Free A Holly, Jolly Murder by Joan Hess

sign on the door and drove to Malthea’s duplex. I again raised my hand to knock on the door on the right; this time it opened before I could make contact. Malthea pointed at Fern’s door, put her finger on her lips, and pulled me inside.
    â€œI don’t want Fern to know you’re here,” she whispered as she propelled me through the living room and into a cramped kitchen. “Sometimes I get very annoyed with her, as I’m sure her husband did before his excruciatingly painful demise.”
    â€œWhy did you call me?” I asked bluntly.
    â€œSit right here,” she said, gesturing at a dinette set with two place mats, forks, and paper napkins. “You do like tuna fish salad, don’t you? Merlinda’s very fond of it. I considered making deviled eggs, but it didn’t seem right after what transpired this morning. The police officer assured me that he died instantaneously.”
    I assumed she meant Nicholas had died instantaneously, as opposed to Corporal Billsby. “What else did he say?”
    â€œNot very much.” She took a plate of sandwiches from the refrigerator and turned on the burner beneath an aluminum teapot. The telephone began to ring in the living room, but she seemed oblivious of the sound. “The young woman at the police department asked me a number of questions, but I couldn’t really tell her anything useful. We finished putting up decorations shortly before nine o’clock, relaxed for a few minutes, and then said good-night and left. Fern’s car was a bit balky, so we were still sitting there when Sullivan and Morning Rose drove away and Roy went up the stairs to his apartment.”
    â€œDon’t you need to answer the phone?” I asked.
    â€œThe caller will try again.”
    The rings stopped as if on cue.
    Somewhat nonplussed, I returned to the topic. “Was Gilda there?”
    â€œShe’d planned to come on her bicycle, but Morning Rose insisted she ride with them. Yes, we were all there—our happy little grove. The eve of a major holiday is always so invigorating to the spirits, isn’t it? We sang ancient pagan songs like ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ while we sat around the fire and had tankards of mead. Nicholas made his own every fall in preparation for Samhain, using honey from a very special apiary in Salisbury. I do hope I’ll be able to find a recipe.”
    I waited until she’d poured boiling water into teacups and brought them to the table. “I’m sure you had a lovely evening,” I said, grinding out the words as politely as I could, “but you and Fern alluded to some hostility that also took place. She was in tears this morning, and none of you looked the least bit like a ‘happy little grove.’ If you don’t want to tell me what happened, that’s fine. Did you tell the officer who took your statement?”
    â€œNo, I don’t seem to think I did. That doesn’t mean someone else might not have mentioned it. I hope not, though. Nonbelievers often have difficulty understanding the dynamics of a group such as ours. I’m sorry to have to say this, but Wiccans can be a teensy bit stubborn.”
    I pulled back my cuff to uncover my wristwatch. “I am leaving in eighteen minutes. If you desire, we can pass the time debating the recalcitrance of Wiccans or looking through cookbooks for mead recipes. You can expound on why Fern’s husband might have sprinkled belladonna instead of blueberries on his cereal. It’s entirely up to you—but in eighteen minutes I’m going to go out to my car and drive back to the Book Depot.”
    â€œIt doesn’t really have anything to do with last night,” she said. “I’m concerned about Roy. He can’t stay out there by himself, not at his age. When his parents left, they asked Sullivan and Morning Rose to look after him. Nicholas then took charge of him. Now I don’t know