Hemlock for the Holidays Read online

  Books by Paula Darnell

  DIY Diva Mystery Series

  Death by Association

  Death by Design

  Death by Proxy

  Fine Art Mystery Series

  Artistic License to Kill

  Vanished into Plein Air

  Hemlock for the Holidays

  Historical Mystery

  The Six-Week Solution

  Campbell and Rogers Press

  Las Vegas

  Campbell and Rogers Press

  Copyright © 2021 by Paula Darnell

  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. For permission to use material from the book, other than for reviews, please contact [email protected].

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, events, places, incidents, business establishments, and organizations portrayed in this novel are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021905821

  ISBN: 978-1-887402-25-5

  Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

  (Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)

  Names: Darnell, Paula Jean, author.

  Title: Hemlock for the holidays / Paula Darnell.

  Description: First edition. | Las Vegas : Campbell and Rogers Press, [2021] | Series: [A fine art mystery] ; [3]

  Identifiers: ISBN 9781887402231 (paperback) | ISBN 9781887402255 (ePub)

  Subjects: LCSH: Women artists—Arizona—Fiction. | Craft festivals—Arizona—Fiction. | Poisoning—Arizona—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Arizona—Fiction. | LCGFT: Cozy mysteries.

  Classification: LCC PS3604.A7478 H46 2021 (print) | LCC PS3604.A7478 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  Cover design by Nicole Hutton of Cover Shot Creations

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  First Edition

  Published by Campbell and Rogers Press

  www.campbellandrogerspress.com

  Dedicated, with appreciation,

  to artists and art lovers everywhere

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Recipes

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  “Santa! Over here!” Belle called, as she waved to jolly Mr. Claus, who stood atop the passing float, surrounded by elves busily depositing toys in his sleigh.

  “Ho! Ho! Ho!” he exclaimed, as he blew her a kiss.

  The jolly red-suited gent, none other than my bestie's husband Dennis, had been drafted to play Santa in Lonesome Valley's annual Christmas parade when the original actor had come down with a case of food poisoning just a few hours before the parade was scheduled to begin.

  “He's really into his role,” I said, as the giant float slowly progressed down Main Street. “How did you plump him up? He actually looks kind of roly-poly.”

  “I wrapped him with fluffy batting before he put on the costume. I think it's working pretty well.”

  “For sure. He's a big hit.”

  Santa's float was followed by another featuring a giant, twinkling Christmas tree surrounded by beautifully wrapped presents. Children of members of Lonesome Valley's Downtown Merchants' Association sat among the gifts, waving shyly to the crowds that lined both sides of Main Street.

  “Oh, look! Here come the carolers.” Belle pointed to the next float, which was large enough to accommodate the Lonesome Valley Pioneers, who performed at many community events. We spotted Rebecca and Greg Winters, a couple Belle and I had met in the spring, when we were walking our dogs in the little park a few blocks from our houses.

  The choir began its rendition of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” with Rebecca and Greg singing the first verse in duet. The only decoration on the choir's float was a small tree graced by a few pears and a lone partridge. Each time the choir sang the refrain “and a partridge in a pear tree,” the singers all gestured toward the tree, and the partridge squawked, much to the delight of the spectators along the parade route.

  “What a perfect day for the parade,” I said. The Arizona sun shone in a cloudless, blue sky, and there wasn't so much as a breeze.

  “Yes, it's great,” Belle agreed. “Not like last year, when the wind gusted so much Santa lost his hat and Frosty blew over and fell right off the float. Of course, that happened before you moved here. I can't believe you've lived next door for—what is it?—just ten months now. It seems like we've been friends forever.”

  “Yes, it does,” I said, putting my arm around her, “and I couldn't have better friends. If it weren't for you and Dennis, I might still be trying to adjust to my new life.”

  Instead, I felt perfectly at home in my tiny house with my amiable golden retriever Laddie and my mercurial calico cat Mona Lisa for company. I'd chosen the little house because it featured an attached art studio that was the same size as the house's living area. A year ago, I'd been trying to come to terms with my recent, unexpected divorce. My husband Ned had decided to drop that bomb on the same night as my one-and-only solo art show at the Crystal Star Gallery in Kansas City. He'd announced that he planned to marry Candy, his office assistant, who's only a couple of years older than our daughter Emma. What he'd neglected to say was that Candy had a baby on the way. I'd been so excited preparing for my show that I hadn't had a clue!

  Luckily, I'd snapped out of my panic mode after a few months to plan my new life. It wasn't long before I made the move from Kansas City to Lonesome Valley to pursue a career as a full-time artist, and I didn't regret it for a second.

  Belle and I watched and cheered from the sidelines as several more floats passed by. A ninteenth-century stagecoach followed, pulled by four handsome horses, their manes and tails braided with red and green streamers. The sleigh bells hung around their necks jingled merrily as they pulled the coach along. The stage's driver sported traditional Western garb, with one exception. He'd substituted a plush red Santa hat for the Stetson he normally wore. His wife, decked out in a gorgeous, red velvet cape trimmed with white faux fur, rode beside him. Their three children peeped out the windows of the stagecoach and waved to the crowd. A high-profile couple, Melinda Gibbs was Lonesome Valley's mayor, and her husband Bob operated a large equestrian training center and horse stables at their ranch a few miles north of town.

  Since the Gibbses never missed an opportunity to promote Lonesome Valley's galleries, all the artists at the Roadrunner, a cooperative art gallery where I displayed my oil paintings, appreciated their support.

  Last up, the Lonesome Valley High Schoo
l band marched past us, stepping smartly while they played “Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree.” The crowd clapped enthusiastically, then began to disperse after the band passed by.

  “I'm going to pick up a few gifts,” Belle said. “Should I meet you at the Roadrunner in about an hour?”

  “Perfect. Then we can see how Dennis is coming along with his Santa act.” Dennis had agreed to play Santa for a group of preschoolers who'd have their pictures taken with him after the parade.

  Belle crossed to the opposite side of Main Street, while I walked a block to the Roadrunner, curious to find out whether the parade-goers had stayed to shop. I hoped to improve my sales in December, especially since I'd had a bad month in November, and my finances were looking a bit tight, although I was in better shape than I'd been when I'd first moved to Lonesome Valley. The Roadrunner isn't the only place I sell my paintings, but it's my main venue. I also try to keep things going with studio tours, commissioned pet portraits, and even wholesale accounts with a few local boutiques, where I sell my abstract, dyed silk scarves.

  With fingers figuratively crossed, I approached the Roadrunner and was pleased to see several people entering the gallery ahead of me.

  Inside, a crush of people crowded around the jewelry counter and cash register, where Carrie and Ralph, two of our members, waited on customers. I was pleased that eighty-five-year-old Ralph kept pace as he handled the transactions. A few months earlier, his arthritis had plagued him so much that it had been difficult for him to move, but since his doctor had prescribed a different pain medication, he no longer relied on a cane.

  Pamela, our gallery director, and my friend Susan, an awesome watercolorist who also sculpts huge animals in papier-mâché, were helping other customers as they browsed the paintings. I headed down the hallway and deposited my coat in our meeting room, then returned to the front of the gallery and stowed my purse in a drawer under the counter.

  “Excuse me,” a gray-haired woman carrying a large shopping bag said. “Do you work here?”

  “Yes. How may I help you?”

  “I saw a little painting of a cactus flower in the back.”

  “Let's take a closer look,” I said, accompanying her around the divider to the back room.

  She pointed to a group of cactus flowers. “I really like these,” she said, “but I can't decide which one to buy.”

  “Do you have a place in mind to hang it?” I asked.

  “Yes, I was thinking above a little table in my entryway. The walls are light beige, so I suppose any color would do—maybe the white flower?”

  “How about the pink one? It could add a nice touch of color.”

  “I do like that one,” she said, stepping in for a closer look. “Yes, I think you're right. I'll take it.”

  I carefully removed it from the wall and carried it to the front for her. There was a line at the register, so I jumped in to help Ralph, and we had soon checked out all the waiting customers.

  “Enjoy it!” I said, waving at the woman I'd assisted as she left the gallery, carrying her painting.

  Although Pamela was talking to a group of people near the door, the crowd had thinned, and I joined Susan.

  “Amanda, I'm glad you came in when you did. It was getting crazy. I didn't think we'd be so busy after the festivities, but it looks as though things have calmed down now.”

  “Were you able to watch the parade?”

  “We had a bird's-eye view from the balcony upstairs. It was great. I thought the squawking partridge was so cute. Oh, look who's here!” A man wearing a jeans jacket entered the gallery.

  I didn't recognize the newcomer, but Susan seemed pleased to see him when he approached and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  “Eric, I haven't seen you for ages!” Susan exclaimed after she'd introduced us.

  “Yeah, I've been busy, too. Business is way down. I'm barely hanging on there, but things are about to take a turn for the better in a big way.”

  “That's good news.”

  “Yeah, I'm psyched. Timing couldn't be better. Anyway, I thought I'd pop in for a minute to say 'hi.' Figured you'd be here. Looks like you've been busy.” He nodded at the large papier-mâché zebra that stood in the window. “As soon as I saw it, I knew it had to be yours. Say, do you have time to come by the house tomorrow evening? There's something I'd like to show you.”

  “I suppose I could stop by for a few minutes. Amanda and I were planning on going out to dinner tomorrow. Would you like to join us?”

  “Well, all right, if it's OK with Amanda.”

  “Of course. The more, the merrier, and this is certainly the season to be merry,” I agreed.

  “All right. We're on. Text me the time and place, and I'll see you ladies tomorrow.”

  We watched him as he made his way to the door and stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the gallery.

  “I hope he's right about things improving for him.” Susan sighed. “About two years ago, his wife was killed in a terrible helicopter crash. She was my best friend.”

  “Susan, I'm so sorry. I didn't know.”

  “I don't talk about it much. It still hurts, and whenever I see Eric, it hurts even more. I haven't been avoiding him exactly, but I haven't gone out of my way to see him, either. I know he has financial problems now, too.”

  The gallery had almost cleared out by this time, and we joined Ralph and Carrie at the jewelry counter.

  “Say, wasn't the guy you were just talking to the owner of Thrifty Buys?” Carrie asked.

  “Yes. Eric Thompson,” Susan confirmed.

  “I heard the place is going under.”

  “I don't know about that,” Susan said.

  “It's true,” Ralph interjected. “I saw the bankruptcy notice in the newspaper yesterday. He's filed for Chapter 7.”

  Chapter 2

  “So I guess that means he's not going to try to reorganize,” Susan said thoughtfully.

  “It's a real shame,” Carrie said. “No more Thrifty Buys. I always used to pick up a copy at the grocery store, but I suppose most classifieds are online now.”

  “I suppose.” Susan frowned. “Eric must be having a worse time than I realized.”

  “But he said he anticipated a big change for the better,” I reminded her.

  “That's true,” Susan agreed. “By the way, I apologize for not checking with you before I invited him to have dinner with us.”

  “It's totally fine. I'm looking forward to it. It's been a while since we had one of Miguel's margaritas.”

  “Would you mind if we went somewhere else instead? It's just that Miguel's was Natalie's favorite restaurant. She and Eric used to go there all the time.”

  “All right. You never mentioned to him where we planned to go, so we can change it to anywhere.”

  “Shall we try that new place out on the highway?”

  “OK. See you there at six?”

  After we settled on the time, I went to the meeting room to collect my coat. Since Belle would arrive soon, I picked up my purse from the drawer by the register and went to the front to keep a lookout for her. When I saw her coming across the street, I waved goodbye to the gallery members and dashed outside.

  “Do you think Santa's done with his photo shoot yet?” I asked.

  “He should be getting close.”

  We walked to the parade's staging area nearby, in the courthouse's parking lot, where we found Santa and his elves posing for a picture with a little boy who kept pulling on Santa's beard. After his mom cajoled him into behaving, the photographer snapped his final picture of the day.

  “All set, Santa?” Belle asked.

  “Ho! Ho! Ho!” Dennis mugged for the little boy's benefit, before lowering his voice. “Let's go. I can't wait to get out of this costume. I need to ditch the beard, the wig, and the batting before I melt.”

  “You do look a bit uncomfortable,” Belle noted. “Your face is all red, but you did a terrific job.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Claus. Too b
ad there wasn't a costume for you. You could have ridden on the float, too.”

  “That's OK. I'm fine with being the support staff.” Belle chuckled.

  When Belle pulled into their garage, Dennis said a quick goodbye to me, before he rushed inside, eager to change out of his Santa costume.

  “Have you decided which cookies to take to the cookie exchange at Rebecca's tomorrow?” Belle asked, as we got out of the car.

  “I think I'm going to make pinwheels. I like them, but I never seem to think about making them except around the holidays. What about you?”

  “I've already made mine, because I think bourbon balls are better after a day or two.”

  “We take two dozen, right?”

  “Yes, and don't forget to bring enough copies of your recipe for everybody.”

  “Will do. See you tomorrow.”

  I ducked out of the garage and crossed Belle's front lawn to my carport, where I entered my house through the side door. Laddie had heard me coming and was waiting for me on the other side. He jumped up and down with glee at my arrival. My golden retriever much preferred my company to that of Mona Lisa, who usually either ignored or snubbed him, depending on her mood, although, occasionally, she felt friendly and curled up next to him for a cat nap.

  Mona Lisa didn't make an appearance as I petted Laddie and gave him a hug. He followed me the few steps into the living room. “Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,” I sang to the tune of the song of the same name, popularized by Nat King Cole. Although my calico kitty didn't always respond to my latest ploy to tease her out of her hiding places, she came creeping down the hallway, approached me stealthily, and wound around my ankles, mewing as she rubbed against me. I picked her up for a cuddle, but she didn't tolerate it for long. She leapt down, found her feather toy in the corner, and dragged it to me. The message was clear: it was kitty playtime. I obliged her, flicking the feather back and forth while she chased it and pounced over and over. Laddie lay beside me, his eyes following her every move, but he didn't interfere or try to join the game. He'd learned long ago that he might be rewarded for his interest with a swat as she raked her sharp claws across his nose, so he kept a safe distance.