Candy Slain Read online

  Teeny scooped a big helping into a few bowls and handed us spoons. The first bite I took was incredible. It was gooey but chewy at the same time. And the occasional chunk of walnut blended perfectly with the spices.

  We discussed the case as we ate. Of course, Miss May and Teeny had tons of questions about my massage with Lincoln. They howled with laughter when they heard about the sensual, soothing voice I’d used. Miss May literally cried when I re-created the moment for them. And when I described Lincoln’s back as hairier than an ungroomed dog, Teeny spat her oatmeal all over the table.

  Miss May and Teeny made me repeat every detail of the interaction about three times. Then, after I refused to describe the massage anymore, they stopped laughing and got serious.

  Miss May scooped each of us a second serving of oatmeal. “It sounds like you didn’t get much helpful information at all. So it was good for entertainment value but not so much for the investigation.”

  My hand shot to my front pocket. I had totally forgotten about Lincoln’s wallet. “Oh. I got helpful information! I can’t believe I forgot about this.”

  I dropped the tattered leather wallet on the table. A few dollar bills peeked out from the fold. Overall, it was nondescript.

  Teeny looked at me, confused. “You need a new wallet. So what?”

  Miss May nudged Teeny with her elbow. “Teeny. That’s Lincoln’s wallet. Chelsea stole it.”

  Teeny did a series of excited little golf claps. “Oh. Wow. Amazing. Chelsea, I did not expect you to pull off thievery in there. How does it feel to have finally lost your innocence?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Hey. I’m still innocent. I stole that wallet for the good of this investigation.”

  “How do you not start off by telling us you stole the wallet?” Miss May asked.

  I stammered. “Honestly? I forgot. The whole massage story was so funny and you two are such a good audience. I got caught up in the hairy back of it all.”

  Teeny slid the wallet over to me. “Have you looked inside?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, open it up and let’s find out what’s in there,” said Miss May.

  Lincoln’s wallet was stuffed to the gills with customer loyalty cards.

  There was a Shop and Bop card. A Pizza Castle card. A library card.

  “It’s all frequent shopper cards?” Miss May asked. “Find his identification. Something with his name.”

  I thumbed through the wallet. “I don’t see any identification. But I think there might be something stuck between the lining...”

  I rubbed my thumb and pointer finger against the wallet. “Yeah. There’s definitely something in there.”

  Teeny grabbed a steak knife from the kitchen. “Cut it open. Let’s find out. It could be anything. Maybe he’s an FBI agent. Maybe it’s drugs. Maybe it’s...”

  I got the wallet open and removed the card. “It’s a punch card for the Peekskill Coffeehouse.”

  Teeny hung her head. “Oh. That’s much less exciting.”

  “Let me see,” Miss May reached out and took the punch card. “This is interesting. The card has dozens of punches.”

  “So what? He wasn’t hiding that punch card on purpose. Obviously it just slipped between the lining. The only crime here is that Lincoln missed out on his free coffee,” Teeny said.

  “You’re right. I don’t think Lincoln hid this punch card in the wallet. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be helpful.” Miss May inspected the card. “If Lincoln has been to the Peekskill coffeehouse this many times, that means everyone there knows him. And I bet you someone there knows him well.”

  My eyes widened. I smiled. “Holy smokes. That punch card is going to solve the mystery of Lincoln the elf.”

  31

  Throwing Punches

  Peekskill, New York is a small town about thirty miles south of Pine Grove, toward New York City. Peekskill sits along the Hudson River and is filled with old brick buildings, small shops, and cute, green parks. There’s a view of the Hudson River from every corner and a terrific sunset each evening. Ironically, or perhaps, fittingly, one of Peekskill’s many claims to fame was that President Abraham Lincoln had delivered an important address from the banks of the Hudson there. We were going to hunt down a Lincoln in a town known for another Lincoln.

  I’d always heard about Peekskill as a child. But Miss May and I had never visited because the town used to have a pretty dangerous reputation. All that had changed during my adulthood — apparently Peekskill had become a haven for artsy types and craft beers — and I was excited to check the place out for the first time the next morning.

  We found the Peekskill Coffeehouse on a busy corner in the center of town. The coffee shop was housed in a three-story brick building with peeling paint and plenty of charm. There were plate glass windows and I could see people chatting and laughing inside. You know how sometimes a place just seems warm because of the energy its patrons have? That was the Peekskill Coffeehouse. It felt incongruous that we were visiting as part of a murder investigation.

  The three of us stopped to admire the building as we approached the entrance.

  “This place looks nice,” I said. “You think someone in there knows Lincoln? For real?”

  Miss May looked up at the building. “Only one way to find out.”

  Teeny nodded. “Wear a Lincoln mask and fake beard and see if anyone comes up and says ‘hi, how are you doing, old friend?’”

  Miss May laughed. “Sure. Let me know when you find a mask.” Miss May entered. Teeny turned to me, jutted out her lower lip, and crossed her arms. “I think she was being sarcastic.”

  I nodded. “Probably.”

  Inside the Peekskill Coffeehouse, the walls were decorated with modern art by a local painter. A long glass counter boasted a variety of baked goods. And a group of kids played a board game near the window.

  “This place has a great energy,” said Miss May. “No wonder Lincoln came here so often. This is the kind of shop that attracts regulars.”

  Miss May, Teeny, and I stepped toward the counter. A barista greeted us with a nod and a smile. He had cornrows and was wearing a T-shirt that said, “Peekskill = Love.”

  “Hey there,” said Miss May. “Can I get... I don’t know. This place seems like a real coffee shop. Can you give me something interesting?”

  The barista smiled. “I can use one of my custom syrups and make a latte that will make your head spin. Do you drink oat milk?”

  Teeny scrunched up her nose. “What is oat milk? You put a bunch of oats in a sock, pour water in it, and squeeze out the sock?”

  The barista laughed. “That’s a good guess. I like you.”

  “Custom latte sounds great,” said Miss May. “Maybe leave out the sock part.”

  Miss May opened her purse to pay. She acted surprised as she pulled out Lincoln’s punch card. “Oh. Almost forgot. I found this punch card on the street. I wanted to turn it in.”

  The barista shook his head. “You can use the card for a free drink. We give those out to everyone. Most people forget they have them.”

  “This one is special,” said Miss May. “I think when you see it you might know to whom it belongs.”

  “To whom,” said the barista. “Fancy. I like that.”

  Miss May handed the barista the Lincoln’s punch card.

  The barista looked at the card and laughed. “Man. We haven’t had this logo for a couple years. We only have one person who collected the punches and never got the free drink. He said he was saving it up for six months of free coffees one day.”

  “Sounds like an interesting guy.”

  “For sure. I think his name was... Lincoln. Short guy with the beard. Haven’t seen him in forever.”

  “I think we found his whole wallet, actually,” said Miss May. “I would love to make sure it gets back to him safe. Do you know where he lives?”

  The barista scoffed. “Everybody knows where Lincoln lives.”

  Ten minutes late
r, we pulled up to an old Victorian mansion at the top of the hill. The home was four-stories tall. It had three turrets protruding upward, intricate gingerbread detailing, and a paint job that was so faded and peeling that the house looked diseased. A lot of the building was falling apart. But the first floor had been fixed up. Repainted, new wood on the railings, stuff like that.

  “It looks like Lincoln started renovating this place but didn’t finish.” I looked up at the tallest turret. “Maybe he ran out of money. Old Vics are notorious money pits.”

  Miss May nodded. “Looks like it.”

  Teeny looked away. “These old houses are so creepy. I hate Victorians. They have ghosts.”

  “Not all Victorians are creepy,” I said. “What about Tom Gigley’s house?” The erudite town lawyer, Tom Gigley, had grown up in a large pink Victorian house outside of Pine Grove.

  “That place was really creepy,” Miss May said. “Remember that eerie old statue in the backyard? All the cobwebs?”

  “Yeah, I guess it seemed haunted. But it was still beautiful,” I insisted.

  Teeny shook her head. “You couldn’t pay me enough to live in one of those.”

  “A million dollars?” Miss May asked.

  “Show me the money,” Teeny said. “I’ll hire a ghostbuster.”

  “Can we stop talking about haunted houses before we go inside a haunted house?” I asked.

  “Sorry,” said Teeny. “I tried to keep my thoughts to myself.”

  We rang the front doorbell a few times. But guess what? No one answered. That seemed to be how our luck went, no one was ever home. We should have expected it this time, since we knew Lincoln was staying at the Dragonfly Inn.

  But what I didn’t expect was that the backdoor to Lincoln’s house would be wide open. It led to a small sunroom, which in turn opened to the rest of the house. Miss May nudged the door all the way open with her foot and stepped inside. Teeny and I hung back.

  “Are you two coming?” Miss May asked.

  “I really hope that place is haunted by nice ghosts,” said Teeny.

  Miss May chuckled. “Maybe it’s not haunted at all,” she said. But I could tell not even she felt 100% sure of that.

  We crossed through the mostly empty sunroom and into the main house. The first room we entered was the kitchen. It was empty and dusty. Smelled like mold.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone has lived here for a while,” I said.

  Miss May nodded and let us through the kitchen into the entry hall. She shook her head. “This place is so weird…”

  Teeny stayed close to Miss May. “What?”

  “Look.” Miss May pointed. “There’s only half a staircase.”

  I looked where Miss May had pointed. She was right. Eight or nine steps led from the foyer toward the second floor. Then they stopped halfway up. We could see the landing leading to the second floor but there didn’t appear to be any way to get up there.

  “Who stops renovating the staircase halfway up?” Teeny shuddered. “Makes me think this little creepy elf might be a psychopath.”

  Miss May crossed to an adjacent bedroom. There we found a bare mattress on the floor. Beside the mattress lay a half empty box of shotgun ammunition. There was also a small bag of white powder that I assumed were drugs.

  I stopped walking as soon as I saw the bag of powder. “OK. This looks sketchy.”

  Miss May gulped. “Yeah. If that’s what I think it is, then Lincoln either had a serious habit or he was a drug dealer.”

  Teeny tugged on Miss May’s arm. “Let’s get out of here. If Lincoln was a drug dealer, you never know who might come looking for him.”

  Miss May nodded. “My thoughts exactly. So we need to find Lincoln before someone sinister gets to him first.”

  32

  The Missing Lincoln

  Miss May, Teeny, and I discussed Lincoln’s unsettling abode on the drive back to Pine Grove. We all agreed the shotgun shells and the bag of alleged drugs were sketchy. That went without being said. But we didn’t know what conclusions to draw. It all seemed so suspicious, but it didn’t really tell us anything more about Orville’s death.

  “I don’t know,” said Miss May. “Did Orville seem like a drug addict to you?”

  Teeny shook her head. “Not really. He was too old and lively to be a drug addict. At least I think. And he didn’t even seem like he would’ve been friends with a drug addict. He was very judgmental.”

  “So there’s something missing,” I said. “Something about him we haven’t learned. Maybe he was a supplier. Big, gregarious guy. Maybe he was the kingpin.”

  Miss May turned onto the main road headed back toward Pine Grove. “He seemed like an actual Santa to me. An actual professional fake Santa, I mean.”

  I rested my head against the window. “I’m not sure what to make of this. But I’m confident that if we dig deeper into the connection between Orville and Lincoln it will break the case wide open.”

  “Agreed,” said Miss May. “We just need to untangle these threads.”

  “Where do we start?” Teeny asked. “You both already shot down my idea about wearing Lincoln masks, so I’m tapped.”

  “One of us should call Peach. See if we can find out more information about Lincoln from her records.” Miss May turned off the radio and looked over to Teeny. “Don’t you think one of us should do that?”

  Teeny threw her head back. “I don’t feel like talking to my sister again. She barely likes me.”

  “She barely likes anyone,” said Miss May. “But she barely likes you the least.”

  “Are you saying Peach likes Teeny the most?” I asked, doing the grammatical acrobatics in my head required to figure out Miss May’s double negative.

  “I’m saying Teeny needs to call her sister.” Miss May handed Teeny a phone. “It’s ringing.”

  Teeny groaned. “You already called?”

  An angry, muffled voice sounded from the phone.

  “Oh, hi sister.” Teeny glared at Miss May. “Just wondering... Is our little friend still at the inn today?”

  Teeny put her sister on speaker. Peach’s distinguished growl rumbled from the phone.

  “He’s been out all day. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve seen him since Chelsea gave him that terrible massage. He hated that by the way, Chelsea. You need to go back to school.”

  “Not a real masseuse,” I said, “but thank you for the advice.”

  “So he talked to you about the massage,” said Miss May. “Did he tell you he lost his wallet?”

  “No. Just complained about Chelsea’s strange knuckles.”

  “My knuckles are not strange,” I said, mostly to myself.

  “That’s odd,” said Miss May. “We took his wallet. He must have noticed it had been lost. But he didn’t bring up. Most people would ask the front desk if the wallet had turned up somewhere at the inn.”

  “Maybe he’s got something to hide other than that hairy back,” said Peach.

  “Ugh, please don’t remind me of his hairy back,” I said. “I think I have PTSD.”

  “Yeah, I’ll stop talking about the back hair. I’ll stop talking altogether. In fact, can I go, ladies?” Peach asked. “I’m not in the mood for conversation right now. Or ever, for that matter.”

  Teeny sighed. “OK, we’ll let you go. But be careful, OK? You might have another dangerous resident at the inn.”

  Peach grunted and hung up. I tapped my windowpane, deep in thought. Our mystery was getting more and more complicated, but I couldn’t see my way out of the fog.

  When we got back to town, Miss May parked her VW bus right in front of the Brown Cow, our local coffee shop.

  “You want coffee again?” I asked. “We’re just coming from the coffee shop in Peekskill. And I’m feeling wired already.”

  “I don’t want a caffeine fix,” said Miss May. “I want information. Brian is one of my best sources and he’s always at work.”

  Miss May stepped out of the VW bus and strode
toward the coffee shop. Teeny and I followed but our strides were more like waddles. If only all of us could be blessed with Miss May’s supreme confidence and long legs.

  Brian, a SoCal transplant with a chill vibe, smiled as we entered the shop. “OK. What do you three need to know?”

  Miss May returned his smile. “How do you know we’re not here for coffee?”

  Brian pointed to the clock on the wall behind him. “You never drink coffee after 2 PM. And you seem a little wired already. Especially Chelsea.”

  I threw up my hands. “How can you tell that just by looking at me?”

  Brian crossed his arms. “So I’m right. What’s up? Who or what are you looking for?”

  Miss May turned around to make sure no one was listening. The shop was empty, but she still continued at a whisper. Over the next few minutes, the three of us described Lincoln. Miss May pointed out that Lincoln obviously loved coffee and we concluded by asking Brian if he had seen Lincoln in the shop.

  Brian nodded. “Oh yeah. I saw that guy this morning. But he wasn’t in here buying coffee. I saw him lurking behind town hall.”

  Miss May shot me a suspicious look. “So Lincoln was lurking behind Pine Grove town hall? Right where our dead body was discovered?”

  Brian shrugged. “Yeah. The town is doing a new big gingerbread house project over there. To try and make up for the unlit tree. I’m helping run the event. Supplying sprinkles, stuff like that. I assumed the little guy was there to volunteer.” Brian and his husband, Mr. Brian, often helped out with town events. Brian said community involvement was good for business, but I suspected that he just liked to be a part of the fabric of our small town.

  Miss May scrunched up her nose. “The town is moving ahead with the gingerbread house? I thought it was a lark.”

  Brian tidied up behind the cash register. “Deputy Mayor Matt is crazy ambitious. I think he’s trying to prove himself in Linda’s absence.”

  Teeny leaned on the counter. “Back up a second. Can you describe exactly how this little elf man was lurking?”