Who Murdered The Elf?

By Ellie Oberth

Hazel Cartbell is back in her fourth mystery in the Who Murdered? series. It's the Christmas season in Andover, New Hampshire and Hazel and Chief Rasmussen must investigate the death of Santa's helper. The elf has been killed, the Christmas presents stolen and Sister Marie Catherine is breathing down their necks. The elf’s identity leads to more questions. He’s a career criminal who’s been wreaking havoc on the town and its surrounding communities, but sleazy lawyer, Victor Kendall, is determined to keep him out of jail.
As the cops begin to unravel the puzzle, lots of unexpected Christmas miracles occur. Goodwill toward men and all... Of course, what would a murder investigation be without the interference—uh, help—of the good citizens of Andover? Will Hazel and the chief solve the mystery and save Christmas?

The story is just over 31,000 words.(The 3rd mystery: "Who Murdered the Holiday Spirit" can be found in "A Cozy Crew Christmas Anthology"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellie Oberth
• Release date: Nov 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781311266019

Ellie Oberth

A Chicago resident, Ellie Oberth’s love of mysteries began at an early age with an introduction to the works of Agatha Christie.She’s a life-long member of Sisters-In-Crime National and also a member of the Chicagoland Chapter where she served as Secretary in 2009 and served as Treasurer from 2010-2011 and 2017-2019..These days, when she’s not busy writing, she’s travelling. Ellie pops up in the most unusual places. She’s been known to scour the beach at midnight with a flashlight, looking for a place to bury the body or tramping through the deserted woods with the same goal in mind or...For more current activities, visit her blog at www.ellieoberth.blogspot.com

Book preview

Who Murdered the Elf?

Hazel Cartbell Mystery #3

By Ellie Oberth

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2020 by Ellie Oberth

This is a work of fiction. Andover, NH is a real town and some of the places mentioned are real places, but names, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to persons, living or dead is coincidental.

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ellieoberth

http://ellieoberth.blogspot.com/

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Dedication

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To Aunt Marilyn, with fondest memories

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Acknowledgements

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Thanks to Jennifer Oberth and Renae Oakes-Janecek

for their wonderful edits and loving support.

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Cover Photo by Canva

Cover Design by Ellie Oberth

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"Who Murdered the Ghost? by Ellie Oberth introduces a group of very memorable characters …a traditional whodunit with some very untraditional characters."

– Evelyn David, author of Murder Off the Books

Who Murdered The Elf?

It all started when Sister Marie Catherine stormed into the police station and demanded we arrest Santa Claus. To say I was overjoyed she swept past me and cornered Chief Rasmussen in his office was truly an understatement—after all, I was scheduled to work today, not the chief. I heard mention of stolen goods and thieving iconic symbols. The chief bellowed for me, but ignoring his cry, I retreated outside. I’d pay for my mutiny later, but right now I didn’t want to deal with the ninety-two-year-old nun’s accusations. Ho, ho, ho.

Lately, Sister Marie Catherine fancied herself a detective. She’d inserted herself into a couple of recent murder investigations and since then—despite our best efforts—we couldn’t convince her to leave the police work to us.

Cartbell!

Darn, I’d lost myself in reflection and forgotten to actually get in the car and leave. A light snowfall swirled around me as I breathed in the cool, crisp air. With a sigh, I pivoted back toward the station. Yes, sir?

The chief gave me the evil eye. Spotting the same look mirrored on the old nun’s face as she shuffled up next to him, I bit back a smile.

I want you to investigate Sister’s claims.

You do?

Again with the evil eye. If he kept this up, I might get over my feelings for him.

Kenneth Rasmussen, I demand you arrest Santa Claus at once!

With a grimace, the chief pivoted to face the elderly nun. Now Sister, I can’t do that on your say-so alone. We have to investigate your claims, process the crime scene, search for evidence. We’ll need a list of what was stolen. And as for your belief the man playing Santa Claus is the thief, we’ll need a little something we like to call proof.

Sister Marie Catherine straightened her bent body as best she could. Five feet was not a commanding height, but her scowl almost brought Rasmussen to his knees. I expect you to deal with this personally, Kenneth. She threw a look in my direction before turning back to my boss. This situation calls for a true authority figure. The perp would run rings around the girl.

We both winced; me from being referred to as a girl and the chief from her vernacular—perp indeed.

Sister Marie Catherine took a few steps away before dropping her bombshell. By the way, the elf was killed during the theft. I found his body in the church basement.

The chief’s jaw dropped. You couldn’t lead with that tidbit?

Pulling into the lot of Immaculate Conception Church, we parked near the entrance. A light dusting of snow continued falling from the sky—fat, wet flakes that covered everything in sight. Rasmussen made no move to exit the car. We sat in silence staring out the window for a few seconds; the chief and I in the front and the determined accuser in the backseat. Finally, Rasmussen let out a sigh and opened his door. Snow fell steadily as we tramped through the church lot.

In the brightly lit vestibule, I slipped off my scrunchie and shook my head like a puppy, spraying wet drops everywhere. The quiet atmosphere surrounded us, broken only by hushed voices near the altar. Rasmussen watched, impatiently tapping his foot, while I tamed my frizzy brown hair back into some semblance of a ponytail. New Hampshire winters were hard on my curls.

You finished primping, Cartbell?

Yes, sir. I snapped to attention. Every time I hoped he’d notice me as a woman instead of a cop, the chief grounded me in reality. Silently, I repeated my personal mantra—how could such a smart man be so oblivious? I glanced at the statues set in their niches and noticed St. Joseph observing me. Was that a frown on his face? In contrast, Mary’s beatific expression beamed approval. Shaking off my fantasies, I dipped my finger in holy water, made the sign of the cross like the good Catholic I tried to be and followed Rasmussen halfway up the aisle.

Santa Claus sat near the altar with a small child perched on his lap. Two large fir trees, decorated in red and green garland with brightly colored ornaments, stood on either side of the pulpit. Very symmetrical. A tall elf took pictures of Santa and his visitor with a digital camera while several children fidgeted in nearby pews waiting their turn. Parents talked amongst themselves. Watching the tableau, a single thought flitted through my mind—the towering elf seemed pretty lively for a dead guy.

A soft voice broke the spell. Hello, Chief. Hazel. Did you come to ask Santa for presents?

We turned toward the speaker. This young priest was new to our church; no match for the nonagenarian nun.

Good morning, Father Paul. Rasmussen’s cop voice echoed throughout the church. He dialed it down a notch. I understand you have a slight problem.

The priest smiled. Ah…Sister Marie Catherine has been to see you.

Looking around, I noticed the good sister hadn’t followed us into church.

She seems to think Santa has stolen our toys. Father Paul motioned us closer and spoke in a whisper. Santa was supposed to hand out Bear Buddies at a little party we’re throwing this afternoon for the less fortunate, but it appears the toys have gone missing.

His calm demeanor raised my suspicions the good nun hadn’t informed the pastor about the dead elf. My boss should’ve caught the same vibe, but his attention had been diverted.

Bear Buddies?

So the chief wasn’t up on the latest craze. I answered his question. You know every year there’s one toy or game that rockets to stardom and everybody has to have it. Bear Buddies are this year’s hot ticket item. They cost $49.99 retail and stores can’t keep them in stock. If you’re lucky, you can find them on EBay for $300 to $400.

Rasmussen frowned. Seriously? People would shell out that much money for a stuffed animal?

Stifling a smile, I nodded.

Yes, Father answered. We managed to get thirty of the toys donated for our party. He mopped his forehead with a starched, white handkerchief. I’m learning how persuasive Sister can be.

We shared a chuckle imagining the old nun scoring such a prized donation before Father Paul continued. Anyway, the Buddies were kept in boxes in the basement. Sister told me someone broke in last night and stole all the toys. I was just on my way down to check it out and see if the thief took anything else—not that we have much to take. Father Paul mopped his brow again before stuffing the hanky back in his pocket. The tall, lean priest shot us a rueful smile. Sorry, I’ve been doing physical labor getting tables set up for today’s party in the convent’s meeting room. Sister Marie Catherine is scrambling to replace the gifts so we can still hold our event. Don’t want to disappoint the little tykes.

We hadn’t personally seen any sign of a dead body yet. I found it hard to credit Sister’s accusation that the elf was deceased, since witnessing him cavorting with the children near the altar, but I wasn’t sure what we’d find in the basement. The young priest shuffled a few steps to my right and placed his hand on the door leading to the basement, but before he could turn the knob, the chief gently nudged him aside.

Let us take a look first, Father.

The parish priest moved out of our way. Tugging his jacket sleeve over his fingers, Rasmussen opened the door and flicked on the light switch. A dim glow lit the wooden steps and the chief and I descended, each stair emitting an ominous creak. The chill from outside had seeped into the basement and I shivered. The atmosphere felt more Halloweenish than Christmassy. Twelve steps down—I counted them—Rasmussen stopped on the last stair and held up his hand.

Peering over his shoulder, I took in the scene. The basement was one massive room that was solely used for storage since it was too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter to host any kind of group activity. The fluorescent lighting cast shadows in the corners of the room. Piles of…stuff…were stacked everywhere waiting for their turn to decorate the church for the various seasons.

Slipping a flashlight off his belt, Rasmussen shined the powerful beam around. He moved forward slowly and I followed in his footsteps. We