Yule Log Murder Read online

  Rachel stepped forward, clutching a thick stack of papers, which she asked a few townsfolk to pass around to the extras. When everyone had the sheet music, she instructed them to begin on the first page with “Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming.” When everyone had the page, she blew on a pitch pipe, and they all began singing. They weren’t very good, thought Lucy, but they probably did sound a lot like a bunch of poor peasants, hungry for some decent food.

  The rehearsal lasted well past Lucy’s usual lunchtime, and she was famished by the time the extras were finally released, but instructed to return Tuesday evening at six for filming. She grabbed a plastic-wrapped sandwich and a bag of chips at the Quik-Stop on her way to the office; by the time she parked the car, she’d eaten most of the chips and half the sandwich. She polished off the rest at her desk, followed with a warming cup of tea, which she made by heating a mug of water in the office microwave.

  “Gosh, it was cold at that rehearsal,” she told Phyllis as she dunked her tea bag. “I don’t see why they couldn’t put on the heat. And it would’ve been nice if they’d given us extras some lunch. They put out piles of food but it’s only for the actors.” She tossed the sodden tea bag into the trash and picked up the mug, wrapping it with both hands to warm them.

  “The director’s probably trying to keep it as authentic as possible,” said Phyllis, when her phone rang and she picked it up. It wasn’t the usual irate reader with a bone to chew; it was Elfrida and her voice came through the earpiece loud and clear, ringing through the office.

  “You won’t believe this,” she began, sounding hissing mad, “that stupid Ross Rocket accused me of planting a fancy cake in with the fake food to sabotage his scene. Like I don’t have better things to do, that’s for sure. I’m cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner for tons of people, plus Juliette’s planning a big party this weekend and wants all sorts of fancy food like Yule logs and angels on horseback. I don’t have time to blow my nose, much less plan stupid tricks, and besides, everybody knows it’s Bobbi who’s the troublemaker. She’s the prankster. She’s supposed to be helping me, but she’s never around when I need her. She’s always hanging with the actors instead of peeling carrots or washing dishes.”

  Elfrida paused for breath, and Phyllis clucked her tongue sympathetically. “What a shame, you used to love your job.”

  “That was when it was part-time, and I was able to keep track of my kids. Honestly, Aunt Phyl, I’m terrified what I’m going to find when I finally get home. Those kids are wild, they’re turning into monsters.”

  Lucy and Phyllis shared a look. They both knew that Elfrida’s five kids were a handful at the best of times.

  “I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Angie is supposed to be in charge, but she’s only fifteen, and Justin’s actually taller than she is, even though he’s younger, and he won’t listen to her because she’s a girl, and little Chrissie’s got a cough and I need to get her to the doctor. I’ve got an appointment at four-thirty, but I can’t get away from work. . . .”

  “I’ll leave a bit early and look in,” offered Phyllis. “I’ll read them the riot act and take Chrissie to the doctor and pick up a pizza for supper.”

  “Auntie Phyl, you’re an angel.... Gotta go.” They heard Elfrida scream Bobbi’s name; then the line went dead.

  * * *

  Back on set Tuesday evening, dressed once again in her wimple and long skirt, Lucy’s mind was on the work she’d left undone as she made her way from the dressing tent to the lawn outside the great hall. She was missing the planning-board meeting, and would have to call the chairman for a recap tomorrow, there was a feature story about the high school’s quarterback who’d been named to the All-State team, and there was already talk of a debt exclusion vote at the spring town meeting to fund a new patrol car for the police department. She was fretting, wondering how she was ever going to do it all, when Sue broke into her thoughts.

  “Look, Lucy, it’s like magic.”

  Lucy looked up and was amazed to see the lawn covered with sparkling snow.

  “What? It didn’t snow today. . . .”

  “No, silly,” said Pam, chiming in. “It’s movie magic, it’s fake snow.”

  “It’s beautiful,” said Lucy, gazing at the newly created winter wonderland, where snow draped the tree branches, icicles hung from the mansion, and it all glittered and shone in fake moonlight provided by theatrical lights.

  “Okay, folks,” said Ross, climbing on a step stool to address the crowd of villagers. “This is it, the real thing. We’re shooting and it’s going to go like this. You guys are going to proceed through the snow to the door of the great hall, following the men who are carrying the Yule log and singing that ‘Make We Mery’ song you rehearsed. They’re going to knock at the door with the log, the door will be thrown open, and you’ll enter the hall, singing your hearts out. Once you’re all in, you sing ‘Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming’ for Guinevere, the king thanks you for your song and for the log and invites you to join the feast, and you all cheer and smile and sing ‘Good King Wenceslas.’ Everybody got that? Cause we want to get it right the first time. Okay?”

  There was a general murmur of agreement and lots of nods all round. The lusty lads who were carrying the Yule log picked it up, Rachel gave them a note, and they all began singing and tramping through the fake snow, accompanied by cameramen with handheld cameras. It was weird, thought Lucy, realizing that she was actually beginning to feel a bit like a goodwyf, eager to join the celebration. “ ‘Bryng us in good ale, good ale,’ ” she sang. “ ‘Listeneth, lor-dynges both grete and smalle. . . .’ ”

  As the crowd reached the door, they stopped, as instructed, and the great log was tapped against the door; the door flew open and they gathered in the great hall, where King Arthur, Juliette as a gorgeous Queen Guinevere, and the other nobles were awaiting them. Once again, as Lucy took in the festively decorated hall and the beautifully robed nobles, she felt genuinely humbled and awestruck. It was phony, sure, but it was darn effective. Even the fake food, the piles of bread and glistening plastic chickens, looked awfully good, since she hadn’t had time to eat any dinner.

  “Welcome, all,” said the gorgeously robed King Arthur, stretching out his arms in welcome. There was something familiar about him, and Lucy was trying to place him. Was he the gangster who got shot in the bank heist movie, or was he the wise old stable hand who saw a winner in the kid’s old nag? She was leaning toward the gangster just as Ross called, “Cut!” It was then that a shrill, piercing scream rang out. “What the hell?” said King Arthur.

  Chapter Two

  “What don’t these people understand about keeping quiet when we’re working?” demanded Ross. “It’s not like we’re on a soundproof set or something.” He marched off in a huff, shoving people aside as he went through the hall and banging his head on the low doorway before charging down the stairs. A few humorous glances were exchanged by the extras and King Arthur rolled his eyes.

  “The sound guys could’ve fixed that,” said Sir Kay, getting a disapproving stare from Juliette.

  “He’d already called ‘Cut,’” insisted the knight. “What did it matter?”

  “Amateur hour,” muttered King Arthur.

  Juliette didn’t respond, but stood silent as a stone, waiting for Ross’s return.

  Long minutes passed and people began to shift restlessly, eager to finish up the scene and get home to dinner. Someone behind Lucy wondered aloud, “What’s taking so long?”

  “You’ve seen him in action,” said another. “He loves to chew people out.”

  It was then that they all heard a female voice screaming, “Help! Help! Oh, my God! Somebody! Call nine-one-one!”

  “I think that’s Elfrida,” said Lucy. She hesitated a moment, but catching Rachel’s eye, got confirmation for her own impulse to follow Ross downstairs and find out what was going on. Slipping through the crowd, she carefully ducked her head at the doorway and hurried down the stairs. Lucy had worked
briefly at Pine Point some years earlier and knew her way around the mansion. She knew that the stairway was one of several that connected the ground-floor rooms to an old-fashioned service corridor lined with pantries, laundry, and kitchen. It was in this hallway, about halfway to the kitchen, that she found Ross and Elfrida standing over the prone body of Bobbi Holden, identifiable from that shocking-pink tunic.

  Bobbi was lying facedown in the remains of the smashed pink Yule log cake. Ross and Elfrida were standing motionless, apparently in shock.

  Lucy automatically reached for her cell phone, which she’d stowed in her jeans pocket, underneath the voluminous skirt. Finally extracting the device, she punched in 911, getting Jenny Kirwan, one of the town’s emergency dispatchers.

  “There’s been an accident at Pine Point. Bobbi Holden has fallen and is unconscious. . . .”

  “Help’s on the way. Can you perform CPR?”

  “I’ll try,” said Lucy. “We’re in the basement corridor, outside the kitchen.”

  “Roger,” replied Jenny.

  Lucy listened anxiously for the siren signaling that help was coming as she crouched over Bobbi’s body, attempting to flip her onto her back so she could administer CPR. Bobbi was quite heavy and the smashed cake had made a gooey mess, so Lucy slipped as she struggled to lift the girl’s shoulder, falling on top of her prone body. Seeing Lucy fall, Elfrida shrieked, covering her eyes and shaking convulsively.

  “I could use a hand,” said Lucy, but Ross remained frozen in place, his face ashen, nursing a bump on his forehead.

  “Just leave her,” he said. “You’re not supposed to move an injured person.”

  “But I don’t think she’s breathing!” yelled Lucy, panicking and once again struggling with Bobbi’s inert body.

  “That’s the siren, they’re here,” said Elfrida, and Lucy stood up and stepped back, making room for the two medics, who were hurrying down the long corridor. They were followed by the hulking form of Officer Barney Culpepper.

  “Well, now that things are well in hand, I’ve got a movie to make,” said Ross, letting out a long sigh as he started to leave.

  “Hold on,” ordered Barney, watching as the medics deftly flipped Bobbi onto her back, revealing a large chef’s knife that protruded from her chest, soaking the fluffy mohair sweater with blood.

  Elfrida covered her mouth with her hand and stepped back, meeting the wall and starting to slide down to the floor, her eyes rolling up into her head.

  “You did this!” exclaimed Ross, pointing at Elfrida. “You hated her, and everybody knows it!”

  Crumpled on the floor, Elfrida passed out.

  Stunned and shocked, Lucy struggled with her emotions and tried to remain a detached observer. Bobbi was a dreadful sight, her face covered with Yule log cake and blood staining the shocking-pink tunic, which now seemed a pathetic attempt to dress attractively.

  Ross was glancing furtively over his shoulder, like a trapped animal desperate to flee, but unable to find an exit, blocked by Barney.

  The medics were too busy with Bobbi to attend to Elfrida, but she was already beginning to stir. Barney was on his radio, reporting the incident and calling for assistance.

  Lucy became aware that her hands were sticky. She looked down and saw a mixture of blood and pink icing and wished that she could wash them, but knew they would be examined as evidence. Evidence in a murder case, because that’s what she feared this must be: murder.

  Elfrida started to sit up and Barney helped her to her feet, all the while keeping an eye on Ross. The director had apparently accepted the inevitable and allowed Barney to lead the three of them to the rear of the kitchen, where there was a large table and numerous chairs used for staff meals. The officer explained that the state police were on their way, and would need to take statements from the three witnesses.

  “What about the extras?” demanded Ross. “I’m making a movie. I’ve got dozens of people upstairs. . . .”

  “Have you got an assistant?” asked Barney, looming over the three who were seated at the table.

  “Well, yes, but . . .”

  “And a cell phone?”

  Ross produced the latest-model iPhone.

  “Call your assistant and say there’s been an incident and nobody should leave the building until further notice.”

  “But . . . ,” began Ross, only to be silenced by a look from Barney. He made the call, then sat mutely, fingering his fancy new toy. After a moment or two, he raised his head and glared at Elfrida. “Don’t try to pretend you’re innocent. You hated Bobbi. You made life hell for her, and everyone knows it.”

  Studying her, Lucy thought that Elfrida must be in her forties, but was still pretty. With her heart-shaped face and curly tendrils of blond hair, she looked as if she could have been painted by Botticelli, a modern Venus. She didn’t respond to Ross’s accusation, but bit her lip, tears glistening in her huge blue eyes.

  Lucy sat quietly, with her gore-covered hands palms up on her lap beneath the table, trying to observe and remember as much as possible. Ross had fallen silent, but continued to glare at Elfrida, and Lucy sensed the tense atmosphere, so thick you could cut it with a knife. Horrified at the thought, she closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, Police Chief Jim Kirwan was entering the kitchen.

  “The state cops are tied up, so I’m going to take preliminary statements.” He pulled out a chair and sat down, producing a cell phone. “You don’t mind if I record you? It’s just procedure, to keep things clear.”

  “Okay by me,” said Ross. “But let’s make it snappy. I’ve got a film crew and dozens of extras sitting around upstairs and time is money, right? Besides, it’s obvious what happened. The cook here stabbed Bobbi with her knife. That’s how I found them. There was a scream, I came downstairs to investigate, and she”—he pointed to Elfrida—“was standing over the girl’s body. End of story.” He started to rise. “Now, can I go?”

  “Not so fast, I need some info.” He paused to adjust the cell phone, then turned to Ross. “Now who exactly are you?”

  Lucy could practically feel the heat rising in Ross’s wiry little body as he prepared to set this dumb cop straight. “What do you mean, who am I? I’m Ross Rocket! I’m directing this film. That’s who I am, and I’ve got a scene I want to get shot, okay? So whatever you want to ask me, let’s get on with it.”

  Chief Kirwan scratched his chin, as if he were pondering a big question, like maybe the origin of the universe. “How do you spell your name?”

  “What sort of idiot are you?” demanded Ross. “Are you telling me you can’t spell ‘Ross’? It’s a pretty common name after all. And ‘Rocket,’ like the spaceship.”

  The chief’s lips twitched and Lucy guessed he was relishing the opportunity to exercise his authority. “It’s just procedure. For the record.” He leveled an extremely serious gaze at Ross, and the director shifted in his chair, squirming a bit. “Spell your name, and I’ll need your address.”

  “Right.” Ross spat the word, then proceeded to spell his name, letter by letter. His address, he said, was Pine Point in “whatever the hell the name of this crappy town is.”

  Kirwan was not amused. “That would be Tinker’s Cove, Maine.”

  “Whatever,” replied Ross.

  “Do you have an ID? Like a driver’s license?”

  “Sure,” said Ross, reaching for his wallet.

  Lucy’s hands were uncomfortably sticky, so she took advantage of Ross’s hesitation to show them to the chief. “I don’t know what you want to do about my hands,” she said, holding them out. “I was trying to give her CPR. . . .”

  Kirwan turned to Elfrida. “Have you got any Baggies?”

  Elfrida was staring at Lucy’s bloody hands, looking as if she might faint again.

  Kirwan raised his voice, barking out the word: “Baggies!”

  “I’ll get ’em,” said Elfrida, responding to his order. She stood up and, walking a bit mechanically, crossed the kitche
n, opened a drawer, and took out a box of plastic bags, which she handed to the chief. He placed a bag over each of Lucy’s hands, apologizing for the inconvenience.

  “I know it’s not pleasant, but your hands are evidence. Hopefully, it won’t be too long. . . .”

  “Do you mind?” demanded Ross, interrupting and sliding his California driver’s license across the table. “Can we get on with this?”

  “Sure,” said Kirwan, setting the box of Baggies to one side. “By the way, are you all comfortable? Can I get you some water or something?”

  “I could use some water,” said Lucy, realizing her mouth was terribly dry, “and I’m sure Elfrida would like some, too.”

  “Righto.” The chief ambled across the large kitchen to the watercooler, which stood by the doorway. He took his time filling two flimsy paper cups, which he carried back to the table and set in front of Lucy and Elfrida. Then he turned to Ross. “Are you sure you don’t want some water?”

  “No!” snapped Ross, rubbing the goose egg that had developed on his forehead. “I want to get this over with.”

  “Right,” said Kirwan, seating himself and studying the plastic license. “This is a different name. Here it says Ronald Rosensweig, and the address is in Wrigley, California.”

  “Ross Rocket is my professional name, okay? And I used to live in L.A. before I met Juliette and we got married.”

  “L.A.? How come your license says Wrigley?”

  Ross bristled. “Not everybody can afford to live in Beverly Hills, right?”

  “So you lived in Wrigley and moved here when you got married, is that right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And how long ago was that?”

  “A couple of months. Right after the honeymoon.”

  “Are you aware that state law requires new residents to apply for a Maine license within thirty days after arrival?” Ross expelled a major sigh. “I was not aware of that. Are you going to arrest me or something?”