Santa Snowflakes & Strychnine Read online

  Santa, Snowflakes, & Strychnine

  Katie & Maverick Mysteries, Book 4

  Mary Seifert

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  Watch for the next book in this series, coming soon!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am lucky to have found a home for the stories of Katie and Maverick and want to extend my unending gratitude to Stephanie Dewey and Lee Ellison for their help making this extraordinary experience a reality, and the marvelous Beta readers—Marcia Koopmann and Isobel Tamney—who check the words and make them shine.

  After an exciting whirlwind of good cheer, I have a moment to extend my appreciation to those who have read or listened to my stories, let me muddle through, and laughed with me. My list of names keeps growing, and if I miss someone, please accept my apologies.

  Thank you to those dear to my heart who have provided encouragement, answers, shoulders to cry on, unfailing support, and advice along the way: my friends, readers, and cheerleaders—Colleen Okland; Jenifer Leitch, Evy Hatjistilianos, and Ruth Neely; my book buddies—Sandra Unger, Dr. Joan Christianson, Dr. Amy Ellingson, Eve Blomquist, and Maria Hughes; and tech support from Thomas Seifert.

  A huge hug to my siblings and their spouses who’ve known me longest and never gave up on me—Margaret and Pat Sullivan, Michael and Patricia Gehlen, and Michele and Steve Germscheid. I hope you all see part of yourselves. My love of reading mysteries came from our mother, Jean, our grandfather, Harry, and our dad, John, who loved telling grand stories.

  My biggest thank you goes to my family—a lifetime of appreciation to my husband John (you always let me dream), my children: Kindra, Danica, Charles, and Thomas, sons-in-law Adam and Mitch (you all maintained I could do it), and my grandchildren (your smiles warm my heart). I couldn’t have done it without you.

  A huge thank you to all who have taken time to read. If you like what you read, please leave a review on your bookseller’s webpage or on your favorite media site.

  Comparison is the thief of joy.

  Teddy Roosevelt

  CHAPTER ONE

  I sat at the beautifully appointed table among wonderful companions in a spectacular venue, eating delicious food, wishing I was home with my dog.

  Ida Clemashevski, our town’s self-appointed ambassador and my landlady, had reserved a table at the black-tie event. She took it upon herself to introduce new residents to Columbia, Minnesota, and insisted my dad and his wife attend. At the last minute, my stepmother Elizabeth reneged on the invitation, unable to make the two-hour trip because of a work commitment, or so she said. Ida roped me into using the ticket.

  Dad shot me a wicked wink across our table. I didn’t think anyone could’ve detected his slight hesitation or deliberate movements. The giant strides he’d made after his traumatic brain injury were nothing short of a miracle. We were sharing our living space until the demands of Elizabeth’s job declined. Afterall, he’d taken a bullet meant for me.

  I sipped the smooth white chocolate martini but nearly dropped my glass, startled by the smack of the gavel on a wood block.

  “Sold for three hundred fifty dollars.”

  The words boomed from the sound system in a room built to replicate the First-Class Dining Saloon of the Titanic, complete with White Star china place settings, glitzy crystal glassware, and over-the-top holiday decorations. The room, originally used as part of the sound stage for Robert Bruckner’s film, Titanic: One Story, was a welcome addition to the Midwest Minnesota History Center. The luxury and immensity made it a desirable venue for large gatherings.

  The fundraising gala provided an opportunity to play dress up. My friend Jane Mackey had lent me a gorgeous amethyst gown. When she’d worn it to the screening of the history center’s cornerstone film at Columbia’s Convention Center, it brushed the floor. On me it hit mid-calf and looked decidedly different.

  I adjusted the strap on my dress and snuck another glance at the head table. My success in the romance department bordered on the non-existent, and the view I had of the guests seated there solidified my resolve to swear off men.

  Pete Erickson caught me looking, and my face warmed. He raised his glass, and I tipped mine in response. I met Pete, the doctor on duty during my first trip to the ER, when I needed stitches. He was charming and smart, and he’d shown interest. I’d been careful, reserved, and thoughtful, taking baby steps, still coming to terms with the murder of my husband eighteen months before.

  When I’d finally decided to give our relationship a shot, I’d missed my chance. He and his faithful nurse had been accepted into an elite fellowship program in telemedicine designed to benefit small outstate communities like ours.

  We were still friends, but they were engaged.

  My next heartthrob discovered a daughter he never knew existed and channeled all his energy into building a strong relationship with her. I couldn’t have been happier for them, but I understood learning how to be a dad took time and effort.

  The fact the last man who’d put a twinkle in my eye currently awaited trial on murder charges strengthened my determination to guard my heart.

  I felt a light pat on the back of my hand. “Katherine Jean Wilk, tell her.” Whenever Ida demanded I pay attention, she used my first, middle, and last names for emphasis. Ida’s eyes landed on my friend, Jane. “Tell her she paid too much for the wreath. It’s made entirely of costume jewelry.”

  My bubbly friend dragged her moony brown eyes away from her tall blond beau, Drew Kidd. “But I love Christmas and decorations and lights, and it will hang nicely on my front door.” She sighed and gazed back again. The lights of the room glinted off her flaxen curls, the kind that didn’t come from a bottle. Her fiery red dress hugged her petite frame as if she’d been sewn into her gown, sequin by sequin. Her chin dropped into her palm, and the blood-red nail of her forefinger rhythmically tapped her jaw.

  Drew laughed. “You’d better appreciate every bid you’ve won. I don’t know anyone else who would have paid so much for that box contraption.”

  “It’s called an antique shadowbox. When I switch out the keepsakes, I’ll have a beautiful display.”

  Drew bent his head so his words wouldn’t stray beyond our table. “And I wish you’d be more circumspect. You’re acting like you could have a lot of money.”

  Jane frowned. She did have a lot of money. We all kidded her about flaunting more than just her physical assets.

  “It would be criminal if someone used the information about your dad owning Sapphire Skyway to get something from you.” Drew would know. As an agent for the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, he’d seen his fair share of the seedy side of life.

  Jane waved off his concern.

  A tuxedo-clad man filled the empty spot on the stand with the next offering, and Drew leaned forward to get a better look at the colorful placard. It advertised an all-inclusive three-day, two-night weekend sports trip to the Twin Cities for two. The winner claimed tickets to a Twins baseball game, a United soccer match, and a round of golf at Interlachen with accommodations arranged at a luxury hotel and vouchers for dinner from an impressive list of four-star restaurants.

  “Now, here’s something you should bid on,” Drew hinted, forgetting his words of caution a minute earlier.

  Before gearing up again, the emcee enlivened the crowd with an animated rendition of “The Auctioneer,” her trademark song, and we clapped along until she hooted and curtsied.

  She wiped her brow. “Now we’re rolling.”

  As bidder cards flew up around me, more items fell to the hammer. I sipped my drink and purposely kept my eyes off a certain table at the front.

  “Excuse me,” said a server as
he reached around and set a beautiful Pavlova in front of Dad and another in front of Ida. They clinked forks and contemplated how to attack the dulce de leche dripping down the sides of the baked meringue piled high with creamy whipped topping and studded with ruby-red strawberries. Ida plucked the blackberry topper, popped it into her mouth, and licked her lips.

  The server, a student belonging to my science club, set a dessert the size of an iceberg in front of me, laughed, and said, “See you Monday, Ms. Wilk, that is, if you’ll be able to move after …” He looked up and scowled. I followed his gaze. A short, round female, tottering on her high heels, sidled near an easel. She pulled aside the fabric covering one of the auction items, trying to sneak a peek. “Ma’am.” He stepped in front of the easel and pressed the fabric back into place. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be doing that.”

  “I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” she said with a huff.

  The server graciously escorted her to her table, and she plopped into the seat next to the guest of honor, Grace Loehr.

  Miss Grace hadn’t attended the fundraiser before. To make up for lost time, she promised to match the funds raised during the live pledge proceedings—a very big deal. You’d never have known by her frugal lifestyle, but Miss Grace came from three generations of poultry producers. With no desire to live on a farm, she’d sold her shares at market value to cousins and successfully invested in the tech industry decades earlier. Who knew?

  Grace Loehr and Ida Clemashevski lived across the street from one another for forty years and hadn’t spoken for much of that time. They recently donned the mantle of friendship and smoothed out some of the rough spots in order to provide a stable home for two high school girls in need of assistance.

  “Remember our plan,” Ida said in a stage whisper.

  She’d given each of us a task. With her eye on the prize, she’d plotted a bidding war to raise the stakes and make the evening more enjoyable for observers and participants alike. I scooted my chair to face front and couldn’t wait for them to reveal the art on the easel covered by the gold-sequined drape.

  “Next on the docket is an original piece by a local artist.” The auctioneer scanned a note card. “Encaustics, or hot wax painting, is one of the oldest art forms in the world. Pieces have survived for centuries on mummy sarcophagi, Italian masterpieces, and age-old painted panels. The artist, Phillip McCall, has blended artifacts donated by the estate of the late Robert Bruckner, founder of the New Titanic Exhibit, which you are all welcome to visit during regular business hours.

  “The work is bathed in colors that simulate roiling water carved into the wax and evokes feelings of desperation and perhaps salvation in a collage for enthusiasts of the doomed ship. The work is valued at five hundred dollars.”

  She hurled the sparkly fabric over the top and unveiled a totally blank square. The crowd gasped. The little, plump woman who’d tried to sneak a peek snorted.

  At the table next to us, a stout man with a scraggly beard and a poor comb-over hoisted himself erect. His chair crashed to the floor behind him. He stabilized his wobbly stance by planting his knuckles on the table and leaning forward, peering at the blank canvas. He shoved tortoiseshell glasses higher up on his nose.

  “Mr. McCall,” the auctioneer said, surprised. “The artist.” A few guests applauded.

  The young, black-haired woman seated next to him righted the fallen chair. He leaned over to her, and they traded serious words.

  She cleared her throat. “Mr. McCall’s pieces generate fierce emotion … as you can see.” Titters rose from the crowd. “He begins with a blank canvas like this, and I … will … retrieve a sample of what he can produce. If you’ll excuse me for a minute.” She scurried from the room, her stilettos clattering in the silence.

  McCall sank into his seat, grumbling.

  The audience waited.

  The woman returned, dragging another square to the front. “Mr. McCall would like to create a personal work of art for the winner, but this is what an encaustic can look like.” She threw off a white covering. The exposed work gave the illusion of frenetic movement in brackish waters, like dark ink circling a drain, sucking bits of everything into a dark hole and prompted murmurs of admiration. “Or the winner may choose this piece.” The spectators applauded. She beamed. McCall relaxed.

  “Let’s get out those wallets and pocketbooks and remember the funds we raise tonight will help purchase equipment badly needed in the nephrology department of the children’s wing at Columbia Memorial,” the auctioneer said. “Who’ll bid three hundred dollars?”

  At first, the auctioneer’s rapid-fire rhythmic chant elicited few responses, but she knew the names, careers, and family histories of many of the evening’s attendees. She described where the piece might hang in a home or office, or to whom the gift could be given. She played one bidder against another for a few paltry dollars until Ida waved her card.

  “Six hundred.”

  “Mrs. Clemashevski, Ida,” said the auctioneer. “What makes this piece special to you?”

  Ida had put the auctioneer up to this, a part of her strategy. “Phillip is a terrific artist. He was a student of mine, of course.” The crowd laughed. “Learned everything at the knee of a master. Creating this hot wax painting required hours of concentration and attention to detail, shaping and reshaping the surface for the three-dimensional effect. I’m a great admirer and hope this artistic endeavor puts McCall on the map.”

  The auctioneer restarted her spiel. “Six fifty? Anyone bid six fifty. I’ll let you know when the bid gets too high.” The auctioneer pointed her gavel and nodded her curly strawberry blond head. “I’ll take that bid of six fifty.”

  Jane giggled and lowered her card.

  “Seven hundred. Who’ll bid seven hundred? Six fifty, once. Six fifty, twice.”

  Dad said, “Seven hundred.” Ida’s eyes twinkled.

  “Seven hundred. Do I hear eight?” She accepted another bid from someone in the front. “Do I have nine?”

  Ida’s brow wrinkled and she said, “Nine hundred.” She knew the value of the art and set one thousand dollars as her bid cap.

  “Nine fifty.”

  Ida recognized the voice at the front and relaxed into her chair. “One thousand dollars,” she said, triumphantly.

  “Fifteen hundred,” came the voice from the front table.

  “Grace knows how much I want that piece,” Ida whispered as her eyebrows came together. “Two thousand dollars,” she shouted.

  “Two thousand five hundred,” said Miss Grace above the murmuring crowd.

  “Three thousand.”

  The fierce look in Ida’s eyes indicated the mantle of friendship had slipped. I sat on the edge of my chair.

  “Three thousand going once, going twice.”

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  The auctioneer searched Ida’s face. She shook her head. “Sold to Miss Grace Loehr for five thousand dollars for a magnificent cause. Would you like the original or a new piece?”

  Not waiting to hear the answer, Ida stood, slammed her chair against the table, and stormed away. The stillness in the room caught every footfall.

  Ida broke stride as she passed McCall’s table. I could’ve sworn he said, “Cheapskate.”

  Dad gave me the nod.

  I followed Ida.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I found Ida sagged over the sink in the restroom, dabbing at her puffy kelly-green eyes with a lace handkerchief, cleaning up the lines of mascara. She inhaled and exhaled slowly, letting the counter support her weight. She rummaged through her purse, digging out a tube of lipstick.

  “Well.” She studied the mirror, turning her face from side to side, and tried refreshing the magenta color with shaky hands. She ran her fingers through her freshly dyed red hair. “That didn’t go as planned, but I don’t know why I’m so torn up over it.” She sighed. “I thought Grace and I were on the same page. But I couldn’t have been more mistaken. After all t
his time, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  When she took a breath, I said. “It’s for a good cause.”

  “Of course, you’re right—the children,” she said, bringing her full four-foot-eleven-inch frame upright and forcing a grin.

  We turned when the door creaked. The rhythmic tap of a cane followed by measured steps preceded Miss Grace. Ida’s features fell.

  “What was that all about?” asked Miss Grace. “Are we throwing a tantrum?”

  Ida shook her head. Her nostrils flared. “Why did you buy my piece?

  “Your piece? If you wanted it, you should have bid higher.”

  “I told you my plan and what I was willing to bid,” Ida said through clenched teeth. “You know how much it meant to me.”

  “Scrooge.”

  “Battle-axe.”

  “Skinflint.”

  “Thief.”

  “You have more than enough money.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  No one spoke. What was the point?

  “Phillip was a student of mine as well. Your reminder merely gave me added incentive. Do you think you should always be able to get everything you want, Ida Clemashevski?” Miss Grace straightened her back. “Remember the car?”

  Ida’s eyes clouded.

  “You bought it out from under my nose,” Miss Grace said, waving her right hand. “And you still drive it, even offering me a ride.”

  “My Plymouth? You don’t drive and you never said anything. I never knew,” Ida stammered.

  The door opened a crack and a face peered in, read the tension in the room, and retreated.

  “My piano students were every bit as good as yours.”

  “That contest was a long time ago, Grace.”

  “They were disqualified on a technicality.”

  “That wasn’t—”

  “Although, without a doubt, I am the better performer.”