The Christmas Tree Murders

By John A. Miller, Jr.

A beautiful mid-autumn day, just the day for a Sunday drive in the country. At least that's what former journalist Art Parker, his wife, Dr. Marsha Parker, their sixteen-year-old adopted daughter, Mary Ann Markham, and her best friend, Jennifer Martin, think when they visit a hilltop in the western part of Mercer County that contains a Christmas tree farm; an old, apparently abandoned mansion; and... a corpse. If that isn’t bad enough, after reporting the corpse to Jennifer's uncle, Sheriff's Deputy J.J. McClure, the girls decide they want to disregard the "No Trespassing" sign and explore the mansion's interior--several times.

As usual, they discover more dead bodies. Add to that a couple of kidnappings and a cache of smuggled goods, and they're lucky to escape with their lives before they finally discover the real murderer at a most unexpected location.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John A. Miller, Jr.
• Release date: May 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301614233

John A. Miller, Jr.

John Miller, writing under his full name of John A. Miller, Jr., started writing novels back in late 1991 after working for many years in the mainframe computer and telecommunication fields. He had lived in southern Arizona so he knew the area well and set his first novel, Pima, in that area. Shortly after writing that novel he moved back to southern Arizona where he wrote five more novels in the Pima Series. He returned to his home area near Allentown, Pennsylvania in 1999 and continued to write, launching the Victorian Mansion Series with its nine novels.Since retiring from their day jobs John and his wife have enjoyed visiting Cape Cod and The Bayside Resort in West Yarmouth, Massachusetts at least once every year, so with their permission he partially set there a standalone novel, The Bayside Murders.Recently, after reading a number of cozy mysteries, John decided to launch a new series in that genre and named it Three-Zee for its main character, Zelanie Zephora Zook.

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The Christmas Tree Murders

John A. Miller, Jr.

Copyright 2013 by John A. Miller, Jr.

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The Christmas Tree Murders

Book Number 6 in the Victorian Mansion series

A beautiful mid-autumn day, just the day for a Sunday drive in the country. At least that’s what former journalist Art Parker, his wife, Dr. Marsha Parker, their sixteen-year-old adopted daughter, Mary Ann Markham, and her best friend, Jennifer Martin, think when they visit a hilltop in the western part of Mercer County that contains a Christmas tree farm; an old, apparently abandoned mansion; and… a corpse. If that isn’t bad enough, after reporting the corpse to Jennifer’s uncle, Sheriff’s Deputy J.J. McClure, the girls decide they want to disregard the No Trespassing sign and explore the mansion’s interior—several times.

As usual, they discover more dead bodies. Add to that a couple of kidnappings and a cache of smuggled goods, and they’re lucky to escape with their lives before they finally discover the real murderer in a most unexpected location.

** ** **

This is a work of fiction. Except for actual historical figures, any resemblance between any character in this story and any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

This book is not intended for children. It contains some inappropriate language and sexual situations.

Look for more books in the Victorian Mansion series and other books by John A. Miller, Jr., either available now or soon to be available at SmashWords.com.

(1) The Victorian Mansion Murders

(2) The Lakeside Murders

(3) The Beach House Murders

(4) The Pirates’ Hill Murders

(5) The Waterfall Murders

(6) The Christmas Tree Murders

Table of Contents

Prologue

Day 1 Sunday

Day 2 Monday

Day 6 Friday

Days 7 & 8 Saturday and Sunday

Day 11 Wednesday

Day 12 Thursday

Day 14 Saturday

Day 21 Saturday

Day 22 Sunday

Day 25 Wednesday

Day 28 Saturday

Day 29 Sunday

Day 30 Monday

Day 31 Tuesday

Day 43 Sunday

Day 49 Saturday

Day 50 Sunday

Day 51 Monday

Day 52 Tuesday

Day 53 Wednesday

Day 56 Saturday

Day 58 Monday

Day 63 Saturday

Day 64 Sunday

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

Damn! It’s cold tonight, and that wind doesn’t help matters, a rather seedy-looking man wearing a backpack muttered to himself as he hiked along a lonely, dirt road past a broad clearing. At least it’s full moon. Otherwise, I’d probably never have made it through those woods and up that hill without falling and breaking my neck. It’s good I don’t spook easily. The road through those woods was dark. The man, who had been puffing and panting earlier while he climbed the hill, stopped for a few minutes to look at the moonlit view and catch his breath. A dark shadow swept silently across the sky, and the man ducked instinctively, but then he straightened when he heard a hooting sound and realized he had merely seen an owl pursuing its dinner. He continued his walk.

I don’t know whether I trust that guy back at the shelter who told me about this place. He said there’d be an old house behind the Christmas tree farm that might be worth checking out, but I haven’t seen any old house. Of course, I haven’t seen the tree farm, either.

The road entered another wooded area, but in a very short distance the road widened and rows of neatly manicured pines, spruces, and firs bordered the road on the right.

Well, there’s the tree farm, so at least the sign was correct. I haven’t heard any dogs. I guess the owner figures he doesn’t need that kind of protection. Would people steal Christmas trees? I don’t know. People will steal anything nowadays. Let’s see. The old house is supposed to be behind the tree farm. Yes, I can make out a large building in the distance. Even if the whole thing’s a bust, at least I’ll be out of the wind.

The man turned and began threading his way through the rows of trees; trees that grew taller in each successive row. When he was about halfway back the man stumbled and fell on his face.

Shit! he exclaimed. What the hell did I just fall over? He got slowly to his feet and then saw several short stumps hiding in the shadows. Oh yeah, they cut these things for Christmas trees. I guess those are stumps from previous years. He brushed himself off and took a few steps. Well, I guess I’m okay. My right wrist hurts a bit, but at least nothing seems to be broken.

The man continued working his way through the rows of trees, still muttering to himself but now taking much more care to watch for stumps lurking in the deep shadows. A full moon casts a bright light but not nearly as bright as daylight, and the shadows are always more intense. When he reached the last row of trees, which were at least ten feet tall, he found an opening where several trees had been cut. On the other side lay an apparently seldom-used, overgrown roadway. Beyond it an unmanicured forest blocked the horizon.

Turning to his right the man saw an enormous, old house backed into the woods. As he approached it the moon appeared as a reflection in one of the windows.

Well, here’s the house. I wonder how that guy found out about this place. Maybe he knows the guy who owns the tree farm or maybe even this old house. If he does, though, I’m not sure why he’d tell me what he told me. I certainly didn’t have to offer him any money or drugs or anything, so maybe he has a personal grudge against the owner. He looked again at the reflection of the moon. At least one window is intact. I hope the door’s not locked. I’d rather not have to break a window and let people know I’m inside. Of course, maybe some of the other windows are broken, so then it won’t matter too much.

Climbing the three steps to the semicircular front porch that extended at least half the width of the house, the man carefully watched where he walked. Although in the moonlight the house appeared to be in good repair, it would never do to fall through a rotting board and break an arm or leg. He had an old flashlight in his backpack, but the batteries had died several nights earlier and he hadn’t had a chance to replace them. He made it to the double front doors safely. Then he turned the knob, which turned surprising easily, and pushed open one of the doors. The hinges didn’t creak, something he thought strange, but then he was inside pushing the door shut behind him, and he forgot about the silent hinges.

Thank God for the moon, he thought. He had a habit of talking aloud to himself when he was in the open, but there was something about this house that demanded silence. Besides, that unlocked door could imply that somebody else was already in the building.

Enough moonlight filtered through the windows in the front doors that he could make out his surroundings quite well. He was in a hallway that faded away into darkness. On his right an archway led into a large, unfurnished room well lit by the moonlight pouring through several tall windows. Another archway to his left led into another unfurnished room, not as large as the room on the left and somewhat more dimly lit because the moon at this time of year was on the right side of the house. He didn’t carry a compass, but he was pretty sure that meant the room to his left was in the northwest corner of the building.

Ahead he could just make out the foot of a staircase that climbed upward to what appeared to be a landing. He started up the steps thinking he’d probably be able to keep out of sight more easily in an upper room. At the landing he turned right and climbed several more steps until he reached a hallway. If several doors into rooms with windows hadn’t stood open, the hallway probably would have been pitch dark. He’d definitely have to get batteries for his flashlight. Now he’d have to wait until daylight before he could check the place out thoroughly, which he definitely wanted to do. Tonight he’d just have to trust to luck that he was alone in the house.

The hallway continued for about ten feet and then turned right toward the front of the house. He followed it all the way to the end, passing three open doors on his left that led into rooms with windows admitting moonlight. The hallway ended at another doorway that opened into a large room on the southwest corner of the house with windows on the side and front; probably the master bedroom, he decided. Like all the other rooms he had passed, this one was unfurnished.

He considered sleeping in this room but then decided there were too many windows, plus someone at the tree farm might be able to see him through the front windows if he weren’t careful in the morning. He retreated to the room directly behind and slipped off his backpack. At least these windows opened toward the thick woods at the side of the house where it was unlikely anybody would look up and see him moving around inside. Tied to the bottom of his pack with an old piece of rope was a tattered old sleeping bag. This he removed from its rope sling and spread out on the wooden floor. Rolled up with it was a ragged blanket, which he spread on top.

He walked to the one window and looked out. Yes, this window did not overlook the tree farm, so he probably had little to fear from that direction. He noticed that the lock appeared to be new and in good condition. He twisted it to the unlocked position and opened the window a few inches. Used to sleeping outdoors most nights, he always felt a bit claustrophobic in a sealed room. Just the slight draft from the open window would alleviate that tension.

The floor was hard, bare wood, but he had slept on much less comfortable surfaces. He had an air mattress, but it had been punctured by a sharp rock, so he used it only when camping outdoors as a ground cover to keep the dampness from penetrating his sleeping bag. There’d be no value in spreading it on this dry floor. He sat on the bag, untied his shoes and placed them beside him on the floor. Then he slipped off his heavy coat, a gift from the last homeless shelter in which he had stayed. He didn’t really believe in the religious crap they threw at him when he stayed at one of those places, but he was thankful for the food and clothing they handed out. Still fully clothed except for the coat, he crawled into the sleeping bag. In a few minutes he was sound asleep.

Day 1

Sunday

I stood at my second-floor bedroom window staring out over the mansion’s front porch roof at a beautiful autumn morning. The vast lawn was still green, but most of the trees in the surrounding forest, except for a few thick stands of hemlocks, had shed their leaves. I heard a sound from behind me and then felt my wife of less than a year snuggle up beside me. I slipped my arm around her bathrobe-clad shoulder and squeezed her…—okay, it’s none of your business what I squeezed.

Marsha, who recently turned thirty-five and still is very beautiful with no streaks of gray in her long, dark hair, is six years my junior, but she never brings up the subjects of my somewhat expanded waistline or reddish hair that’s beginning to turn gray in some areas. Mary Ann does, but that’s typical behavior for our sixteen-year-old—Mary Ann likes to say sixteen and two-thirds—adopted daughter.

A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Arthur Parker, Marsha said.

Gee, I didn’t know anybody used that expression any more. Besides, with inflation the price is probably more like a buck or two.

Okay, I’ll spend the big bucks. A dollar for your thoughts.

I was just admiring the view.

You were doing more than that. You looked way too thoughtful.

Okay, I was just feeling thankful that Drummond gave me that job of property manager or housefather or whatever you want to call it. After all, I haven’t exactly been working my butt off as writing coach for his granddaughter now that her latest novel is being bounced around by her agent.

No, but you don’t think Charles would kick out the couple who adopted the kid, do you?

Only if he decides we’re candidates for the loony bin, which adopting Mary Ann might make us.

Come on, she’s a sweet kid.

Yeah, when she’s sleeping.

At that moment I heard more noises from behind. I turned my head to see the urchin in question, a petite girl with long, brown hair and a very pretty although very young-looking face, walking up behind us accompanied by her incredibly skinny and not-at-all-pretty best friend, Jennifer Martin. Mary Ann was pointing and laughing.

What’s so damned funny, Mary Ann Markham? I asked.

Your boxer shorts, as usual. I never saw that pair before.

And what’s wrong with little racehorses? It’s better than my Kiss Me in the Dark pair.

True.

I agree absolutely, Jennifer said and immediately began giggling.

Jen! Bathroom! Now! I ordered. Jennifer usually can’t giggle and control her bladder at the same time.

No, it’s okay, Uncle Art. I just went before we left Mary Ann’s room. Sometime in the recent past Jennifer began addressing Marsha and me as aunt and uncle although we’re in no way related to her. The girl is the daughter of Marsha’s accountant, Adele.

You’d better have, and in her bathroom, not on her floor. I don’t want Bridget to have to scrub urine stains out of the carpet again. Bridget O’Donnell is our very Irish housemaid.

By the way, I added, how did you two get in here? I distinctly remember locking the door when we went to bed last night.

Locks have keys, Mary Ann said cryptically. After all, we have to keep an eye on you two so you don’t do the naughty and bless me with a little brother or sister. I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.

Do we have to check the room for hidden cameras with night vision?

No, not yet. Otherwise, we wouldn’t need the key, would we?

Either way we lose. Besides, you two are way too young to know about the naughty.

Right, and I’m the Virgin Mary.

Just as long as you’re still the Virgin Mary Ann.

Fear not. That boy hasn’t appeared on the scene… yet. I glanced at Jennifer, who was staring at the floor. There was Jeff Collard at Shipwreck, where we had spent a month in a beach house the summer before last and, incidentally, where I met Marsha, who was a doctor in the local hospital’s emergency room. However, Jennifer and Jeff had both denied going all the way, and the girl had not come down with swollen-belly syndrome, so if there had been unconfessed hanky-panky, it hadn’t been effective.

** ** **

A half-hour later all four of us, now fully dressed, sat around the round table at the breakfast nook end of the dining room. Mrs. Rachel Peabody, our cook extraordinaire, had prepared breakfast, which was keeping warm in chafing dishes on the sideboard. Charles Drummond, my very wealthy (underline that word very) employer, Mary Ann’s grandfather, and owner of this enormous mansion, had yet to appear to partake of the meal, but then he tends to be a late riser. Also, he had lost much of the use of his legs in an automobile accident many years ago, which had also claimed the lives of his only daughter and her husband, Mary Ann’s parents. Drummond had been driving the car and had never forgiven himself, living pretty much as a recluse with just Mary Ann and the household staff until I came on the scene about two-and-a-half years ago. He’s mellowed a bit since but still requires regular assistance to get around. For that we have Jason Pincola, a registered nurse who also serves as butler when we need any buttling done. Rounding out our live-in staff is Hiram Blasko, who combines the duties of gardener, chauffeur, and handyman.

So, is Mrs. Peabody taking the day off? Mary Ann asked.

I guess so, I said. You know Blasko usually takes her into Bearford to visit her sister on Sundays.

You don’t know for sure? I thought you were house manager or Lord of the Manor or something like that.

No, Lord of the Manor is your grandfather’s position. I’m merely supervisor of the staff and responsible for the day-to-day running of the household. As far as Mrs. Peabody’s day off goes, it’s hers if she wants it. She’s going to be especially busy the next few days getting ready for Thanksgiving.

Well, it’s not such a big group. Just us, Jen’s mom, her Uncle J.J. and his family, and Mr. Frome and his wife (Ethan Frome has been Drummond’s lawyer for years).

Hey, that’s still a bunch of people considering she also has to feed the staff. Besides, you know that the dinner won’t be just a turkey with stuffing. Some of those side dishes can take quite a while to prepare.

And I’m sure you’ll eat your share. Mary Ann can be sweet as sugar or snotty as hell. At the moment she was being snotty.

So, what do you want to do this afternoon? I asked my darling wife.

I don’t know. It’s a nice day, and I really hate to spend it indoors. I spend enough time inside when I’m at the clinic. In April with Drummond’s financial backing Marsha had opened the Bearford Medical Center in the small town of Bearford, twelve miles to the south.

We could always go for a Sunday drive. I know it wastes some gas, but Drummond pays for it anyway, and he never seems to mind. Besides, there still are parts of Mercer County I’ve never seen. Mercer is a mostly rural county, with woods, hills, and farms toward our end and higher mountains, a river, and thicker forest in the north around the county seat and paper-mill town of Bridgewater.

I’ve never seen a lot of it, either, Mary Ann said. After all, you won’t let me learn to drive, and I have no other way of getting around. Jen has the same problem.

Oh, you poor, pitiful children. Aren’t you both signed up for Driver Ed at school?

Yeah, but road practice doesn’t start until after the first of the year, so we’re both pretty much trapped.

You could ask Blasko, I suppose, but he’s busy enough with his duties here. I’m usually free.

Yeah, but now that school’s started we only have weekends.

I’ll tell you what. To prove what a nice guy I am I’ll take you today. We can use the van—it’s a bit roomier than my car—and we’ll find some road we’ve never driven and see where it leads.

A few minutes later all four of us piled into the van, I filled the gas tank from the pump by the garage, and we headed off into the sunset, or at least in the direction where the sun would eventually set. Drummond’s property lies near the eastern edge of the county, and we know all the roads in our area. Also, we’ve covered everything south of Bearford, where the county line is a couple of miles south of the burnt-out remains of a youth hostel. Mary Ann and I had nearly perished in that fire, but I’ve already related that rather harrowing ordeal.

Several miles west of our home we found ourselves on a narrow, blacktop road none of us could recall ever having traveled. After another two miles or so I noticed a dirt road leading off into the woods on the right with a sign that read, Cut your own Christmas tree. The road didn’t look like it had sustained a great deal of travel lately, but then it was a bit early for the Cut your own… season although that probably would pick up in less than a week, beginning with Thanksgiving or the day after. After several recent encounters with seldom-traveled dirt roads the girls and I have developed an interest in them, so without a moment’s hesitation I turned off the blacktop. We were soon enveloped by thick woods, but the road continued on. After going about a mile during which time the road skirted a couple of hills and then climbed one we reached a clearing with a superb view to the southwest. I stopped the van, and we all got out to admire the scenery.

I wonder whether we’re still in Mercer County, Jennifer said.

We can find out, I said, and went to the back of the van where I fished out a large portfolio. Topographic maps. Never leave home without ‘em.

I wish we’d had those when those stooges left us to die in the woods, Mary Ann said.

Yeah, well, I did have the maps, but these only cover Mercer County and a little bit of the surrounding counties. Also, if you’ll recall, we didn’t have our van.

You could have put the maps in our backpacks.

Yeah, and the stooges would probably have confiscated them, and we’d have been no better off than we were.

I thumbed through several maps until I found the one that covered the area where we were parked. Then I spread it on the grass so we could all gather around it. See, I said, there’s the road we just came up, and you can tell by the topographic lines that it levels off here, so this must be about the place where we are now.

Jennifer looked thoughtful. Then she stabbed a finger at a small, black square just a bit farther along and set back some distance from the road. Another unimproved road coming from the east terminated at the square. What’s that?

Usually those black squares indicate some sort of structure. I peered in that direction. I don’t see anything up ahead, so either the building’s been removed since the last time this map was updated—let’s see, 2001—or it’s in those woods up ahead. You’ll notice that little curve in this road on the map. We can’t see that from here, either.

Mary Ann dug out her smartphone and began playing with one of the apps. Shit! she exclaimed. No signal.

So what else is new? Much of Mercer County, probably because of the hills and mountains, is in a cell phone dead zone including most of Drummond’s property. After pressure from both the sheriff’s department and those of us in the family, Drummond is considering allowing installation of a tower on Pirates’ Hill that could be used both for cell phone service and the state police, sheriff, and fire department radio systems. His one requirement is that it not be visible from the house, any of the lawn areas, the lake, or The Overlook. While strict, I don’t think the requirement is impossible to satisfy. Somewhere toward the northeast side of Pirates’ Hill should work.

I was going to look for an online satellite image of the area, but I need Internet access for that.

So, what’s wrong with piling back into the van and driving a couple of hundred yards to see what we can see?

Oh, nothing, I guess.

The world is slowly slipping into an artificial state where people with cell phones and computers find it easier to look up something with one of those devices than merely to travel a short distance to see the real thing. Of course, cell phones and texting have already destroyed the art of conversation. I’ve actually seen people sitting side by side texting each other.

I kept the map out of the case and gave it to the girls in the middle seat, while Marsha and I took our places in the front. Then we drove toward those woods. Just past the first trees the road curved a bit, and there we discovered a rather run-down looking sign advertising the Cut your own Christmas tree business. Behind the sign stood row upon row of neat evergreens in varying sizes. Those closest to the road, which was wider here probably to allow for parking, were only about three feet tall, but the ones toward the rear, a good two hundred yards or more from the road, appeared to be much taller.

What a dumb idea, Mary Ann said.

Why? This kind of business is usually pretty successful, and you usually can find a suitable tree for a reasonable price.

No, I mean the placement of the trees.

They’re in neat rows and appear to have been properly trimmed.

Yes, but why put the big ones in the back and the little ones in the front? To bring one of those big ones out to your car you’d have to drag it between all the smaller ones.

I considered arguing that there was probably a road, maybe more than one, that led through the tree farm, and perhaps there was some kind of tractor with a wagon or something equivalent that could be used to bring out the larger trees. However, logic and rational argument seldom work with Mary Ann whereas silence usually does. I said nothing.

Anyway, Mary Ann continued, ignoring my silence, we have plenty of trees of all sizes at home, and Mr. Blasko can go cut a couple like he did last year.

Nobody seemed to be around, so I parked the van at the side of the road and we all climbed out. I had been correct in assuming some sort of road ran between the trees. It was only a narrow track but certainly wide enough for a tractor and anything it might haul or drag. An equivalent track appeared to run back along each end of the tree farm. Again I said nothing. Mary Ann has eyes. Let her use them.

Look, there’s a big, white house behind the trees, Jennifer said.

Perhaps it belongs to the owners of the tree business, but it doesn’t look easy to get back there.

Jennifer spread out the map, which she had been carrying rolled up in her hand. "I don’t know. It’s hard to get an exact location because this part of the hilltop is so flat, so there are no topographical lines to use for a reference.

We began following the wheel tracks between the rows of trees until we had nearly reached the back of the tree farm. Here the Christmas trees were more than ten feet tall and were interspersed with stumps where trees had been cut in previous years. Behind the last row of trees stood old growth mixed forest.

I stepped between two of the tallest Christmas trees. The big, white house, probably a mansion by most people’s standards but small in comparison with Drummond’s mansion, was, except for its facade, pretty well hidden among the leafless trees of the regular forest. The house was of what would probably be called Colonial style with a broad, semicircular front porch, the roof of which was supported by four tall pillars. Of course, since I’m no architectural expert it could have been Greek Revival or Neoclassical style, too. All I know