“Hey, Paul, how’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“Say, hey, I’ve been fine. Just thought I’d join the crowd for the tree lighting. Haven’t done this in a while. How’s that law practice of yours?” he responded while looking down at his boots that he utilized to create designs in the snow, aiding him in avoiding eye contact.
“Everything is going well. Glad you came over here tonight. We’ll have to get together for lunch sometime and catch up.”
“Yeah, I don’t get to Elkton much since the folks died. Give me a call next time you’re in Bayfield and we’ll be sure to have lunch, eh,” the officer replied. He shook hands with Alex and trekked closer to the gazebo.
As the two old friends parted ways, Alex sensed that something didn’t seem quite right. He didn’t act like the Paul Miller he knew so well. He seemed a bit off, and deliberately didn’t look him in the eye. He watched as Paul blended into the thick crowd where folks were prodding into each other, like they always did whenever they had an event in the square.
Mayor Mueller and his wife, Greta, forged their way amongst the masses, greeting, waving, and stopping to converse as they headed toward the gazebo. Needing to put more holly on the gazebo railings, Oswald Benson, owner of Benson’s Hardware and Nursery, Elizabeth Smith, and Sandra Becker rushed ahead of Max and Greta, toting the necessary decorations, and bumping into everyone in their path.
In just a few minutes the Mayor would be turning on the switch to light the tree. The band played one more song, and then Maximilian and Greta stepped up onto the stage of the gazebo, and positioned themselves under a sprig of mistletoe.
A hush spread across the town square, while everyone waited with anticipation for the tree to be lit. The only sounds to be heard were that of a baby crying, and a mother whispering to quiet her child.
“Merry Christmas, Elktonites! Another year has passed and we have much for which to be thankful. The war ended in the summer of ’45 and we’re going strong today!”
The crowd clapped and cheered.
“Without anything further, let’s light up the tree!”
The mayor hit the switch causing the tree to light up in a beautiful array of colors that brought more applauses and roars from the people. The band played, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” and everyone sang along.
When the song ended the mayor leaned in to kiss his wife under the mistletoe. Instead, he went into convulsions, gagged and fell over. Doc Anderson rushed to his side, the band stopped playing, the crowd gasped. Doc opened the mayor’s coat, sweater, and shirt to witness a horrifying sight. Max’s body had turned a cherry red color and he was no longer breathing.
“Sheriff Lange, you’d better get up here and see this,” Doc called. “It isn’t good.”
Sheriff James Lange darted up onto the stage in about two leaps. “James, I’m certain this man has been poisoned with cyanide. I don’t know how it was done, but it could only have happened in the last fifteen minutes or so.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m positive. The color of his skin is cherry red and not because he’s cold either. Look at his chest.”
The two beheld the shocked townspeople, and the sheriff knew he had to give them a response. He turned toward Greta, who had lost all color in her face, and shook his head, providing her with an unspoken word that Max was dead. Doc caught her when she started to faint, and James faced the crowd.
“This is not easy to say, but the mayor of Elkton is dead, and it looks as though he’s been poisoned.”
Cries and screams bellowed across the town square, but for one person in the crowd, a great relief swelled from deep inside. It’s over.
Chapter Five
8:30 P.M., December 24, 1946
Sheriff Lange had the body of Mayor Maximilian Mueller transported to the morgue where he would remain until a medical examiner could arrive from Duluth, Minnesota to perform an autopsy. It would take longer to complete because of the Christmas holiday. Doc Roy Anderson and his wife, Nora brought Greta home, gave her a sedative, and stayed with her for the night. The death of the mayor was one thing, but his murder yet another, producing a dark cloud that hovered above all of Elkton.
The town council called an emergency meeting to discuss what to do about the Christmas carnival. So much planning and tedious preparations had gone into it, so a decision had to be made on whether or not to cancel it.
Agatha Larsen, Theodore Olsen, Alexander Larsen, Sheriff James Lange, Reverend Albert Clark, Talissa King, and Karen Frank made up the town council, sans the mayor.
The sheriff officiated the meeting. “This is a terrible tragedy, believe you me, but we’ve got to deal with it, and decide if we should cancel this thing.”
Agatha spoke up, “The murder of the mayor is unbelievable. I can’t get it into my head that this has actually occurred. But the children have had a huge scare by witnessing something they never should have seen. It’s too much of a shock. We’ve got to think about them, and proceed with the carnival.”
Beads of sweat had formed across the forehead of bank president, Theodore Olsen as he spoke in harsh tones to the council. “Oh, how do you know Max was murdered? Who in this town would kill anybody? He could have had a heart attack. I think everyone is jumping to conclusions about this thing. We should have waited until the medical examiner performed the autopsy before telling everybody we’ve got a murder on our hands. Although it is too late for that thanks to you, James.”
“I saw the body, Theodore. He was murdered. No one turns cherry red from a heart attack, but they do if they’ve been injected with cyanide. I do agree that we need to wait until we get the official report from the autopsy, but until then I’m treating this as a homicide. Right now we have to make a decision about the carnival. Anyone else have anything to say?”
Alex searched the faces of the other members of the council, whose demeanors were that of sadness and shock at the turn of events at what should have been a fun-filled evening. Theodore appeared to be the only angry, almost hostile person in the room. “I personally don’t think we should cancel the carnival. Too much work has gone into it, and too much money has been spent. I recommend we fly the flags at half-mast, and begin the parade tomorrow with a prayer for the family asking that justice prevail. Do you agree, Reverend?”
“Yes, Alex, I believe that is the best way to handle this situation. We should also dedicate the carnival to Max’s memory.”
With that, the town council approved the suggestions of Alex Larsen and Reverend Clark, voting unanimously that the carnival still go on as planned. The sheriff and Agatha agreed to call the leaders of the events to let them know of their decision, and the meeting was adjourned.
Chapter Six
10:00 A.M., December 25, 1946
The crowd, bundled in thick coats, wool scarves and gloves, had gathered once again in the town square, and were amassed on the sidewalks three and four people deep waiting for the parade to begin. In spite of the event of the preceding night, the children were excited, many holding new dolls and trucks that St. Nick had brought to them during the night. The adults, however, put up a brave front for the sake of their offspring, masking the fear they felt that someone near them might be a murderer.
The high school band, the floats and the Snow King and Queen along with their royal court, lined up at the end of Main Street that ran down to the Sand River, where the parade would begin. Each participant wore heavy clothing, including the “royals,” whose burgundy robes were an inch and a half thick, trimmed in white fake fur, with matching hats. The route would take them down Main Street, to left on Bear River Road, to Elk Street, to left on White-tailed Deer Road, where they would end up back on Main Street, encircling the entire town square.
Reverend Albert Clark of the Sand River Lutheran Church stood on the courthouse steps where the flag flew at half mast, and led in prayer. Sheriff James Lange then dedicated the Twenty-first Annual Christ
mas Carnival to the memory of Mayor Maximilian Mueller. A somber moment for all, the band members found it difficult to get started, but they finally overcame it, and began playing “Amazing Grace” while everyone stood still. Some sang it softly, while others just listened, and very few folks were without tears.
“I hope we made the right decision, Alexander,” Agatha said to her son, after taking a swallow of hot tea from her thermos. “The people are too emotional to have their hearts in this.”
“Give it a little bit of time, Mother. They came, didn’t they? It will start to liven up in just a bit, eh. Once everything gets going we’ll see that we made a good decision.”
“I agree with Dad, Nana. It will keep our minds busy and off of this ghastly thing. How do you think it happened, anyway?” the twenty-three year old blonde, blue-eyed Mazie asked her grandmother.
“Mazie, I don’t think we should talk about this here. Do you Nana?” Mazie’s younger sister, Samara asked, whose chestnut brown hair peeked out from under her blue woolen hood.
“No, dear, probably not. But I sure have my questions about the whole episode, and I have to admit, I wouldn’t mind doing a little snooping just to satisfy my curiosity.”
“Mother, this isn’t one of your Agatha Christie novels or one of your mystery radio programs. This is the real thing. Let the sheriff handle this. You need to stay out of it,” Alex spoke to his mother as if she were his daughter because he knew how she loved to solve a good mystery.
“I’m confident the sheriff is well-equipped to handle this, don’t you know. But I think I have a natural talent for snooping, especially after teaching for forty-two years. I can’t always tell when somebody has something to hide right away, but upon investigating I believe I can figure it out.”
They were interrupted when Maggie May, dressed in cobalt blue woolen slacks, her purple coat, and a reveal of a bright orange sweater that covered her neck, danced toward them, singing a new poem:
“It’s Christmas morning and things are not the same
No longer, no, no longer, no no no
They will no longer meet
Upon their icy feet.”
“Merry Christmas, Maggie May,” Agatha said to her friend, hoping to prohibit her from continuing the nonsensical poem.
“And a very merry Christmas to all of you,” she bowed toward the family.
“Maggie, we’re looking forward to having you spend Christmas day with us,” Erica said to the dear lady, who had endured such tragedies in her life.
“Thanks for inviting me. It’ll be fun, eh girls?”
The girls nodded in unison while they watched the band lead the way for the floats that were lined up and ready for the parade to begin.
Each float possessed a unique quality that best represented the town businesses. The bank employees had designed a huge snowman donned with a play money-covered hat and matching bow tie, which stood next to a paper mache tree, whose branches were loaded with the same play money. Even the Superior Lunch Café participated with a float that featured a giant cup of coffee with owner, Ingrid Young wrapped in a heavy woolen coat and blanket, sitting next to it eating one of her scrumptious pasties. Benson’s Hardware and Nursery came next with some children “building” sleds and skis. The people were starting to relax as each float rolled along the streets, when suddenly, Agatha gasped, and clamped her glove-covered hand over her mouth.
Samara, who was standing next to her grandmother, jerked her head towards her. “What is it, Nana?”
“I’ll tell you later,” she whispered.
The incident didn’t go unnoticed by some of the people who were standing around the Larsen family, and it produced some questions within the minds of a couple of them. What made Agatha react the way she did? What did she see? What did she guess? What did she know in that brief moment? And even more important, did she plan on snooping?
The parade came to an end when the Snow King and Queen, high school seniors, Robert King and Priscilla Clark, stepped off the final float, and walked up the court house steps to take their place on the royal chairs, rather than the usual locale in the gazebo. Everyone cheered. The cloud had been lifted. It was time to start the carnival.
***
9:00 P.M.
The long day had finally come to an end. No one in the Alex Larsen residence had talked about the murder the whole day. Samara left after brunch to work on her snow sculpture, and Mazie’s boyfriend, Gary Anderson, picked her up to go sledding, and to eat with his family later. Maggie May stayed for supper, and the four of them played a board game until eight thirty. The convenience of living between Alex and Maggie May provided a quick jaunt home for Agatha, and she made certain her friend got to her door safely. The two waved and went into their respective homes.
While she had enjoyed the day with her family and friend, Agatha felt somewhat relieved to be home and got into bed. She wanted some time to put together her thoughts about the poisoning of her former student. Since Agatha usually made a list of clues while she listened to her mystery radio programs, and was often able to solve the crimes, she started a notebook and entitled it “The Maximilian Mueller Murder.”
At the top of the first page she wrote, “Oswald Benson,” under which she penned:
Kept cyanide in his shed because of a former rodent problem.
That’s what she remembered when she saw Benson’s Hardware and Nursery parade float pass them earlier that day.
Oh criminey, she thought.
Oswald was standing behind us during the parade!
Chapter Seven
Morning, December 26, 1946
After a night of tossing and turning, Agatha got up at five o’clock in the morning and fixed a cup of tea. Her curiosity about the murder was getting the best of her, so she wrote a list of facts about the murder in her notebook.
Someone murdered Maximilian right before our eyes.
There had to be a witness, or was it too crowded?
The mayor was most likely killed with cyanide.
Oswald Benson had cyanide in his shed.
Most of us knew that Oswald had the poison because he had made it known about his rat problem five months ago, and Tim Frank, pharmacist, had ordered it for him.
There are very few secrets in this town. Somebody knows something.
She thought about the incident for a few minutes, and began to fear the possibility that another murder could take place especially if someone witnessed Max’s murder.
Since sleep was no longer an option, Agatha fixed another cup of tea, and curled up on her faded rose velvet sofa with her Christmas present from Alex and Erica—the latest book by Agatha Christie entitled “The Hollow.” Her favorite mystery author knew how to keep the readers guessing by weaving in red herrings and planting clues in very subtle ways. In Agatha’s opinion, no one knew how to put a mystery together better than she.
Reading created a good diversion for her, and by seven thirty she got dressed, and then fixed a hardy breakfast of eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, and another cup of fresh-brewed tea. The hot meal felt satisfying and gave her comfort and energy.
She made her bed, picked up the Christmas tree needles that had given up clinging to the branches, and sat in her deceased husband’s worn, overstuffed, brown easy chair to take in the view of the tree. Various ornaments of old hung in an array of colors, many of which were faded, bringing back memories of yesteryear.
When Agatha and Kenneth Larsen were newly married, they were both first-year teachers, meaning that they lived on a limited budget. Most of the ornaments were hand-made, and many of them still dangled on the branches as though that’s where they were meant to be. She still smelled the cherry-flavored pipe tobacco that filled the air when Kenneth was alive, and she often longed for the love of her life, who had died suddenly of a heart attack twelve years ago. Kindness had emitted from him toward everyone, and his science students had adored him. He and Agatha had shared many common interests that included
a love for the Ojibwe Indian tribe, most of whom lived close by on the Red Cliff Indian Reservation just northeast of them.
Scanning the ornaments, another wave of nostalgia washed over her when she spotted the pine cones that Alex had decorated as a young boy. He had been so proud of his glittered tree ornaments, which had by now lost most of their shine. She couldn’t bear to throw them away, so they still made their way onto the Christmas tree every year. Agatha found it hard to believe how fast the years had passed, that her son, no longer a little boy, ran a successful law practice, and had two grown children of his own, whose handmade ornaments of faded construction paper graced the evergreen as well. It may not have won an award for best decorated Christmas tree, but for a teary Agatha the sentiments ran deep into her heart and soul.
Reluctantly, she left behind her thoughts of a bygone era, and went in to clean up the kitchen. The rug at her back door always needed to be shaken, and she could never understand why. She toted it to the small back porch and started to beat it on the railing, when she spotted something bright orange in Maggie May’s yard.
“Oh, criminey! Maggie May! Maggie May!” she cried as she trudged through the snow toward her friend, who lay in a heap below her back steps. Agatha stooped down, and curled the lifeless body into her arms, and screamed for her son.
It seemed like time had stood still, but just minutes had passed, when Alex, who had heard his mother’s cries, raced out of his backyard toward her. Agatha yelled for him to call Doc Anderson and the sheriff, and to tell them to come right away. He followed his distraught mother’s orders, grabbed a coat for her, rushed to her side, and waited for help.
While Agatha sobbed uncontrollably, Alex did his best to assess the situation. “She must have locked herself out of her house,” he said in as calm a tone as possible.
“Alexander, that would have been impossible,” she cried. “Maggie never, ever, ever locked her back door. If she had done that, she would have come over to my house. I have keys to her front and back doors. This doesn’t make any sense at all,” she said as the tears cascaded down her cheeks.