The Gingerbread Bump-Off (15 page)

“You know Phyllis,” Carolyn said. “Of course she’s going to try to find the killer.”

“This is going to sound terrible,” Eve said, “but it’s not going to interfere with the preparations for my shower and wedding, is it? You know we’re supposed to pick up my dress and the dresses for the two of you in a couple of days.”

Phyllis smiled and shook her head. “Don’t worry, Eve. Everything will go just like we planned.”

But as soon as she said the words, she remembered Sam’s warning and worried that she might have just jinxed everything.

Chapter 14

A
fter she was dressed, Phyllis took the list Laura Kearns had given her the day before and went to the computer in the living room. A few minutes of searching on the Internet gave her the locations of all the stops on the Christmas Jingle Bell Tour of Homes. She planned out the order in which she would visit them, putting numbers alongside the names and addresses.

Of course, some of the people might not be at home. In a lot of households these days, both members of a couple worked, that is, if they were lucky enough to have jobs. Phyllis suspected that most of these people probably did if they were able to afford to be part of something like the Jingle Bell Tour. All those lights and decorations weren’t cheap, even if you did all the work of putting them up yourself and didn’t hire someone to do it.

Sam came into the living room while Phyllis was finishing up her research and said, “I’ll come with you.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary—,” she began.

“I do,” he said. “You’re lookin’ for somebody who didn’t think twice about pickin’ up that gingerbread man and bashin’ Miz Hallerbee over the head with it. I don’t plan on takin’ any chances of the same thing happenin’ to you.”

Phyllis said, “I think the odds of someone else having a ceramic gingerbread man like that are pretty slim.”

“You know what I mean,” Sam said.

“If you have something better to do—”

“I don’t.”

Phyllis nodded and stood up. “Let’s go, then. And Sam . . . I’m glad you’re coming along. We make a pretty good team.”

“Don’t I know it,” he said with a grin.

They took Sam’s pickup. He offered to drive while Phyllis navigated. She started with the house on the list that was closest to her own house, only about four blocks away.

Despite its proximity, Phyllis didn’t know the people who lived there. According to the list, their names were Dan and Holly Bachmann. Although most of the houses along their street sported some exterior decorations, it was easy to pick out the Bachmann house. It was the one where the grass on the front lawn was barely visible because of all the displays set up on it. Santa, his elves and reindeer, snowmen, and various cartoon characters competed for space with manger scenes and other religious displays. The trees and shrubs were so loaded down with lights, it looked like some of their branches might be in danger of breaking.

As Sam pulled to the curb in front of the place, Phyllis looked at it and said, “Oh, my. Our house doesn’t look like that, does it?”

“Well . . . ,” Sam said. “Almost. But I think these folks went a tad more overboard than we did.”

“I hope so. This is just ridiculous.”

“People who go on that tour want a good show.”

Phyllis nodded. “They got it here; that’s for sure.”

Both doors of the double garage were closed, so Phyllis couldn’t tell if anyone was home. She and Sam got out and went up a flagstone walk to the front porch. As they did, she couldn’t help but think about what had happened on her own front porch.

As she had pointed out to Sam, though, the likelihood of finding ceramic gingerbread men on anybody else’s porch was small, and there were none here. The door did have a huge wreath hung on it, however.

Phyllis pressed the doorbell button and heard loud chimes go off in the house, playing, “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” She glanced over at Sam and said quietly, “They even have a Christmas doorbell.”

“Wonder if they can change the song for other holidays,” he said.

Phyllis didn’t expect to be coming back here to find out, but you never knew.

There was no storm door, just the heavy, ornately carved wooden entrance door. It swung open a moment later. The woman who stood there asked, “Yes? Can I help you?”

She was in her late thirties, Phyllis estimated, based on the tiny lines around her mouth and eyes. Her body was that of a younger woman, though. It was all firm muscles and taut, sleek skin, quite a bit of which was on display at the moment because all she wore were running shoes, tight black spandex shorts, and a bright yellow sports bra. She didn’t seem the least bit bothered by answering her front door in such a skimpy outfit.

Clearly she’d been working out. Her chest rose and fell quickly, and perspiration beaded her face. Her short blond hair was tousled, as if she had just run her fingers through it.

Phyllis needed only a second to take in all of that. She said, “Mrs. Bachmann?”

“That’s right,” the woman answered with a nod. “If you’re from some church or religious group, I’m sorry, but my husband and I aren’t interested.”

“No, we’re not,” Phyllis said. “My name is Phyllis Newsom, and this is Sam Fletcher. I live not far from here, just a few blocks over toward Main.”

“Newsom, Newsom,” Holly Bachmann mused, repeating the name. “I know that name from somewhere . . .” She must have remembered where, because her eyes widened slightly. “Georgia Hallerbee was attacked at your house!”

Phyllis nodded. “That’s right. I was wondering if I could talk to you about her.”

“Are you taking up a collection for flowers to send to the hospital? Because I’d be glad to contribute to it if you are. Just let me get my purse—”

“No, that’s not it,” Phyllis broke in. “Mrs. Bachmann . . . have you listened to the news this morning?”

The woman shook her head. “No. I’ve been working out . . .” She made a little gesture toward her outfit as if to say that should have been self-evident. “I had classical music playing. The news doesn’t interest me much. My husband’s the political junkie.” She looked intently at Phyllis. “Why do you ask? Has something else happened?”

Phyllis didn’t really like getting into it while they were standing in the door like this, but Holly Bachmann wasn’t giving her much of a choice. “I hate to tell you this,” she said, “but Georgia Hallerbee passed away this morning.”

Phyllis liked to think she was a pretty good judge of people’s reactions. Spending years in a classroom had taught her how to tell when someone was lying to her or trying to cover something up. As she looked at Holly Bachmann now, she was convinced the woman was surprised, but not overly so. A flash of sadness had appeared in Holly’s eyes, too.

“I was afraid that’s what you were going to say. When she didn’t regain consciousness right away, I told Dan—that’s my husband, Dan—that I was afraid she wouldn’t make it. Such a terrible thing, just terrible.”

“Did you know her well?”

“I guess so.” Holly stepped back from the door. “Why don’t the two of you come in? I didn’t mean to be rude and leave you standing there. When I’m working out, I kind of get in a zone, and I guess my brain doesn’t work too well.”

She led them into the house, which was elegantly and expensively furnished, although at the moment the numerous Christmas decorations covered up a lot of it. An arched entrance to the left opened into a large parlor, where no less than six live Christmas trees were set up, each of them covered almost to the breaking point with lights and ornaments. It was like a Christmas forest, Phyllis thought. The smell of pine was thick in the air.

“Why don’t you come on back here where we can talk?” Holly invited. “It’s a little too woodsy in the parlor these days.”

Phyllis wasn’t going to argue with that. She and Sam followed Holly to a large sunroom at the back of the house, where several pieces of exercise equipment were set up. Phyllis saw a treadmill, an elliptical machine, and a weight bench with a barbell resting in its Y-shaped holders. Several large weights were slid onto each end of the barbell.

“I like to stay in shape,” Holly said as she waved a hand toward the equipment. “Can I offer you something to drink? I’ve got water and juice.” She nodded toward a small refrigerator sitting on a counter at one side of the room.

“No, thanks,” Phyllis said, and Sam added, “I’m fine,” the first thing he had said since they’d arrived at the Bachmann house. Phyllis glanced at him to see just how much attention he was paying to the tanned, well-toned body of their hostess. He seemed more interested at the moment in the weight bench.

“You don’t mind if I keep going while we’re talking?” Holly asked.

Phyllis wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but she nodded and said, “Not at all.”

Holly stepped up onto the elliptical machine and grasped its handles. As her arms and legs began to pump, she said, “I guess you and Georgia must have been friends.”

“That’s right. And you must have been, too.”

“She’s done our taxes for the past seven or eight years. I don’t know what we’ll do now. We’ll have to find somebody else, I guess.” Holly was able to talk while working out on the machine, and she didn’t even seem breathless. She went on, “I don’t mean that to sound as callous as it probably did. But we weren’t close friends or anything.”

“Close enough that she asked you to take part in the Christmas Jingle Bell Tour of Homes,” Phyllis pointed out.

“Well, we’ve done that several times before. Not last year, but we were part of it the year before that.”

“This was our first time,” Phyllis said.

“And you didn’t get to be part of it after all. That’s a shame. Not as big a shame, of course, as what happened to poor Georgia.” Holly continued working the machine’s pedals and thrusting the handles back and forth. “Why are you here, Mrs. Newsom? If you’d like for all the people who were on the tour to go in together on a floral arrangement for the funeral, I think that would be a good idea.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here,” Phyllis said, seizing on the excuse. “Also, I just wanted to make sure that everyone knew about what happened.”

“You appointed yourself the bearer of bad news?”

“Someone has to do that job,” Phyllis said.

“I suppose so. Better you than me, though.” A little shudder went through Holly without slowing down her exercising. “I don’t even like to think about dying. That’s probably why I’m working so hard to postpone it as long as possible.”

She didn’t like to think about death because she was still relatively young, Phyllis thought. By the time Holly got to be the age she and Sam were, the subject wouldn’t be so easy to avoid. Death was a constant companion, part of the world in which you lived once there were a lot fewer days in front of you than there were behind you.

That was one reason murder bothered her so much. Life ran its course too fast to begin with. Anything that cut it even shorter was an outrage, an injustice. The years that Georgia Hallerbee should have had left to her had been stolen from her.

“I imagine you talked to Georgia quite a bit before the tour,” Phyllis said.

“Well, she stopped by one evening to talk to Dan and me, you know, to make sure we were willing to take part this year. I didn’t really talk to her after that, though. She e-mailed me a few times to work out some minor details.”

“Did she seem to you to be upset about anything, or worried?”

Holly shook her head. “No, not at all. She just seemed like Georgia. She was always pretty upbeat, you know.”

Phyllis nodded. “Yes, she was.”

Holly glanced over at her and asked, “The police haven’t caught the person who attacked her, have they?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you know if they have any clues?”

“They don’t really confide in me, but I certainly haven’t heard anything.”

Holly checked something like a big wristwatch she wore on her left wrist. It probably kept track of her pulse, or the time she had spent working out, or both of those things and more. Evidently satisfied, she slowed down and gradually brought the elliptical machine to a stop. As she stepped off, she said, “Let me get you that money for the flowers. Would you prefer cash or a check?”

“Whatever you’d like,” Phyllis told her. If she was going to take advantage of that ruse, she would actually have to arrange for the flowers as well.

“I’ll be right back if you’d like to wait here.”

Phyllis nodded. “That will be fine.”

Holly left the sunroom. Phyllis went over to Sam, who was still looking at the weight bench, and said, “She certainly seems devoted to her workout regimen.”

Sam nodded. “She’s got nice equipment.”

“I figured you probably noticed that.”

“I was talkin’ about this exercise gear,” Sam said with a chuckle. “But she’s a handsome woman, no doubt about that.”

“I’d say that’s putting it mildly.”

“And a Christmasy name. Holly.”

“What about the rest of the year?”

Sam shrugged. “Still a pretty nice name.”

Holly came back a few minutes later and handed Phyllis a check for fifty dollars. “Is that enough?” she asked.

“That’ll be fine,” Phyllis assured her. She saw that Holly had written the notation “Hallerbee Flower Arrangement/ Funeral” on the check. As she put the check in her purse, Phyllis went on, “I haven’t heard yet when the funeral will be. When I find out, would you like me to let you know?”

“That would be fine, thank you.” Holly looked at Sam and said, “I noticed you looking at my weight bench, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam said with a nod. “Professional interest, I guess you’d say. I used to be a high school coach. We had a weight room in our field house, but our equipment wasn’t nearly as nice as this. What do you have on there, about one eighty?”

“One seventy-five,” Holly said with a note of pride in her voice.