The Easter Sunday Slaughter: A Cozy Spring Murder Mystery (Claire Andersen Murder for All Seasons Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) Read online

  THE

  EASTER SUNDAY

  SLAUGHTER

  A Cozy Claire Andersen

  Murder for All Seasons Mystery

  By

  Imogen Plimp

  Copyright 2020 by Imogen Plimp

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without express permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any entities, current or historical, or any persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

  eBook cover by: Carrie Peters @ Cheeky Covers

  Dedication

  For Pidget, who usually got away with it.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Prologue

  The figure was smartly dressed in business professional attire: a navy suit with a navy striped tie, freshly polished dress shoes (they were black, but beggars can’t be choosers), white-blonde hair slicked sharply back and obscured under a narrow-brimmed Fedora. To the oblivious onlooker, the figure appeared harmless—a polite young man out for a stroll on a Sunday afternoon, still dressed in his obligatory Sunday best. The sun was out, but there was a late March chill, accompanied by a formidable late March wind. Was it March or April that was in like a lion, out like a lamb? the figure thought absent-mindedly. But it was no matter.

  He sauntered casually down Main Street, pausing to admire the oil paintings of muscle cars an old man was rendering on the sidewalk, his wiry brushes tucked into his trouser pockets. Some of the paintings were quite good. Funny, somehow. The figure waltzed in and out of an antique soda shop, pretending to silently admire the collection of rare fountain goods. He moseyed on into a crowded café, ordered a small Americano with a splash of crème, and moseyed on out without so much as noticing or being noticed by a single person. He smiled slyly to himself as he exited through the entryway. He felt invisible—and that made him feel dangerous.

  He continued down to the end of the street—where it began to climb the hill next to the meandering sapphire river—and walked past the giant old Victorian mansion standing almost ominously in the plot directly next to his destination. Trespassers beware! the house seemed to warn. Now his heart was beginning to beat faster. Now he had to be careful.

  As he passed the Victorian, he noticed a petite middle-aged woman, pretty and plain—yet somehow subtly striking, her long hair the color of silvery fish scales shimmering in the sun—kneeling in a raised bed in her side yard, tilling the ground with a spade. She looked over at him as he walked past, and she tilted her straw sunhat in a friendly hello. The man nodded in kind. She might be a problem, he took note. But he also considered the notion that suddenly turning around on account of the woman’s mere existence would only look more suspicious than charging on. Besides, her entire house would soon be hiding him from her view.

  He passed the Victorian and found himself gazing up at a familiar old two-story brick building. He paused. He turned to face the building and squinted up at the sun rays streaming out from over the roof, peering this way and that, craning his neck as if terribly interested in the property and straining to get a better look. He turned to look to his left, and then to his right—and then he stepped coolly into the alleyway between the brick building and the Victorian. Once in the alleyway, he suppressed the urge to peek back around the corner and make sure no one had seen him. Even if they had, he reminded himself, it wouldn’t make a difference.

  He felt suddenly cold in the damp shade cast between the two buildings. He huddled, warding off a slight shiver as he walked. He instantly found what he was looking for: the broken window on the first floor of the brick building, last window on the right. He reached gingerly into the window’s shattered corner pane with his left arm, bent his elbow awkwardly toward the center, flipped open the brass lock, and pushed up with all his might. The window frame creaked—but it opened. Quickly, he hoisted himself up onto the ledge and then into the building headfirst, pulling his feet and their freshly polished shoes in after him.

  Once inside and turned upright, he gazed around curiously—as if he wasn’t breaking and entering. As if he were simply exploring a friend’s recently renovated sitting room. Everything was just as he’d expected it would be: spotless, chic, gaudy. Over-the-top and self-important. And the smell… It smelled like a bank. Crisp and clean. Feigning cheer and vaguely foreign. Like if you made the wrong move, someone would come out and reprimand you sternly—put you in your place … or worse. It was all so much like the building’s owner. He hated him.

  He smoothed out the lapels of his suit, which were dusted with blotches of soot from the exterior windowsill. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a vial—a small glass tube with a cork cap. He prowled soundlessly to the corner of the room, where an antique tin surgeon’s cart had been fashioned into a wet bar. How quaint, he thought bitterly.

  He popped open the crystal liquor bottle labeled “scotch,” uncorked his vial, and poured its entire pale blue contents into the bottle. Then he slid the empty vial and cork back into his breast pocket, replaced the liquor bottle cap, and shook vigorously.

  He placed the bottle of scotch carefully back in its rightful spot, fitting it just-so where the bottle had cast a dark shadow and the surrounding tin appeared slightly faded. He bent down to inspect the scotch concoction, holding his breath… But it looked no different than it had looked before.

  Satisfied, he stepped casually back toward the window. He swung his leg over the ledge, then the other, and hopped down into the cold, damp alleyway. He pulled the window shut, reached in through the shattered pane to lock the lever, and turned to his right. He strolled quickly down the remainder of the alleyway toward the brick building’s backyard—beyond which he planned to take the gravel service road—and, with a gentle sigh of relief, stepped back into the early spring sunshine.

  Chapter One

  “Do you want some tea, Claire?” Evelyn asked me.

  “Sure! Black with a little honey would be great, thanks,” I said as I closed the French doors behind me and unraveled my thin silk emerald green scarf. Spring was almost here. I had even seen a tulip coming up by the library a few days ago, although mine were lagging behind… But spring hadn’t fully arrived yet—it was taking its sweet time. “The place is looking great!” I called to Evelyn down the hallway, gazing around me at the va
ulted shop ceilings, the buttercream and violet walls—I could still smell the fresh paint—and the newly installed walnut shelves.

  I unbuttoned my coat and took a seat in the window, settling in cozily atop a plush maroon cushion. Midday sunshine was streaming in through the dusted window panes, streaking across Evelyn’s newly polished hardwood floors. Dust bunnies were dancing in the soft golden light. I rumpled up my nose, willing myself not to let loose a sneeze.

  “Irish breakfast. Hope that’s ok,” Evelyn said as she waltzed back down the hallway, carefully balancing two porcelain tea cups.

  “Perfect!” I smiled up at her as she handed me a cup. I took a sip. “Delicious,” I nodded. “Hey, the place looks great!” I said again.

  Evelyn took in her surroundings proudly, one hand perched on her hip. “Thanks. It’s sure taken enough work to get this far!” She pushed an errant silvery-blonde curl out of her eyes and rubbed at a spot just below her cheekbone where a smudge of violet paint still stuck to her skin, a badge of her strong work ethic.

  I nodded. “I know! The two of you have been at it constantly for … what … over a month?”

  Evelyn rolled her eyes dramatically. “Feels like one hundred months. But at least I don’t have to live here! I don’t know how you did it, fixin’ up that ole’ house of yours while sleepin’ in it.”

  “I think my place was in slightly better shape than this one … but yeah, I know what you mean.” I grinned at Evelyn as she took an indelicate slurp of tea.

  She squinted and gazed around at the space, this time more critically. “One more coat of paint oughta do it—and then we’re in business!”

  I shook my head. “This is amazing, Evelyn—but how will you manage it? You work full time at the post office already. How are you going to find the time to man a pottery store, too?”

  “It’s not a pottery store, Claire, don’t be insulting…” She rolled her eyes again—this time with me as their target.

  “Excuse me—a mug store. Is that what you’re calling it?”

  “Yup! A store that sells mugs.”

  “You know the name of it yet?”

  Evelyn looked at me blankly, as if I’d just asked her my own phone number. “It’s called Mug.”

  “Oh, right…” I nodded, trying not to smirk. “I’d forgotten.”

  Evelyn suddenly lit up like a Christmas tree. “There she is! My partner-in-crime!” She scuttled hurriedly to the front doors and swung them open—shepherding the crisp spring air into the storefront—as Ellen Winowski stumbled downhill from around the corner, a tower of giant cardboard boxes cradled in her shaky arms.

  I stood up and placed my tea cup delicately onto my window seat. “Here, Ellen! Let me help you…” I grabbed ahold of the far edge of her box tower, and we carefully guided it to rest atop the nearest folding chair.

  “Whew! Thanks…” Ellen said, wiping a bead of sweat off her brow and tucking a pair of giant sunglasses into the collar of her sweater.

  Ellen Winowski—Evelyn’s longtime friend and proud co-owner of Mug—was a lovely woman, pleasant and plump, with big, wavy, chin-length greying-brown hair and bright green eyes that crinkled up when she smiled. She was one of those people who was always into something new and exciting right before it became the hot new thing. It was like she had her finger on the pulse of each and every fad before it became popular. She knew the latest in reliable new cars before Consumer Reports, she knew whether succulents were in or out several seasons early, what kinds of vegetables would be making a resurgence in trendy restaurants around the country. Plus, she was absolutely delightful—and she had one of my all-time favorite laughs. She laughed loudly and proudly, with a full belly.

  “Hi, Claire! Good to see you!” Ellen gave me a big hug and then pulled back to smile at me—her irises adjusting to the inside light, her eyes crinkling. “What do you think of our new baby?”

  “She’s magnificent!” I said, beaming. “You must be so excited…”

  “Oh, I really am!” Ellen crooned as Evelyn began loudly sifting through the boxes she had delivered. She pulled out a comically small and stout clay mug, rough and dimpled, painted in earth tones—rust and burnt sienna and mustard.

  “Those are so cute,” Ellen said excitedly. “But look at the big ones underneath…”

  Evelyn rustled some tissue paper around—and squealed in delight, pulling out a black-and-white polka-dotted mug the size of a breakfast cereal bowl.

  “Very Alice in Wonderland,” I suggested.

  Ellen winked at me.

  “Ellen! You minx! I love these!” Evelyn could hardly contain her excitement.

  “My friend Donna’s friend Jan’s daughter Emily made those—the one who lives in California?”

  Evelyn nodded enthusiastically. “People are going to love ‘em!” she exclaimed, then turned her attention to more rifling.

  “So, when do you open?” I asked Ellen.

  She shook her head. “Not totally sure yet … but hopefully by next week. I still have to figure out some stuff with the county—you know, boring business stuff, paperwork…” She waved into the air like she was swatting away fruit flies.

  I nodded. “I had to go through all that with the bed and breakfast,” I said. “Not too bad—they make it pretty easy around here.”

  “That’s what it seems like! So…” Ellen reached out and grasped my upper arm excitedly “…are we on for Monday?”

  “Yes! Looking forward to it.”

  “Have you finished yet?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Yes—but I read it for the first time years ago, so it was a quick and easy one for me.”

  “I’m almost done,” Ellen said. “Just getting to the good part,” her eyes crinkling with delight.

  “I haven’t started,” Evelyn said dully, far more interested in her treasure chest of mug goodies than in our boring conversation.

  “Why am I not surprised…” I murmured to Ellen under my breath, who chuckled.

  “Evelyn!” she sang in a scolding tone. “You’d love Murder on the Orient Express! A train gets stuck in the snow, and—”

  “I’ve seen the movie,” Evelyn retorted, vaguely annoyed.

  “Oh, but the book is so much better!” I exclaimed.

  “…And you’re always saying how winter is your favorite season,” Ellen added, “and the way it’s written, it’s like you’re cozied up by the fireplace—”

  “Fall is my favorite season,” Evelyn interrupted.

  “Ah. My mistake.” Ellen smirked in my direction. “Well, anyway… You should read it before book club on Monday. You’d adore it.”

  Evelyn paused to think. “What cocktails are we drinkin’?” she asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” I replied. “I was going to ask you, but maybe I shouldn’t leave that decision in your hands … now that I know you haven’t even read the book…”

  Ellen whacked my arm playfully.

  “I thought you said it was gonna be more of a ‘drinking club with a reading problem’,” Evelyn said, raising an eyebrow.

  Ellen nodded. “Oh, it is! We’re just teasing you.”

  Truth be told, Evelyn also wanted our book club to be a forum for potentially regular séances, but after the last one we conducted in my house—in a blizzard with the power out and a body in my basement, unbeknown to the both of us—I wasn’t so sure I was ready for another (let alone a regular commitment).

  “We should do some sort of champagne cocktail,” Ellen suggested excitedly, “and maybe a Turkish coffee as a sober option? Like the kind they’d drink in Istanbul before they depart? Or something equally exotic…”

  “I have these really lovely miniature crystal champagne saucers we can drink from. You’ll love them. I was thinking I’d find a recipe to match the glassware?”

  “Yes!” Ellen said enthusiastically.

  “Anyway, I’ll think of something, I’m sure…” I smiled.

  “Well!” Ellen clapped her hands together with reso
lve. “I guess we’d better snap to it, shouldn’t we?” She turned to Evelyn, who was elbow deep in the second box of mugs.

  Evelyn pulled out a tall copper mug with a frosted silver top, her face lighting up like a carnival.

  “I’ll leave you gals to it,” I told them, turning toward the front doors and wrapping my silk scarf loosely around my neck.

  “Monday at 7:00?” Ellen asked.

  “Yes!”

  “Thanks for stopping by, Claire!” Evelyn said. “I’ll probably come to your place tomorrow, see if I can’t bug ya while you’re cooking.”

  I smiled at her. “You know you’re always welcome.”

  “Mi casa es su casa.”

  “Other way around,” I suggested.

  Evelyn knit up her eyebrows and licked her top lip, deep in thought. “Casa mi es casa su?”

  Ellen bust into her trademark belly laugh.

  I shook my head and grinned. “See you tomorrow, then.”

  I pulled shut the hefty French doors behind me and buttoned up on the sidewalk in the thick afternoon sun. Then I ambled around the corner to my brand new bicycle—a cheerful peach-coloured beach cruiser with thick treaded wheels my daughter Al had found for me at a flea market the last time she’d come to town for a visit. I strapped on my helmet and saddled in.

  From the sidewalk out front of what would soon be Mug, I could see most of the town down below. Galway, Maryland, nestled into the mild Appalachian foothills; quaint and colorful—and only just beginning to thaw from a long, hard winter and slowly awaken from hibernation.

  I could feel the spring coming in my bones (some might say it’s early-onset arthritis, but I like to think of it as something more special), and I was looking forward to it immensely—in the same way a little kid looks forward to tearing into a wicker basket of sugary goodies from the Easter bunny.

  With a smile on my face, I hopped up onto my extra-cushioned cruiser seat and began to pedal steadily downhill towards home.