Christmas Card Murder Read online

  Books by Leslie Meier

  MISTLETOE MURDER

  TIPPY TOE MURDER

  TRICK OR TREAT MURDER

  BACK TO SCHOOL MURDER

  VALENTINE MURDER

  CHRISTMAS COOKIE MURDER

  TURKEY DAY MURDER

  WEDDING DAY MURDER

  BIRTHDAY PARTY MURDER

  FATHER’S DAY MURDER

  STAR SPANGLED MURDER

  NEW YEAR’S EVE MURDER

  BAKE SALE MURDER

  CANDY CANE MURDER

  ST. PATRICK’S DAY MURDER

  MOTHER’S DAY MURDER

  WICKED WITCH MURDER

  GINGERBREAD COOKIE MURDER

  ENGLISH TEA MURDER

  CHOCOLATE COVERED MURDER

  EASTER BUNNY MURDER

  CHRISTMAS CAROL MURDER

  FRENCH PASTRY MURDER

  CANDY CORN MURDER

  BRITISH MANOR MURDER

  EGGNOG MURDER

  TURKEY TROT MURDER

  SILVER ANNIVERSARY MURDER

  YULE LOG MURDER

  HAUNTED HOUSE MURDER

  INVITATION ONLY MURDER

  CHRISTMAS SWEETS

  IRISH PARADE MURDER

  Books by Lee Hollis

  Hayley Powell Mysteries

  DEATH OF A KITCHEN DIVA

  DEATH OF A COUNTRY FRIED REDNECK

  DEATH OF A COUPON CLIPPER

  DEATH OF A CHOCOHOLIC

  DEATH OF A CHRISTMAS CATERER

  DEATH OF A CUPCAKE QUEEN

  DEATH OF A BACON HEIRESS

  DEATH OF A PUMPKIN CARVER

  DEATH OF A LOBSTER LOVER

  DEATH OF A COOKBOOK AUTHOR

  DEATH OF A WEDDING CAKE BAKER

  DEATH OF A BLUEBERRY TART

  DEATH OF A WICKED WITCH

  EGGNOG MURDER

  YULE LOG MURDER

  HAUNTED HOUSE MURDER

  Poppy Harmon Mysteries

  POPPY HARMON

  INVESTIGATES

  POPPY HARMON AND THE HUNG JURY

  Maya & Sandra Mysteries

  MURDER AT THE PTA

  MURDER AT THE BAKE SALE

  Books by Peggy Ehrhart

  MURDER, SHE KNIT

  DIED IN THE WOOL

  KNIT ONE, DIE TWO

  SILENT KNIT, DEADLY KNIT

  A FATAL YARN

  KNIT OF THE LIVING DEAD

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  CHRISTMAS CARD MURDER

  Leslie Meier

  Lee Hollis

  Peggy Ehrhart

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  “Christmas Card Murder” copyright © 2020 by Leslie Meier

  “Death of a Christmas Carol” copyright © 2020 by Lee Hollis

  “Death of a Christmas Card Crafter” copyright © 2020 by Peggy Ehrhart

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2020939641

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2822-7

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: November 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2824-1 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2824-6 (ebook)

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHRISTMAS CARD MURDER

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  DEATH OF A CHRISTMAS CAROL

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  DEATH OF A CHRISTMAS CARD CRAFTER

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  CHRISTMAS CARD MURDER

  Leslie Meier

  For Linda Randel and Helene Androski

  Chapter One

  People who made their beds every morning were 206 times more likely to be millionaires. That was the interesting factoid that Lucy Stone was mulling as she smoothed the sheets on the bed she shared with her husband, Bill, finding it somewhat hard to believe. She gave the blanket a yank and pulled up the comforter, noting that it was definitely beginning to fray along the top edge. She plumped up her pillow and set it in place, then added Bill’s, thinking that she had been making her bed every morning since she was eight years old, and was still rather far from achieving millionaire status.

  As she propped an accent pillow against the sleeping pillows, in its spot in the exact center of the bed, she considered various millionaires and billionaires, assessing their bed-making potential. Bill Gates, for example, probably made his bed as a kid, but now had people to do it for him; while she rather doubted that Mark Zuckerberg had ever made his bed. She couldn’t quite picture Donald Trump making his bed, either. Even in military school he probably paid some kid to do it for him. Warren Buffett, on the other hand, probably still made his own bed, unless he had a wife to do it for him.

  Come to think of it, weren’t most millionaires and billionaires men? And wasn’t bed making something that wives usually did? Or was she stuck in some sexist role model that no longer existed? Maybe Bill should make the bed, she thought, examining the worn blue-and-white French toile comforter she’d bought on sale years ago at Country Cousins, along with the coordinating linens and accent pillow. No, she decided, he’d make a mess of it; he probably didn’t even know how to make hospital corners and would pretend it was a much-too-complicated task for him to learn.

  Right, she thought, feeling the prickling of discontent. A man who made his living as a restoration carpenter, a man who could miter ogee moldings, couldn’t make a hospital corner? She gave his pillow rather a hard smack and straightened up, banging her head right into the low, angled ceiling beside the dormer, which was a feature of their restored antique farmhouse in Tinker’s Cove, Maine. A rather inconvenient feature, which required a certain amount of mindfulness when getting in or out of bed, or, in her case, when making the bed.

  This wasn’t the first time she’d banged her head on the ceiling, and she suspected it wouldn’t be the last, but that didn’t make it any less painful. If anything, it made her feel extremely stupid for letting her emotions get the better of her and causing her to forget the edge of the d
ormer. She sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed her head, waiting for the pain to subside and hoping she wouldn’t get a headache. Please, not today, she thought, she had too much to do.

  Christmas was coming, as it did every year, and she had a long to-do list of holiday tasks that would have to be squeezed in between the demands of her job as a part-time reporter for the Pennysaver, as well as her responsibilities as a wife, mother, and grandmother. She was the one who made Christmas happen for her family, and she didn’t want to disappoint them. That meant shopping and decorating and baking, and finding time to write those Christmas cards. They were a nuisance to send, but she loved getting them and hearing from old friends, especially the dear ones who sent long, newsy, handwritten letters and tucked them in their cards.

  The pain was ebbing and she carefully stood up, crouching a bit until she got clear of the sloping ceiling. How long had she been doing this maneuver? Too long, she decided, wondering if she could rearrange the furniture so that the bed wasn’t under the lowest part of the ceiling. Not possible, she realized, as the dresser was too tall to fit, as was her mirrored vanity table. The bed was where it was because it was the only piece of furniture that would fit in that cozy corner.

  She hung her nightie on the hook in the closet and left the room, stepping into the hall, where she had a sudden insight. What if they broke through the wall into the next room? It would give them a generously-sized master bedroom, with plenty of headroom. There were four bedrooms on the second floor, but they didn’t need them all. Not anymore. Toby had married and left years ago, and was now living in Alaska with his wife, Molly, and their son, Patrick. Elizabeth had also flown the nest, making her home and career in Paris, where she was a concierge at the tony Cavendish Hotel. Sara, next in line, had recently departed for an internship in Boston at the Museum of Science, hoping it would lead to a job, and was subletting a basement efficiency in Quincy from a friend of a friend who was an artist-in-residence at Vassar. Only Zoe remained at home, hopefully finishing up her bachelor’s degree at nearby Winchester College. Even if they expanded into the next room, which happened to be the smallest of the four bedrooms, Zoe would keep her room and they would still have a guest room for visits from Bill’s mom and the kids. They could even all visit at the same time, since there were twin beds in the guest room and Zoe’s room and sleep sofas in the family room and living room, too.

  There might be the possibility of adding a master bath and creating a genuine master suite, she realized, noting the location of the bathroom on the other side of her bedroom. Now that was an exciting thought, and lucky her, her husband happened to be finishing up his latest project and, as far as she knew, didn’t have anything lined up until February.

  Lucy spent the day in a happy fog, designing her longed-for master suite. The January sales were just around the corner, she could pick up some new curtains and linens quite cheaply. Maybe even add a sitting area, where she could retreat to read her favorite cozy mysteries. It was the possibility of that master bath that really excited her, however. She pictured an old-fashioned roll top tub, deep enough for a real soak, and there were such gorgeous faucets and vanities available. Should she go for a farmhouse look with distressed pine and aged bronze, or maybe a sort of Country French mood with a hand-painted vanity and porcelain faucet handles? She’d have to discuss her options with her best friend, Sue Finch, who knew all about these things.

  However, when she broached the subject to Bill that evening, after his favorite dinner of meat loaf and mashed potatoes, he was less than enthusiastic. “It’s a bigger project than you think, Lucy,” he said, thoughtfully stroking his beard, now touched with gray. “And adding a bath, that might require some structural changes to support a tub.”

  “I think it sounds super,” offered Zoe, helping herself to salad. “We really need two bathrooms in the morning, when everybody’s trying to get ready at once.”

  “That’s right,” said Lucy. “Zoe could pop right into the shower without waiting for us—”

  “You’re forgetting about water pressure,” said Bill, nodding sagely, “and we just got a new water heater. We’d have to replace it with a larger one, and, you know, they don’t come cheap.”

  “But think how much it would add to the resale value of the house,” said Lucy, in a last-ditch effort to save the project.

  “We’re not planning on selling anytime soon, are we?” countered Bill. “And these things age out. A bath we added now would look dated by the time we’re ready to downsize.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Lucy, probing her scalp and feeling the tender spot where she’d hit her head. “I’ll just have to get a helmet to wear when I’m in the bedroom.”

  “It’s not that bad,” insisted Bill. “You simply have to keep your wits about you and remember that dormer near the bed.”

  Lucy and Zoe shared a look, but neither one challenged Bill’s attempt to imply that Lucy had hit her head because of her own carelessness. Instead, they discussed what to pack in the box of presents they were going to send to Toby and his family in Alaska, which they knew they had to mail soon if it was going to arrive before Christmas.

  “It has to get there in time, because Santa can’t be late,” said Lucy.

  “I wonder,” mused Zoe, “whether Patrick still believes in Santa Claus?”

  “Of course he does,” insisted Bill, reaching for seconds.

  Later that night, when Lucy was tucked in bed and preparing to sleep, Bill suddenly sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. “I forgot to shut the kitchen door,” he said, turning back the covers.

  “Oh, don’t bother about it,” said Lucy, sleepily.

  “No. If I don’t, the dog will wander into the family room and you know what happened last time.”

  Lucy knew. Libby, their aging black Lab, had recently made herself a nest on the sectional, shredding a couple of throw pillows in the process.

  He sat on the side of the bed and stuck his feet into his slippers, then stood up carefully and made his way around the bed, keeping his head low. Lucy yawned, then turned on her side and shut her eyes. She heard him thump down the back stairs to the kitchen, heard the dog’s clicking nails as Libby got up from her doggy bed to greet him, heard the click of the latch when he shut the family room door, and heard him thump back up the stairs. She heard his footsteps as he crossed the hallway and entered the bedroom, and she heard a whump and an “Owww” when he cracked his head on the ceiling.

  “I guess you forgot to keep your wits about you,” said Lucy, flipping onto her back.

  Bill was sitting on the side of the bed, rubbing his forehead. “I guess I deserved that,” he said.

  “Do you want me to get some ice for you?”

  “I’ll be all right,” he said. “Funny, I didn’t see any stars when I looked out the window on my way downstairs.”

  “Well, at least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” She paused. “Any chance you’re reconsidering knocking through that wall?”

  “Okay, I admit it. You’re right. We’re getting too old for all this crouching and remembering to duck.” He slid back under the covers and she snuggled against him.

  “With a master bath?” she asked.

  “With a master bath,” he said, sighing. “I’ll start tomorrow,” he promised, pulling her closer.

  * * *

  The next morning was Thursday, the day Lucy met her friends for breakfast at Jake’s Donut Shack. The weekly breakfast had become a way for the four women to stay in touch when their kids grew up and they no longer ran into each other at sports practices, PTA meetings, and bake sales. She always enjoyed getting together with Rachel Goodman, Sue Finch, and Pam Stillings, and today she was excited and eager to tell them about the master suite project.

  “That’s a really good idea,” said Rachel, approvingly. “Too often people get stuck in a rut and don’t make the adaptations they need as they transition through the various stages of life. Your nest is emptying a
nd it’s time for you and Bill to focus on your needs.” Rachel, who was married to a successful local lawyer, had majored in psychology in college and had never gotten over it.

  “That’s so true,” offered Pam, who was married to Lucy’s boss, Ted.

  “Enough of this talk,” declared Sue. “I want to know how you’re planning to decorate this fabulous master suite.”

  “Well, I was going to ask you for advice,” said Lucy.

  Rachel and Pam both gave approving nods. They all knew that Sue was the most stylish member of the group, and her home was not only beautiful and comfortable, but always featured the newest trends. She was the first in Tinker’s Cove to have granite countertops and an under-mounted kitchen sink; she’d installed radiant heating and heated towel bars in her bathrooms; her latest improvement was a hands-free kitchen faucet.

  “Well, get me a floor plan and I’ll see what I can come up with,” she offered, taking a sip of coffee. “You know what I’m seeing a lot now? Antique dressers converted into vanities, they give a bath a lot of character.”

  “Never thought of that,” Lucy admitted as Norine, the waitress, arrived with their orders: a sunshine muffin for Rachel, granola and yogurt for Pam, hash and eggs for Lucy, and more black coffee for Sue.

  “Wouldn’t kill you to eat something,” she muttered, filling Sue’s cup.

  Sue tucked a lock of expensively-cut hair behind her ear with a perfectly-manicured hand and gave Norine a big smile. “Thanks, but not today,” she said, revealing freshly-whitened teeth.

  The others shared a look reflecting their suspicion that Sue survived on a diet of black coffee, white wine, and little else.

  “What’s the exposure there?” asked Sue, returning to her favorite subject. “Does it face south?”