A Christmas Caper (Sugar Martin Vintage Cozy Mysteries Book 3)

  A Christmas Caper

  Sugar Martin Vintage Cozy Mysteries – Book Three

  Shéa MacLeod

  A Christmas Caper

  Sugar Martin Vintage Cozy Mysteries – Book Three

  COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Shéa MacLeod

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Cover Art by Mariah Sinclair/mariahsinclair.com

  Editing by Alin Silverwood

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  A Christmas Caper (Sugar Martin Vintage Cozy Mystery, #3)

  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

  Note from the Author

  About Shéa MacLeod

  Other books by Shéa MacLeod

  Here’s to embracing the magic of the season.

  Chapter 1

  “Well, Tippy,” I said, standing back to admire my handiwork, “it’s small, but it’ll do. What do you think?”

  Tippy looked from me to the Christmas tree and back again. Then he gave a snort and went to curl up in the corner by the grate. Clearly he wasn’t impressed.

  “I think it’s nice,” I protested.

  Tippy wasn’t listening. His eyes were closed, but I was pretty sure he was faking it.

  Tippy, a Pembrokeshire corgi, had belonged to my great-great-aunt, Euphegenia Graves, and had been inherited by me. Neither of us was very excited about it, but we’d managed to get along so far. More or less.

  I’d also inherited Aunt Euphegenia’s cottage in the English village of Meres Reach which sat on the seashore in Devon. To be more precise, Tippy had inherited it, but I was allowed to live there so I could take care of him. It was quaint and cute and about five thousand miles from home.

  My mother had begged me to come home for Christmas, but seeing as how flights from London to Portland, Oregon were extremely expensive, that wasn’t going to happen. So I’d decided to make my own little cheer right in the cottage, starting with a tree which I’d bought from the enterprising Mrs. Johnson down at the Post Office.

  I eyed it as objectively as I could. Okay, so it was only about two feet tall and it wasn’t exactly lush. I hadn’t been able to afford anything else. The ornaments I’d unearthed from the attic dwarfed it—the shiny balls and handblown glass imported from Germany bending the limbs to their breaking point—but it was sparkly and fun, and that’s all that mattered.

  The mantelpiece was lined with holly my neighbor Mrs. Druthers had let me cut from her back garden, and my greeting cards were strung above it. There were two. One from my mother and one from my friend, Toni, who lived in Endmere, the big manor house overlooking Meres Reach. I tried not to focus on the sad fact only two people had felt it worth their time to send me a greeting card, and one was my mother.

  To be fair, I hadn’t sent any out myself, but that was because things were tight, money-wise. I’d been doing all right working as a sort of detective for my aunt’s solicitor, Mr. James Woodward, but the work was sporadic, and there hadn’t been anything in a month. It was starting to pinch. Perhaps I should make Toni a card. I wasn’t very crafty, but it was the thought that counted, right? Would she find that too passé? Maybe I should make one for Penny, my other friend and Toni’s maid. She would love it and not look down her nose because it was handmade.

  Of course the problem with that was that I didn’t have anything to make cards with. Apparently my aunt hadn’t been one for arts and crafts, and there was nothing much in the house. Not even any glue.

  The phone rang with its persistent brrbrr that always set my heart pounding. It was far more strident than American telephones. I answered and was surprised to hear my boss’s voice.

  “Sugar, I need you to come into the office,” he barked without preamble. He wasn’t one for small talk, although he’d always been pleasant.

  My first instinct was a little thrill. Maybe I’d see Jack again. My second instinct was to glance at the round mahogany kitchen clock. It was just past eleven. Far too late in the day for a trip to London. I told him so.

  “It’s urgent,” he insisted. “I can’t... I can’t explain properly over the phone.”

  Now that was intriguing. My mind swirled with possibilities. Perhaps the crown jewels had gone missing and I would be sent to find them! Or a duchess had been kidnapped and I was her only hope!

  Unaware of my nonsense, Mr. Woodward was still speaking. “I’ve already reserved a place for you at the St. Sebastian Hotel. They’re expecting you and Tippy.”

  The St. Sebastian was the same hotel where I’d stayed when I first arrived in London.

  I mentally counted my meagre savings. A train ticket would dig into it a little deeper than I’d like. Baked beans for Christmas dinner didn’t sound very exciting.

  “A ticket for the 1:15 train is waiting for you at the station. Get a move on.” And he hung up.

  I stared at the phone for a moment before returning the receiver to the cradle. “I guess we’re going to London, Tippy.”

  Tippy didn’t care one way or the other, as long as he got his supper.

  The thrill was back, and I couldn’t repress it, even as I cautioned myself not to get overexcited. Jack Chambers was Mr. Woodward’s nephew and employee, and part of Jack’s job was to check in on Tippy and me from time to time. He even helped me on some of my assignments. We’d gotten close, Jack and I, to the point where we’d shared a kiss. One kiss, but it had been... thrilling was the only word for it.

  Problem was, that had been three months ago at one of Toni’s parties, and there’d been nothing since. I was hoping that was because we simply hadn’t seen each other. Almost immediately after, Mr. Woodward had sent Jack off to New York in search of the heir to a barony. He’d sent me a postcard, which had been exciting. He’d finally got home, and we’d planned to meet, only he was sent off again—this time to Greece. He’d sent a postcard from there, too. I wasn’t even sure he was back in London yet.

  Since we would only be gone one night, I wouldn’t need much. I quickly packed my little green train case with the necessities before changing from my comfortable house dress into a red plaid long-sleeved wool dress with a flared circle skirt and velveteen trim. My mother had bought it from the Montgomery Ward’s winter catalogue and mailed it over thinking it would look smart on me. I also donned a matching cap and brown low-heeled oxfords. Much more appropriate for a visit to the city and my employer.

  Once that was done, I made a cheese sandwich, wrapped it in waxed paper, and tucked it into my handbag. Not having to buy lunch on the train or at the station would save money.

  I decided to save even more money on a taxi—there was only one anyway, a rust bucket of a truck driven by Old Tom—and walk to the station. It wasn’t far, though it was uphill. I clipped on Tippy’s lead, hoisted my case, locked the door behind us, and set out.

  The air was brisk but dry. A nice change from the weeklong bout of rain we’d just had. The sky above was a hard, cold blue that almost hurt the eyes to look at it. Smoke streamed from chimneys up and down Sea Breeze Lane, and I imagined the inhabitants gathering around their kitchen tables, enjoying their luncheons, their toes toasty warm thanks to thick socks and cheerful fires. Mine, on the other hand, were on the frosty side. I was starting to wish I’d worn my thick, wool-lined boots. Only they didn’t look elegant.

  It was two weeks ‘til Christmas, and most of my neighbors had hung wreaths on their doors or swags of evergreens from their window frames. Lush green branches lashed together with bright red ribbons. Through front windows, I caught sight of trees covered in shiny baubles and paper snowflakes. One windowsill held a colorful plaster nativity surrounded by cotton wool snow.

  “Sugar Martin! Where are you off to this fine afternoon?”

  I turned and spotted Mrs. Johnson who ran the Post Office. I hardly recognized her out and about instead of behind her counter. She’d removed her usual voluminous green apron and wore a red wool trench coat with a brooch shaped like holly leaves and berries pinned to it.

  “Day off, Mrs. Johnson?”

  “Don’t I wish. I threatened Mr. Johnson with tinned beans for Christmas dinner if he didn’t let me out for some shopping this afternoon.” She chortled, her round cheeks pink in the cold. Mrs. Johnson was at least sixty and one of the best people I knew. Kind to a fault and always with a treat for Tippy.

  “I’m off to London,” I told her. “Just overnight, but Mr. Woodward needed me in the office.”

  She reached down to pat Tippy and slip him something from her pocket. “That ought to be a fun adventure.”

  “I suppose so, yes.” I did enjoy London, but I’d been often enough at this poin
t I didn’t consider it an adventure necessarily. Although usually I knew why I was going. This time it was very mysterious. Forget the crown jewels. What if the queen herself was in danger!

  “Well, I won’t keep you. You’ve got a train to catch.”

  Just then, the whistle blew. I checked my watch. It was just past one. “I better get a move on. I’ve got to get the one fifteen.”

  “I’ll see you when you get back then. Happy Christmas!”

  “Happy Christmas, Mrs. Johnson.” I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to saying “happy Christmas” instead of “merry Christmas,” but I did my best.

  Tippy and I picked up the pace, practically running the last few steps to the station. Only once I was seated with my bag stowed overhead and Tippy curled up at my feet did I have time to wonder what the rush was. Mr. Woodward had assured me after my last job that December would be a quiet month, and I was unlikely to hear from him. Now here he was demanding my presence in London. Apprehension clawed at my insides.

  “Whatever it is, Tippy, we’ll handle it.”

  For once, Tippy was in full agreement.

  Chapter 2

  Woodward and Woodward Solicitors was located in a posh district of London known as Belgravia. Gorgeous, creamy 19th century buildings lined the streets, the only difference between some of them the colors of their doors or the elaborateness of their doorknockers.

  I’d taken a cab straight from the rail station, even though it meant dipping into my meager savings. Perhaps Mr. Woodward would pay me back, seeing as how this was, technically, a business expense.

  At some point we passed a sign advertising Cinderella, the new ballet to premier two days before Christmas, December 23, 1948.

  “Imagine that, Tippy,” I whispered. “I bet it’ll be amazing. I wish I could be there.”

  Tippy reminded me I was dead broke and could in no way afford a trip to the ballet. He was right. Still, a girl could dream.

  The cab stopped in front of a familiar imposing white stone building with a solid red door and a doorknocker in the shape of a lion. The driver kindly handed me my train case before zipping off into the night.

  Inside was an impressive lobby with a marble floor and a front desk manned by a young gentleman with dark hair pomaded into elegant waves. A crystal vase which usually held tulips or gladiolus overflowed with red roses and white lilies, and an eight-foot Christmas tree decorated in red and gold sat against the back wall.

  “Hello, Henry,” I said as Tippy’s nails clicked against the marble. “Happy Christmas. Mr. Woodward is expecting me.”

  “Happy Christmas, Miss Martin, Tippy. I’ll take your case for you. Go on up. He’s waiting.”

  I ascended the staircase, which wound upward around the oval wall to the first floor, stopping in front of an unmarked door. I’d visited Mr. Woodward’s office many times, but I was unaccountably more nervous than usual. Taking a deep breath, I rapped on the door.

  “Come in.” The voice was deep and masculine and a bit hoarse, as if the owner had smoked too many cigarettes.

  Mr. Woodward sat behind a massive oak desk. A window took up nearly the whole back wall and overlooked a park, though currently all I could see was the streetlamp illuminating a bench. By the time the train arrived in London, night had already fallen. In fact, it was near to my bedtime—although I often stayed up late reading, so could hardly say I had a proper bedtime.

  Tippy wandered over to greet his friend.

  Mr. Woodward looked the same as ever. Fit, handsome for an older gentleman, with a shock of white hair, dressed in a tailored dark gray suit. He was precisely the sort of sophisticated person one expected in a lawyer. Or, in this case, solicitor. As far as I could tell, barristers tried cases, solicitors did paperwork. It was like they’d taken the American lawyer and split his job in half. Or rather it was like we Americans had taken two jobs and smooshed them into one. It was, after all, the American way.

  “Sugar, good to see you. Please have a seat.”

  I sat in the comfy leather chair across from him and looked around. The only sign of Christmas was a little silver Santa figurine on his desk.

  “Jack’s not here?” It was out of my mouth before I could reel it back in.

  Mr. Woodward had the kindness not to point out my idiocy. “Afraid Jack’s been called away again.”

  “Another investigation?”

  “Something like that.” He cleared his throat. “The reason I asked you here today is that I have something for you.”

  “For me? Really?” Mr. Woodward had never given me anything that wasn’t required for my job.

  “From your great-great-Aunt Euphegenia.”

  “Oh.” I blinked. “How’d she manage that?” It was a joke, but Mr. Woodward wasn’t laughing.

  “She arranged for three gifts to be delivered this, the first Christmas after her death.” He placed a small wrapped parcel on the desk. “This is, of course, for Tippy.”

  Tippy’s ears perked up.

  A second, slightly larger parcel joined the first. “This one is for you. Both of these are to be opened on Christmas day.”

  “Thank you. It’ll be hard to wait, but we’ll manage.” I reached out, but he stopped me.

  “And this,” he laid a manila envelope on the desk, “is for Mr. Croswell.”

  “Mr. Who?” Tippy and I exchanged confused glances.

  “That,” Mr. Woodward said, “is a very good question.”

  MR. F. CROSWELL

  No. 9 Church Street

  Upper Snow Falls, Devon, England

  The name and address were written in my aunt’s spidery handwriting across the front of the manila envelope. I’d sorted through enough of her correspondence and paperwork at the cottage to recognize it immediately.

  “Who are you, Mr. F. Croswell? And who were you to Aunt Euphegenia?”

  Tippy gave me a look that clearly said, “Woman, you have lost your mind.”

  No doubt he was right. Talking to oneself was the first sign one had gone doolally. The second, as my mother often said, was answering yourself. Fortunately, I hadn’t gotten to that point. Yet.

  Whoever this Mr. Croswell was, it was my duty to see he got this envelope. It was annoying, my aunt still bossing me around from the grave. As if she hadn’t made a big enough ruckus in my life already.

  “We’re going to have to make a trip to this Upper Snow Falls, Tippy. We have no choice.”

  Tippy made it clear he didn’t care. He was more interested in the scenery flying by the train window.

  After my visit with Mr. Woodward, I’d gone straight to the hotel where George, the sweet bellboy from my previous visit, showed me to my room and offered to take Tippy for a walk in the park before feeding him his dinner. That gave me the opportunity to grab a quick bite at a nearby sandwich shop before they closed and then speak to the front desk clerk, Mr. Dix. He’d looked up Upper Snow Falls for me and discovered it was a village not far from Plymouth in Devon.

  After a restful sleep and a breakfast of eggs and toast, Tippy and I caught the early train home.

  “We could go straight there, I suppose,” I told Tippy as I stuffed the envelope back in my train case with the other gifts, “but I don’t want to haul everything all over creation. Better to drop it off at home, don’t you think so?”

  Tippy didn’t care one way or the other.

  I’d been relieved when Henry, Mr. Woodward’s receptionist, slipped me a bit of petty cash “for expenses.” It was enough that I hadn’t had to worry about the expense of taxis or sandwich shops while in London. It also meant I could afford a trip down the hill with Old Tom when he caught me at the station.

  “Hullo, Miss. Need a lift?” His “lift” was a rusty green truck that had seen better days. I supposed it must have once had shocks, but they were long worn out.

  “That’d be great, Tom,” I said, allowing him to manhandle both my train case and Tippy into the vehicle. I managed to climb up into the cab on my own steam. I’m sure he’d have helped if I’d have asked but, based on how quickly my case had been tossed, I was a little afraid to have him try.

  As we lumbered over the cobbled streets, conversation topics ranged from the nice weather we were having (it was sprinkling) to the latest menu item (plum charlotte—a dessert made of fruit, sugar, butter, and breadcrumbs, not unlike a bread pudding; it sounded delicious) at the Sullen Oyster (the local—in fact, the only—pub in Meres Reach). By the time he set Tippy and me down at the front door of the cottage, we were all caught up on the day’s village gossip.