'Tis the Season to Be Murdered Page 9

  Her new cranberry cashmere cowling around her neck, a pair of winter white slacks miraculously disguising her hips, makeup perfect and hair combed, she was putting on her new emerald earrings before she started wondering if her acceptance of this invitation hadn’t been a bit hasty.

  She didn’t particularly like the Logans, and the invitation had certainly been extended rather begrudgingly. She knew she wouldn’t even have considered going if The Holly and Ms. Ivy weren’t scheduled to cater. She checked in her mirror and, satisfied, headed toward the stairs. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad evening.

  She was going to avoid cooking and do a little investigating at the same time. As the song said, who could ask for anything more?

  She was humming Christmas carols as she approached the door of the Logan’s large Tudor home. The party seemed to be going strong. Maybe no one else had been ordered to wait until after seven to arrive, Susan thought, picking up the brass angel door knocker to announce her arrival.

  Buck Logan answered so quickly that she wondered if he had been lurking behind the heavy plank door, waiting for her. “Susan Henshaw! How nice to see you!”

  There were people who found artificial heartiness appealing. Susan wasn’t one of them. “It was nice of you to ask me,” she answered politely, walking into the spacious entryway. “I don’t think I’ve been here before,” she added.

  “Surely not. We moved almost two years ago. You and Jock have been ignoring us! I’ll have to show you around.”

  “I’d like that,” Susan said honestly, ignoring the fact that Buck had gotten Jed’s name wrong. She was admiring the hall table adorned with a half-dozen rose-bud topiaries about three feet tall.

  “Like them?” Buck asked, handing her coat to a uniformed attendant waiting nearby.

  “They’re wonderful.” She knew better than to ask if Camilla had made them. Camilla always made it absolutely clear that she didn’t have time for crafts, usually while professing to admire someone else’s work.

  “My wife chose them.” He made it sound as if she had grown and dried the roses, and then fashioned the ornaments by hand. “She has wonderful taste.”

  “Yes.”

  “Every year she selects a different decorating theme for the holidays. Then the entire house can be coordinated. I think it works particularly well, don’t you?”

  “Camilla is wonderfully organized,” Susan admitted. It wasn’t that Camilla was organized that bugged her, but that she made Susan feel so disorganized. The Henshaw Christmas decorations were coordinated, too—at least to begin with, but she hadn’t the heart or the desire to leave out all the family mementos that had been cherished over the years. Camilla Logan wouldn’t have a threadbare elf or bells fashioned from cardboard egg cartons hanging on her Christmas tree, Susan thought, following Buck into the living room.

  “We moved to have more space to entertain,” he was explaining.

  “You certainly have it,” Susan said, stopping in the doorway. The huge room was two stories high, with an elaborately carved wooden balcony running around it. Large brass chandeliers dangled from the beamed ceiling, and matching sconces hung on the walls. Pastel silk Bokhara rugs on the flagstone floor led to a massive fieldstone fireplace where a large log blazed. Huge velvet chairs and sofas were piled high with pillows made from satin ribbons. “It’s fabulous,” Susan said, knowing that the sight was just waiting to be admired. Standing in the alcove of a semicircular bay window, a large pine tree was decorated with matching pastel balls, lacy bows, dried rosebuds, and pink lights. Not a family memento in sight, but perhaps none was necessary. The most prominent object in the room was a larger-than-life photograph of the Logan’s daughter. Susan, feeling politeness demanded a comment, struggled to remember the girl’s name. It was unusual, she knew.… Fortunately, Buck unwittingly helped her out.

  “You’re looking at the photograph of Cameo, aren’t you? I know a father shouldn’t say it, but she is a beautiful girl, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Susan said. It was an honest assessment. Cameo looked like a blonde Breck girl. “She’s home for the holidays?”

  “Alas, no. Skiing with some friends in Switzerland. The parents of popular children have to learn to live without them, I’m afraid.”

  There was no response to that, and Susan was relieved to see Camilla heading their way, her arms open in greeting. “Susan, merry Christmas. It was so nice of you to rearrange your schedule so you could be with us. I just know you were expecting to spend the night in your kitchen cooking up delicious snacks for that annual New Year’s party that we’re always hearing so much about.”

  Since Camilla had refused an invitation to Susan’s first party in a manner that had certainly discouraged her from ever asking them again, Susan just smiled. “Actually, I’m not doing the cooking this year. I hired The Holly and Ms. Ivy.”

  “You hired The Holly and Ms. Ivy for a New Year’s Eve party?”

  Susan worked not to be offended by the surprise in Camilla’s voice. “Yes. I understand that they’re catering your dinner tonight.”

  “I was one of the first people in town to hire them—back when they were just getting started. In fact, I used to tell Z that he should give me a discount, that I’m responsible for some of his popularity. But I must get you some of their famous grog or mulled apple wine to drink. They’re both delicious, and I don’t think The Holly and Ms. Ivy will be serving them at just every party this season.”

  Susan followed her hostess to a bar set up before shelves filled with leather-bound books. She had heard the past tense and was anxious to get to the bottom of it, but didn’t feel comfortable announcing a murder at the beginning of a holiday party. “Did they tell you about Z’s death?” she asked quietly, nodding at the young bartender, easily identified as a Holly and Ms. Ivy employee by the tiny horticultural trademark woven into his black satin vest.

  “They have been very professional, despite the tragedy,” Camilla muttered. “I’d expect nothing less from The Holly and Ms. Ivy’s employees—even if some of them will naturally be the main suspects. Now, what would you like to drink?” she asked, changing to her bright hostess voice.

  “The mulled apple wine sounds good.”

  It was fabulous, spicy, warm, and mellow. She sipped appreciatively as she was led over to the rest of the party—and discovered that her tactful desire not to speak of Z’s murder was entirely unnecessary. The news had spread, and she found herself in the middle of a discussion of murder.

  To Susan, the other guests were familiar faces. To them, she was the local expert in murder—and they had a lot of questions to ask.

  Susan spent most of the polite forty minutes before dinner sipping mulled apple wine and repeating that she didn’t know anything about the murder. She wasn’t sure whether or not she was glad that the other guests didn’t believe her. After all, she told herself, reaching for another smoked salmon quiche, everyone likes to think of themselves as the possessors of inside information. No matter how many times she denied helping the police department in their investigation of Z’s murder, there were still questions about what she knew regarding this particular crime.

  Dinner was a bit different. Perhaps she should have been flattered to be seated next to Buck in the baronial dining room, and perhaps she was—through the first course of rosemary shrimp in potato baskets. But while the salad was tossed and served, she was being interrogated about her knowledge of Z’s murder. And, during the beef fillet en brioche, she was lectured about her civic responsibility in the affair (which Buck seemed to feel was to be his own personal conduit to the police department). As the pineapple sorbet cleansed her palate, she was dismissed as disloyal and, apparently, a very poor guest and left to listen in on the conversations of those around her—which had mainly to do with wines of the Northwest versus those of France. Susan was about to die of boredom when she noticed Jamie Potter motioning to her from the shadows.

  NINE

  Susan leaned across the tab
le and interrupted the elegant lady insisting that the finer wines of northern Italy simply didn’t travel and that you hadn’t really tasted them until you had visited the vineyards. “Do you know where the bathroom’s located?”

  The woman raised her eyebrows and stared. Susan wondered if perhaps she didn’t use bathrooms—or perhaps only those located in the tiny, as yet undiscovered, towns in France. Buck, ever a good host, offered directions, and Susan excused herself to no one in particular and left the room.

  “This way!” The electric sconces were apparently on rheostats and had been turned down so far that Susan didn’t actually see who was whispering to her down the long hallway. But that didn’t stop her from following the sound through a doorway and into a kitchen so bright her eyes had trouble adjusting.

  “Wow!”

  “Fabulous, isn’t it?” A young man leaning over and filling a large German dishwasher agreed with her unspoken appreciation of the long white room. Every appliance was the biggest and the best, and they were wedged between so many banks of cabinets that Susan was reminded of the carriage house’s professional facilities. “The best of everything and in multiple dozens,” he continued, motioning to cabinets, open to reveal tall stacks of dishes and rows of glasses.

  “It’s fine, unless you want to cook something,” another man in a chef’s hat said. “Not even a jar of stale paprika. Just pepper and this dreadful salt substitute stuff.” He frowned and picked up the offending mixture. “Maybe I can borrow this—it might improve some of our more healthy recipes.

  “I’m glad we brought along our own spices this time. Last year I had to send out a platter of seafood risotto that looked a little pale.”

  “But I’ll bet the platter was hand painted,” the cleaner said.

  “Mrs. Henshaw doesn’t care about all this,” Jamie Potter insisted.

  Actually, Susan was endlessly curious about the intimate details of her neighbor’s lives, but she did have to hurry. “You’re probably right. I’m supposed to be in the bathroom,” she explained.

  “You’re going to investigate this murder, aren’t you, Mrs. Henshaw?” Jamie asked, hopping up and perching on a counter.

  “That’s what we were hoping, but when I was serving, you were telling the mayor that you weren’t involved in this,” a young man said, reentering the room with a tray piled high with used silverware.

  “But at my aunt’s house, I got the impression that you were planning to help the police,” Jamie insisted.

  “We do hope you’re going to look into all this,” another young woman said, stirring a large steaming pot on the stove.

  “It’s important,” the dishwasher said.

  All the young people in the room nodded, and Susan suddenly saw the sadness in their eyes. “The police …,” she began.

  “The police will think Gwen did it,” Jamie said.

  “The police already think Gwen did it,” the other girl insisted.

  “Why?” Susan asked the obvious question.

  “Because they’ve been fighting,” the dishwasher answered promptly.

  “Because his death means that she owns the business,” the other young man added.

  “Because everyone heard her threaten to kill him on Christmas Eve,” Jamie said.

  “And everyone else loved him,” the other woman said.

  Susan thought for a moment. She intended to investigate, but that didn’t mean she wanted to make promises she either couldn’t or might not want to keep.

  “Did you know that you were invited here because Z was killed?” the young chef asked, apparently not concerned that she might be hurt by this revelation.

  “It wasn’t difficult to guess,” Susan said. “This isn’t my social group, and no one has talked to me about anything else except for a comment about the Logan’s daughter—I can’t ever remember her name.”

  “Cameo,” Jamie said.

  “Yes, no one in this room can forget good old Cameo,” the woman stopped stirring and switched off the flame on the gas burner.

  “Why?” Susan asked.

  “Well, about this time last year, right at the end of the Logan’s annual Christmas celebration, good old Cameo drank just a little too much grog—”

  “I think it was eggnog,” someone else corrected her.

  “Maybe. But whatever it was, she wasn’t used to drinking, or she just didn’t know how potent The Holly and Ms. Ivy makes their nog—”

  “Unless the customer asks for less brandy,” Jamie broke in.

  “Anyway, Cameo came down to the kitchen right after we’d served the cappuccino.”

  “Because last year’s meal had an Italian theme.”

  “And she took off most of her clothing and tried to seduce Z!”

  “She only had on her underwear when her father came in,” Jamie explained.

  “She had on a black lace camisole, black bikini pants, and a red satin garter belt holding up black net stockings,” the cleaner said, closing the dishwasher and pressing the buttons that would set it going. Then he turned and looked at Susan. “We’re not talking white cotton here. Our esteemed mayor almost split his guts.”

  “Did he threaten to kill Z?” Susan asked hopefully. She’d love to pin this murder on that obnoxious man.

  “I think he threatened to kill his daughter,” Jamie said.

  “Well, that will help us if she turns up dead,” Susan said.

  “But it means that other people might be suspects, doesn’t it?”

  “And you’ll investigate?”

  “Please. Gwen Ivy could sure use your help.”

  Susan looked around at the pleading faces. The Holly and Ms. Ivy sure hired nice young people, she decided. And she was going to investigate anyway. What harm would it do to let them know about it? It occurred to her that they might even be a big help. She made her decision.

  “Listen, I’m going to look into this. I might not succeed. And you might be wrong, and Gwen might not even be a suspect.” She heard footsteps in the hallway and hurried to finish. “I have to get back. Why don’t we meet someplace later and talk?”

  Before anyone could respond, the door behind her opened and Camilla Logan entered the room. “Susan? I thought you were going to the powder room.”

  “I—”

  “Isn’t it time for dessert?” Camilla continued angrily to the young people in the room, not bothering to wait for Susan’s answer.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jamie answered. “We were just putting the finishing touches on the sauces.”

  “Then maybe you’ll go ahead and serve as soon as all our guests have returned to the table.”

  Susan resisted glaring at her hostess. She’d never been so badly treated as a guest in anyone’s home. Furious, she left the kitchen and returned to the dining room. The conversation had made the giant leap from wine to vintage brandy. No one bothered to notice her entrance.

  Her place had been cleared, and she leaned her elbows on the table and tried to look interested in the conversation while thinking over what she’d just learned. It was not difficult, sitting here with him, to imagine Buck Logan’s face when he discovered his daughter trying to seduce the caterer in his own kitchen. After a few glasses of wine, Buck was already flushed. How red had he been last year?

  And, was this skiing trip for the popular child really a vacation, or was it important that she leave town before the holidays and this party? Susan looked down to the other end of the table where a large silver bowl had been set before Camilla Logan. Unlike her husband, she looked cool and relaxed.

  The conversation around the table stopped as the lights in the room were turned off and whatever was in the bowl was lit with a match. Flames flew into the air as, with a wooden-handled ladle, Camilla poured the liquid back and forth. As the fire died out, coffee was poured into the hot bowl. Cups of the brew were distributed around the table.

  “Camilla makes the most wonderful café brulot, doesn’t she?” the man next to her murmured to everyone except
Susan.

  “Our family has been ending the Christmas party with café brulot for over twenty years. And with God’s help we will continue to do so for twenty years more,” Buck Logan said pompously.

  There were appreciative murmurs around the table, and Susan wondered if she was about to participate in another Logan family tradition: long-winded speech making. She dug into her dessert. Fabulous. She was grateful that she had chosen a dress with an elastic waistband to wear on Saturday. Of course, it’s possible that she should have picked out a caftan, she decided as a tray of chocolate truffles appeared over her right shoulder.

  “Have a truffle, ma’am?”

  Susan looked up into the serious face of Jamie Potter.

  “There’s a large one with an extra holly leaf,” Jamie added, gently nudging Susan’s shoulder.

  “I’ll take that one then,” Susan said, picking up the delicate silver tongs and placing the confection on her plate. She’d seen the tiny pieces of white sticking out from the bottom of that particular truffle.

  Jamie Potter moved on down the table, and Susan nudged the candy over with her fork. A small rectangle of egg wafer was revealed. Tiny letters spelled out a message: 12 Carr. Hse. Susan glanced at her watch. It was just after ten. She doubted if any of the guests would leave for over an hour. If she interpreted the note correctly, she wouldn’t have any trouble being at the carriage house at midnight.

  “Good, aren’t they?” The man next to her had apparently decided to speak.

  Susan popped the piece of meringue in her mouth. “Excellent,” she agreed, nodding and swallowing.

  “I understand it’s very difficult to get these caterers to work on parties around here these days,” he added indifferently. “At least, that’s what Camilla was saying earlier—perhaps before you arrived.”

  “Yes. I was late,” Susan admitted, resisting the urge to brag that The Holly and Ms. Ivy were going to be catering a party at her house next weekend.