Mistletoe, Merriment, And Murder Read online

  Garlands of Praise for Sara Rosett and the Ellie Avery Series!

  MISTLETOE, MERRIMENT, AND MURDER

  “Sara Rosett’s Ellie Avery series is a winner. Rosett always delivers a terrific mystery with believable characters and lots of heart. The insider look at the life of a military spouse makes this series a fascinating read. I look forward to each new book.”

  —Denise Swanson, New York Times best-selling author of the Scumble River and Devereaux’s Dime mystery series

  “Intriguing characters, a strong setting, more than a dash of humor and a suspenseful plot that ably keeps us guessing until the end.... Yet, what places air force wife Ellie Avery at the top of my list are the poignant descriptions of what military families face every day.”

  —Katherine Hall Page, Agatha Award–winning author of The Body in the Boudoir

  MIMOSAS, MISCHIEF, AND MURDER

  “What fun is a funeral without a corpse? Ellie Avery steps into snooping mode, and not a moment too soon.... Rosett’s grasp of the minutiae of mommyhood is excellent.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A winning mystery . . . A rumor of hidden money, secret letters from a famous recluse, a fire, a threatening message, and a crazed gunman add to the cozy mischief.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Charm, Southern sass, and suspense abound in the sixth delightful cozy mystery in Sara Rosett’s series featuring Ellie Avery—mom, military wife, part-time professional organizer, and amateur sleuth.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “A nifty mystery . . . Fans of TV’s Air Force Wives will especially appreciate Ellie, a smart crime solver who successfully navigates the challenges of military life.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Some cozies just hit on all cylinders, and Rosett’s Ellie Avery titles are among the best. Her books recall the early Carolyn Hart.”

  —Library Journal

  “Tightly constructed with many well-fitted, suspenseful turns, and flows like a country creek after an all-day rain.”

  —Shine

  MAGNOLIAS, MOONLIGHT, AND MURDER

  “Rosett’s engaging fourth Mom Zone mystery finds super-efficient crime-solver Ellie Avery living in a new subdivision in North Dawkins, GA . . . Some nifty party tips help keep the sleuthing on the cozy side.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  GETTING AWAY IS DEADLY

  “No mystery is a match for the likable, efficient Ellie, who unravels this multilayered plot with skill and class.”

  —Romantic Times Book Reviews (four stars)

  “Getting Away Is Deadly keeps readers moving down some surprising paths—and on the edge of their chairs—until the very end.”

  —Cozy Library

  STAYING HOME IS A KILLER

  “If you like cozy mysteries that have plenty of action and lots of suspects and clues, Staying Home Is a Killer will be a fun romp through murder and mayhem. This is a mystery with a ‘mommy lit’ flavor. . . . A fun read.”

  —Armchair Interviews

  “Thoroughly entertaining. The author’s smooth, succinct writing style enables the plot to flow effortlessly until its captivating conclusion.”

  —Romantic Times Book Reviews (four stars)

  MOVING IS MURDER

  “A fun debut for an appealing young heroine.”

  —Carolyn Hart, author of the Death on Demand mystery series

  “A squadron of suspects, a unique setting, and a twisted plot will keep you turning pages!”

  —Nancy J. Cohen, author of the Bad Hair Day mystery series

  “Everyone should snap to attention and salute this fresh new voice.”

  —Denise Swanson, nationally best-selling author of the Scumble River mystery series

  “An absorbing read that combines sharp writing and tight plotting with a fascinating peek into the world of military wives. Jump in!”

  —Cynthia Baxter, author of the Reigning Cats & Dogs mystery series

  “Reading Sara Rosett’s Moving Is Murder is like making a new friend—I can’t wait to brew a pot of tea and read all about sleuth Ellie Avery’s next adventure!”

  —Leslie Meier, author of the Lucy Stone mystery series

  “Mayhem, murder, and the military! Rosett is an author to watch.”

  —Alesia Holliday, author of the December Vaughn mystery series

  THE ELLIE AVERY MYSTERIES

  By Sara Rosett

  MOVING IS MURDER

  STAYING HOME IS A KILLER

  GETTING AWAY IS DEADLY

  MAGNOLIAS, MOONLIGHT, AND MURDER

  MINT JULEPS, MAYHEM, AND MURDER

  MIMOSAS, MISCHIEF, AND MURDER

  MISTLETOE, MERRIMENT, AND MURDER

  Mistletoe, Merriment, And Murder

  Sara Rosett

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Garlands of Praise for Sara Rosett and the Ellie Avery Series!

  Also by

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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

  Acknowledgements

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  To Glenn

  Chapter One

  Wednesday

  “Look at me, Mom,” squeaked a voice beside me. I glanced up from the green frosting I was slathering on a Christmas tree–shaped sugar cookie and saw my five-year-old son, Nathan, wearing the pale blue bed sheet that I’d made into a shepherd costume for the annual children’s Christmas pageant. I had accomplished this sewing feat despite the fact that I’m not exactly handy with a needle and thread. Until a few weeks ago, fabric glue had been my go-to option when it came to creating Halloween costumes, but the pageant with its numerous rehearsals coupled with Nathan’s rather energetic nature called for something sturdier. I was still stunned that it had worked. I’d actually made sleeves. I was grateful that zippers would have been anachronistic.

  With the loose folds that draped around his neck and the strand of rope that Mitch had found in the garage for a belt, Nathan had looked authentically pastoral. Now, though, Nathan had the neckline hitched up over his head into a tight-fitting hood that dropped almost below his eyes. He held his shepherd crook—a converted broomstick—horizontally in a fierce two-handed grip. “Luke, come over to the dark side,” he said in a breathy whisper and swished his “light saber” back and forth.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, half frustrated and half entertained. “Honey, I don’t have time to play Star Wars right now.” We’d had a marathon viewing session of the original Star Wars trilogy after Thanksgiving dinner this year and the movies had made a huge impression on Nathan. “Remember, I’ve got company coming. Daddy’s taking you and Livvy to get a pizza, so you need to go change.”

  He whipped the hood off his head and his dark brown eyes, so much like Mitch’s, sparkled. “Really?”

  “Yep. And, no, you can’t take your shepherd’s crook
with you,” I called out after his retreating back.

  With a quick glance at the clock, I went back to frosting cookies, slapping the icing on as fast as I could. I had two hours before the squadron spouse club descended on our house and I still had to make the cider, move chairs, start some music, light candles, check the bathroom for toothpaste blobs in the sink, and wrap my present.

  Livvy strode into the kitchen, her ponytail bouncing. At least she wasn’t in her angel costume. She had a book in the crook of her arm, her butterfly-shaped purse slung over her shoulder, and a coat of clear lip gloss on her rosebud mouth. “I don’t see why I can’t stay here,” she said as she plunked down on a bar stool. She’d had a growth spurt during the summer and I still couldn’t believe how tall my eight-year-old was. She tugged at the cuffs of her sweatshirt, which was sprinkled with sparkly snowflakes. “I mean, I understand why Nathan and Dad have to go—they’re boys, but I’m a girl. I should get to stay, too, right?”

  “Well, honey, it’s all grown-ups. Truthfully, I think you’d be bored. We’re just going to eat and talk.”

  “And open presents,” she said accusingly.

  “Another reason you can’t stay,” I said gently. “You don’t have a present for the gift exchange and everyone has to have one for the game to work.”

  “But they’re just white elephant gifts,” she said quickly. “You said the rule was they had to be worth nothing and as horrible as possible.”

  Of course she was quoting me exactly. Our kids had excellent recall for statements Mitch and I had made—certain special selections only, usually having to do with promises of ice cream and other special treats. Christmas was just weeks away and Livvy and Nathan were in agony. It seemed each day another package arrived in the mail for the kids from our far-flung extended families. It wasn’t easy for them to watch the presents pile up and know it would be weeks before they could open anything. “I could find something in my room to give away,” she said in a wheedling tone.

  “I’m sure you could, but you’re not staying tonight. You’re going with Dad,” I said in a firmer voice. The lure of opening a present—even a white elephant gift—was a heavy draw for her, but since no other kids had been invited, I didn’t think it was right to let Livvy stay.

  “But, Mom—” The garage door rumbled up. Rex, our rottweiler—who might look intimidating, but had a sweet temperament and would slobber all over anyone who’d let him—shot through the kitchen, scrambling across the tile, then the wood floor, legs flailing. He met Mitch at the door with his typical enthusiasm, wiggling and whining a greeting. Livvy hopped off her bar stool and gripped Mitch’s waist to hug him and Nathan flew into the kitchen shouting, “Dad’s home! Dad’s home! We’re going to get a pizza!”

  Mitch hugged the kids, scratched Rex’s ears, and gave me a kiss, all while setting down his lunch box and leather jacket. He told the kids to get their coats on while he changed out of his flight suit. A few minutes later, he was back in the kitchen in a rugby shirt and jeans, reaching over my shoulder for a carrot stick. “Looks good in here,” he said.

  I was shaking red sprinkles over the cookies before the frosting set, but I paused and glanced into the living room and the dining room. Sweeps of evergreen garland dotted with tiny white Christmas lights, red bows, and creamy white magnolias decorated the mantel of our gas fireplace. The Christmas tree stood in the corner of the dining room by the window with an assortment of gleaming ornaments interspersed with the homemade ornaments that the kids had made at school. Fat vanilla and cranberry candles in islands of evergreen were scattered over the tables and a potpourri of tiny pine cones, holly, and evergreen scented the air. “It does look good,” I said, half surprised. “I’ve been so focused on checking off each item from my to-do list that I haven’t stepped back and taken in the whole picture.”

  “Imagine that. You, focused on a to-do list,” Mitch said, and I swatted his arm with the dish towel.

  He dodged the flick of the towel as I said, “It looks great because I focused on that list.” Mitch had some . . . issues with my list-making habits. He preferred the looser, more relaxed approaches to life. I liked to know exactly where I was going and what I had to do to get there.

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Right. You’re right. Without the list, we’d be lost.”

  “That’s right,” I said, smiling because I knew he was humoring me.

  He grinned back and let the subject drop. We’d been married long enough that we both knew that neither of us was going to change our outlook on life. Agree to disagree, that was our motto—at least it was our motto where to-do lists were concerned.

  He bit into a cookie, then asked, “Tell me again why you’re hosting this thing? I thought you’d sworn off squadron parties after my promotion party.”

  I cringed. “Don’t remind me,” I said grimly. That promotion party was a squadron legend. “I said I’d host this party in a moment of weakness. Amy was supposed to do it, but her mom went into the hospital.” I squared my shoulders. “This party is going to be different from the promotion party—nice and normal. Dull, even. Just good food, conversation, and presents.”

  “No flaming turkey fryer?” Mitch asked with a straight face. I rolled the dish towel again and he moved out of my range.

  “No,” I said as I went back to arranging the cookies on a platter. I transferred the platter to the dining-room table. Mitch followed me and began massaging my shoulders.

  “I’m sure it will work out fine,” he said, all teasing gone from his tone.

  “Thanks.” I felt my shoulders relaxing under his fingers. I wasn’t a natural hostess. I worried too much and spun myself into knots. His arms closed around me. It felt so good to lean into his sturdiness. Five more weeks, I thought, then immediately banished the thought. Mitch’s turn for a deployment was coming up in January and I was doing my best to avoid thinking about him leaving—I hated when he had to leave for months on end—but the deployment was always there in the back of my mind.

  I heard the kids coming down the hall and twisted around for a quick kiss. “Y’all better hit the road. The spouses will get here soon and I still have to change,” I said, lifting my shoulder to indicate my flour-spattered sweatshirt and worn jeans.

  “I could help you with that,” Mitch said with a wicked gleam in his eye.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Livvy standing in the kitchen, attempting to juggle her mittens. Nathan was running in circles around Rex, who was patiently watching him despite having his stubby tail stepped on.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. With a significant glance at the kids, I lowered my voice. “I doubt that would speed things up.”

  “That’s the whole idea. Speed is overrated,” Mitch whispered before he glanced up at the sprigs of mistletoe I’d hung from the chandelier with red ribbon, then gave me a lingering kiss.

  “I see your point,” I said. “We’ll have to finish this . . . discussion . . . later.”

  “Yes we will,” Mitch said before herding the kids out the door to the car.

  I hurried off to change into my favorite deep green sweater with the oversized turtleneck collar and a pair of tailored pants. I managed to get through the rest of my to-do list before my best friend, Abby, arrived.

  “Don’t panic,” she announced, opening the front door. “I’m early. Here.” She handed me two poinsettia plants. “I have more in the car.” She spun around, her dark, curly hair flying over the fuzzy edging of the hood on her coat.

  She’d brought ten plants, which we spaced around the house for the final touch of festiveness. Once those were in place, she made a final trip to her car and returned with a present and a peppermint cheesecake. “I’m so looking forward to this,” she said, stripping off her coat and gloves. With her generous smile and curvy figure, she looked spectacular in a white sweater, black pencil skirt, and high-heeled boots.

  I deposited her gift under the tree along with my hastily wrapped present
and asked, “The third-graders are getting to you?” Abby taught at the nearby elementary.

  She rolled her eyes to the ceiling and managed to look both worn-out and guilty at the same time. “They’re so sweet, but eight hours of knock-knock jokes? And then when I get home, all Charlie wants to talk about is how much better front-loaders are than dump trucks.”

  “Is Jeff out of touch again?” I asked. Abby’s husband, a pilot like Mitch, was currently on a deployment to an unnamed location in the Middle East. Communication between the deployed location and spouses at home was generally pretty good. There were morale calls, which were usually filled with static and an annoying time delay that made conversation challenging, but it was always good to hear that familiar voice on the phone. And now online video made staying close so much easier, but there were often stretches of time when the guys couldn’t communicate for days, maybe weeks, at a time, depending on what they were doing.

  “Yeah. I haven’t talked to him for four days. There’s nothing going on—no bad news, so I know he’s just on a mission.”

  I nodded. You became quite good at reading between the lines of newscasts when you were a military spouse. “Tonight should be a good break for you. I promise there won’t be one knock-knock joke. Come on, you can stir the cider and talk about anything you want while I light the candles,” I said, leading the way to the kitchen.