played a factor in Andrew landing the role of Ebenezer’s nephew.

  “The actors probably learned about Hostetter’s death this morning,” I speculated. “Since you were the one to find him, did they ask for details?”

  “No. They wanted me to join the cast.” Gillian yanked off her white wool cap, sending a mass of wavy blond hair tumbling about her shoulders. She looked at Dean. “Your mother was quite upset when I got there.”

  He shrugged. “Mom’s always upset.”

  “With reason this time. She’d just heard about Everett’s death and had a panic attack. Your brother had to give her extra Valium.”

  Dean snickered. “Next Christmas I should buy Mom a fainting couch. One for Andrew, too.”

  Not a bad idea. Andrew and Dean Cabot were prone to drama and exaggeration. They came by it naturally. Their mother was not only a member of our amateur theater troupe, she was the receptionist at the police station, where she had a front-row seat for every crime and misdemeanor in town.

  “Was Suzanne fond of Everett Hostetter?” I asked Gillian.

  “I have no idea. But she is upset a cast member died the first time she’d been asked to direct a production. Especially this cast member.”

  “Hostetter didn’t seem like a warm, fuzzy fellow,” I observed.

  “Mom didn’t care for him,” Dean said. “He criticized everyone, including her. However, Hostetter was the Green Willow Players’ biggest donor. For the past nine years, the group hasn’t made a move without his approval. They depend on his money to keep them afloat, Especially with the mortgag
e payments on the Calico Barn.”

  “I always thought the theater group should have rented the barn, not bought it outright,” I said. “Real estate is so pricey along the lakeshore.”

  “That’s why everyone there kowtowed to Hostetter,” Dean said. “And he threatened to withhold his sponsorship of the theater group if he didn’t play Jacob Marley every year.”

  “When did Jacob Marley become such a sought-after role? I could see wanting to play Ebenezer, but Marley?” I frowned. “And Suzanne has to stop overreacting to everything.”

  “There’s more,” Gillian said. “Suzanne freaked out because she’s now lost two actors.”

  Alarmed, I looked up from the tangled lights. “Another actor died?”

  “Don’t say such a terrible thing!” Gillian said. “No. They rushed Andrea Shipman to the hospital last night with a burst appendix.”

  Our town was small enough that I knew Andrea Shipman was the twentysomething daughter of Oriole Point’s favorite plumber and the middle school art teacher.

  “Poor girl,” I said. “That takes weeks to recover from.”

  “Exactly. Which is why they asked me to replace her as the Ghost of Christmas Past. Suzanne wants a young woman with long, pretty hair for the role. She says none of the company’s wigs are attractive enough.”

  I grinned. “When did the Ghost of Christmas Past spend so much time on hair care? Maybe Suzanne is confusing the character with Cher.”

  “My brother’s behind this,” Dean said. “He apparently added boho-chic elements to the Cratchit family costumes. Andrew always goes for style over substance.”

  Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Neither Cabot brother was the Dalai Lama.

  Although born eleven months apart, the brothers looked like twins. Both were tall, auburn-haired, attractive, and obsessed with fashion and Instagram. The only difference between them was that Andrew was gay, and Dean preferred women. Although Dean’s standards were way too high. I didn’t think he would be satisfied until he found a girl who was a cross between Gigi Hadid, Misty Copeland, and Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

  “Why aren’t you taking this seriously?” Gillian said in obvious frustration.

  “What do you want us to do?” I asked. “Dean and I have nothing to do with the play. But Suzanne is right. You would make a lovely Ghost of Christmas Past.”

  “There is no way I’d be part of this production. First, a death. Then a medical emergency. All on the same night!” Gillian shuddered. “Who knows what terrible thing will happen next?”

  “When did you become superstitious?” Dean asked.

  “This isn’t superstition. This is fact. Everyone knows the Calico Barn is unlucky.”

  “Because of the farmer who got murdered there? That happened about a thousand years ago.” I gave her a reassuring smile.

  The Calico Barn once belonged to the Van De Bergs, a family of dairy farmers. It stopped being a working barn in 1951 when the farm and everything on the property was auctioned off. That was when local entrepreneur Fred Calico bought the picturesque barn.

  While the exterior kept its white paint and weathervane rooster, the building had been moved from its original location to a spot just within town limits. Since then, the rechristened barn had been a restaurant, antique shop, and theater. And despite Gillian’s fears, nothing bad had happened there since it had been sold.

  However, a disgruntled farmhand did murder Ethan Van De Berg during the Depression. Rumors claim the deadly dispute involved unpaid wages. And I had heard stories about a young boy who tragically fell to his death from the hayloft.

  “The murder happened in 1932, not centuries ago,” Gillian said. “And what about the little boy who died in the barn a decade earlier? Also don’t forget the Van De Berg woman. Two years before the family moved, she cut her hand on a rusty tool in the barn and died of tetanus!”

  “The Van De Bergs owned the barn for decades,” I told her. “Of course bad things happened there over the years.”

  “All of them in the barn?” She shook her head. “That building is unlucky. I’ve always hated to see plays there. And my parents insist we attend A Christmas Carol every year. I had to force myself to even enter the barn today. I left as soon as I could. Everett might still be alive if he hadn’t spent so much time there.”

  Dean laughed. “You’re funny, Gillian.”

  “Nothing about this is funny. And I’m staying far away from the barn and the Green Willow Players. I hope you do the same, Marlee.”

  “Aside from buying a ticket, I’ve never been involved with the Green Willow Players or their Christmas Carol. I even missed most of those years when Everett played Marley.”

  Although I was born and raised in our beautiful lakeshore village, at eighteen I left Michigan to attend New York University. At the same time, my parents moved to Chicago. After graduation, I produced cooking shows for the Gourmet Living Network in NYC. Then, three years ago, I wisely decided to come home to Oriole Point for good and open a berry-themed shop. Not only did I love berries, but it gave me a connection to the generations of Jacob ancestors who once owned berry orchards in the county.

  Dean walked over to the shelves of berry wines, cradling a half dozen bottles in his arms. “A shame you chopped your hair to shoulder length, Marlee. Otherwise, you’d be a shoo-in for the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

  “Lucky me.” After my broken engagement to Ryan Zellar this past summer, I’d cut a good six to eight inches off my long dark hair. I changed hairstyles after every major life transition. I hoped my hair had a chance to grow out before the next one.

  I glanced up at the clock again. “Gillian, it’s ten. Can you put the OPEN flag outside? Along with the sandwich board advertising the jam tasting.”

  While she did so, I finished untangling the lights. Weekdays in December were busy as locals and visitors took care of last-minute Christmas shopping. The Berry Basket did well in the run-up to the holidays. Even without free jam and crackers.

  With Christmas a week away, I didn’t have time to mourn a man who had enjoyed such a long life. Particularly since I had no reason to be fond of him. Nor could I do anything other than send a get-well-soon card to Andrea Shipman.

  I stood up, shaking out the string of lights. Last year I hung so many lights in the store, I blew a fuse three times. I hoped to keep my lights to a reasonable wattage this year. I spied a nice spot for this latest string along the shelf that held berry muffin mixes and granola. As I dragged a stepladder over, Gillian stomped back into the store, looking even gloomier.

  “I’ve thought of some locals who might be good in the roles of Jacob Marley and the Ghost of Christmas Past.” I climbed the stepladder. “How about Rowena Bouchet to replace Andrea Shipman? Rowena has beautiful long hair.”

  “She’s also drop-dead gorgeous,” Dean said with feeling. When they were in high school, Dean had a serious crush on Rowena Bouchet, who was now the owner of the downtown yoga studio. And the fiancée of a local sculptor.

  “As for Jacob Marley,” I continued, “Old Man Bowman does love an audience. And he’s the right age for the role. Only Suzanne has to keep him from talking about Bigfoot.”

  “Suzanne doesn’t want Old Man Bowman for that role. She wants you.”

  I almost fell off the stepladder. “Me?”

  At that moment, Andrew Cabot burst in. I admired his gray winter ensemble: North Face jacket, fur-trimmed boots, leather gloves, earmuffs, cable-knit scarf. And a gray plaid tote bag slung over one shoulder. As always, he was ready for his close-up.

  “Mom wants you to play Jacob Marley,” he announced.

  “Gillian just told me. And the answer is no.”

  “It makes perfect sense,” Andrew said. “After all, look at your name.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “You must be kidding.”

  The expressions on Andrew’s and Gillian’s faces told me otherwise.

  Casting me as Scrooge’s former business partner because my name w
as Marlee Jacob seemed the height of whimsy. Then again, that’s how I came by my name. My mother, an English literature professor at Northwestern, was rereading A Christmas Carol when she went into labor. After I chose to enter the world on Christmas Eve, Mom decided that since our last name was Jacob, no other first name but Marlee would do. My mother has conceded that hormones and exhaustion may have played a role. However, her favorite author is Charles Dickens, and I think she remains quite pleased to have given me a Dickensian moniker.

  “Jacob Marley is an old dead guy.” I draped the lights along the sides and top of the shelf. “People will think it’s a joke if I turn up as Marley. I’m also the wrong gender.”

  “In Shakespeare’s time, men played all the roles. Even Juliet,” Dean said.

  “Last year, Glenda Jackson performed as King Lear on Broadway,” Andrew added.

  “Maybe you should see if Ms. Jackson is available,” I suggested.

  Andrew went over to the coffeemaker, where I’d brewed cranberry-nut coffee. “Our mayor has been cast as the Ghost of Christmas Present. Dickens didn’t describe him as a six-foot-four African American, but Lionel is fantastic in the role.”

  I had no doubt of that. Oriole Point’s mayor, Lionel Pierce, not only boasted an imposing presence, he possessed a deep, rumbling voice that my baker, Theo, likened to thunder.

  “Leave Marlee alone,” Gillian said. “She doesn’t want to do it. And you should drop out of the play, too. The play has a cloud hanging over it. A big unlucky cloud.”

  Andrew chuckled. “You sound like Professor Trelawney from Harry Potter.”

  “Don’t treat this as a joke.” Gillian glared at Andrew. “An actor died. Another actor is now in the hospital. The play is as cursed as the barn.”

  “I don’t believe in curses,” I said before things grew too heated. “I simply have no desire to appear in the most popular theatrical production Oriole Point throws all year.”

  “This isn’t the Goodman Theatre’s Christmas Carol in Chicago,” Andrew said. “We’re all amateurs. And everyone will come to see Marlee Jacob playing Jacob Marley. You’ll be in costume, too. With lots of makeup to give you a deathly pallor. And a cloth that winds around Marley’s head. What they used in Victorian times to keep the corpse’s jaw closed.”