Documents of Death: Abby MacMillan Mysteries, #1

By Susan Dean

When leaves from the deadly yew plant are found in Abby MacMillan's signature Brussels sprouts hotdish, she becomes a person of interest in the poisoning death of her mentor and good friend Doc Finkelstein. 

Knowing the yew bush was accessible to anyone who visited Doc's mansion, Abby tries to help the small town's newest inspector, Detective Pete Jenkins, to find the truth, even as all evidence points to Abby.  But Abby and her family all know that she couldn't have done it.  Could she?

Documents of Death is the first book in the Abby MacMillan Mystery series, set in the fictional college town of Humbert, Minnesota.  If you like the stories of Maddie Day, Lynn Cahoon or Lauren Elliot, you'll enjoy this series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Dean
• Release date: Sep 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215565018

Susan Dean

Susan Dean grew up in the southern United States and moved to Minnesota to attend college.  Like Abby MacMillan, she loved the state and its people so much she made it her home, eventually marrying her own Minnesota-born man.

Book preview

Chapter 1   

Ifloated above a sea of faceless black-clad beings. Thousands of people, all talking or wailing through non-existent mouths, clamored for attention as I tried unsuccessfully to make myself heard. Creepy organ music drowned out the few words I could manage, and the overpowering aroma of lilies nearly knocked me out. A funeral. OMG, today was Doc’s funeral, and I was giving one of the eulogies. This was all just a bad dream. Right?

Right. Taking a deep breath, I looked at the clock – ugh. 6:36 am, and the alarm hadn’t gone off. Something was wrong. I reached over to the other side of the queen-size bed. It was empty. Ben must already be up and feeding the kids and cats. Good. I could take my time. As I lay in bed, I tried to make sense of the dream, and willed my heart to slow down.

Normally, I don’t have trouble speaking in front of an audience. After all, I am a teacher with multiple graduate degrees, and it’s my job to speak for an hour or more at a time to a room full of often-bored college students. I also give the occasional talk at the high school or at various private events. But a funeral? Never done it. On top of it, this one was sure to be attended by a lot of people I didn’t know, and some of them even blamed me for Doc’s death. That probably accounted for the faceless crowd in my dream.

I stretched and waited a few moments longer to get my bearings. My husband, Ben, usually gets up early with our 5-year-old twins, Olivia and Jonah. As an independent financial analyst, he works from home but needs to be organized and online to prepare for the New York Stock Exchange’s 9:30 east coast opening, which is an hour earlier here in Minnesota’s central time zone.

On most days when I don’t have an early class, I walk the two blocks to Humbert College’s indoor swimming pool for a brisk workout before taking over child duty from Ben. The rhythmic exercise gives me a chance to organize my thoughts before I tackle my day. No time for swimming today, though – that’s why I hadn’t set the alarm for earlier. The funeral was at 11:00 am and the kids and I needed to be at the Great Hall early. Today being Thursday, at least I didn’t have any classes until after lunch, and I had cancelled my morning office hours. We could probably swing it and still get the twins to their afternoon kindergarten.

As I listened to the children’s early-morning chatter, I swung my feet out of bed and stretched some more. I made a quick visit to the bathroom and took a minute more to find my glasses and slippers, and padded down the stairs and into the kitchen to give Ben a sleepy good-morning kiss. Even early in the morning Ben can make my heart flutter, with his Clark Kent good looks. Mornin’ Abby, he said as he finished dishing out bowls of the malted hot cereal to add to the little sausages already on the kids’ plates.

Mmmm...maple sausages. But why do I smell lilies? They were in my dream, too. I was disoriented by the heady mix of maple, malt, coffee and lilies. It was an odd combination.

Ed brought them over before he left for work. They’re on the table by the stairs. There’s a card next to the vase. Ben set the bowls of cereal on the kitchen island and got me a spoon and a glass of tomato juice. He’s the coffee drinker in the family. I can’t stand the stuff. The smell is rather strong – you must have seen them when you came downstairs.

Good morning, you guys. Did you let Daddy sleep a little bit this morning? And where are the critters? The twins were excited to be in kindergarten now and usually woke up before either of us. Their two kittens kept them occupied until Ben or I got out of bed. I kissed the tops of the children’s heads, avoiding their sticky hands, and went to look at the flowers before joining them at the kitchen counter.

I guess I was too sleepy to notice them when I came down, referring to the flowers, but they sure are beautiful. I found the card by the flowers on the hall table, addressed to the Abby MacMillan and Ben Jensen family, and absent-mindedly started on my own sausage and cereal without sitting down.

Olivia finished her mouthful and piped up. Callie ate her breakfast and went back to sleep. I don’t know where Daniel Tiger went.

My son took a bite of cereal and mumbled, Daniel Tiger is right here next to me – he’s asleep again, too.

Jonah, close your mouth when you eat. Ben was kind but firm. He sat down to eat his own cereal.

Oh-ay, aahh. Jonah tried to talk with his mouth closed and the response came out almost intelligible. Ben and I shared a look across the island and tried not to laugh.

But sure enough, there was Daniel the cat, curled up on the barstool on the other side of Jonah.

Callie, a lovely calico tabby kitten, and her orange striped litter-mate, Daniel Tiger, were gifts from Doc’s late wife Elizabeth. She had allowed her 2-year-old almost-black tabby, Elvira, to have one litter before being spayed, and the children chose these two kittens when they were eight weeks old this past May. That was just a couple of months before Elizabeth died from her long battle with multiple sclerosis in July. Now, at almost seven months, the kittens were more than a little bit active and we had to keep an eye on them. Fortunately, they also slept a lot.

What’s going to happen to Elvira, now that both Elizabeth and Doc are gone? Ben’s pragmatism is one of his strongest traits. He keeps me grounded and focused on the mundane but important details.

I responded, I guess we won’t know for a while. I don’t know if they made arrangements, and Doc’s death was so sudden. I expect Mary will have it all in hand. Mary Larson was Doc’s longtime housekeeper, assistant and general helper. She would be able to care for the cat until any decisions were made about what might happen to either of them – Mary and Elvira were both going to be at loose ends.

Since Daniel Tiger was in my seat, I stayed standing up to eat my cereal. We finished our breakfast and were clearing dishes when I spied the unopened florist’s card I had set on the counter. Oh, I forgot to read this. The card is addressed, ‘the Abby MacMillan and Ben Jensen family.’ I pulled out the card. ‘We wish you peace as you navigate this sad time, Love, Desiree, Ed, Damien and Bella.’ That was very thoughtful. I showed the card to Ben. Desiree Franklin is my best friend; she lives next door with her husband Ed and their two children, 5-year-old Damien and 3-year-old Bella. It was so like Desiree to make the gesture – her southern sense of hospitality showed in everything she did.

After breakfast, I showered and dressed for the memorial service. Not wanting to be completely morbid, I donned a multi-colored fall outfit consisting of dark brown slacks and a rust-colored blazer over a burnt orange and gold patterned silk blouse with a jewel neckline. I added a necklace with chunky stones and matching button earrings, and strapped on a gold-colored wristwatch. Surveying myself in the mirror I laughed. I looked like the North Shore in autumn. But the earthy colors did look good with my olive brown skin and curly, black-brown hair. I wear my hair chin-length to save time after swimming, and because it frames my heart-shaped face so well. The dark-rimmed glasses I favor give me a slightly professorial look, which I use to my advantage when teaching and speaking. This look would be just fine for giving the eulogy at Doc’s service.

Ben was trying to get in a little computer time before he needed to leave, so I got the kids dressed and ready to go. I would take them with me early in the minivan and Ben would come later in the old Camry, after he wrapped up some work. As I strapped the two younger versions of Ben and me into their booster seats, my mind wandered back to the last time I saw Doc alive. I still couldn’t believe what had happened.

Chapter 2   

It was only last Sunday . Ben had taken the kids to the Cities (as everyone here calls the Minneapolis-Saint Paul metro area) to visit his parents, and I had offered to help at Doc’s weekly Food for Thought Sunday dinner. He and Elizabeth had started this tradition long ago, when both were still teaching at Humbert College, the small four-year college named for our small town here outside the Cities. They would invite an eclectic group of students and faculty for fellowship and a lively discussion. Like most college towns, Humbert is never short on people with opinions, eager to share and defend them with their neighbors. The dinners had grown in popularity until they regularly drew a good mix of academics and townies, old, young and in-between.

This was only the second dinner Doc had arranged since Elizabeth’s death, and I hadn’t been at the previous week’s event. In addition to me, this Sunday’s guests had included several I knew well. Delores Malmberg, a tall, angular woman who wears her graying hair in a low ponytail so that people can see how real she is, serves as Humbert’s first-term town mayor. She was hoping for re-election this fall.

Pastor Dave Johanssen, the Humbert College chaplain and one of Doc’s dearest friends, is almost as tall as Doc. The two gentle giants were often mistaken for brothers, with their matching fringe of white hair and wire-framed glasses. Their friendship often surprised people, as Doc was an unabashed Atheist, but I knew the two men had a strong respect for each other’s beliefs and enjoyed deep philosophical discussions as much as they loved beating each other at chess.

Standing by the large windows and talking with Pastor Dave, Miriam and Jason James are a married couple who manage the Farmstead Folk Arts Center and Bird Lake Inn, respectively. As average as two middle-class, middle-aged white people in Minnesota can look, Miriam and Jason are right at home in Humbert, where both had grown up. They and their three teenagers, one off at college, are all actively involved in environmental pursuits in the area. Miriam was excitedly telling Dave about a new course at the Farmstead where bakers mill their own flour from the grains grown right there on the farm. Jason, although clearly in favor of the idea, was his usual quiet self.

I also noted some folks I knew slightly or not at all. Three international students from three different countries, all new freshmen at the college, had accompanied Dave. Rounding out the group was a county extension agent named Don Abrams, whom I had met briefly at previous dinners. Don, a big blustery man in his forties, was telling the students about his work with the local farmers. Mentioning that his ancestors had homesteaded in another part of the county and his family had been farming that land ever since, he referred to himself as an original Minnesotan. Someone should tell him, I thought, that the real original residents of this region were actually the Dakota Sioux, from whose language our state name was derived. The rest of our families came later. I doubted that Don would get the message, though, so I kept quiet.

Mary Larson and Doc, of course, were there, directing the guests to put our food contributions on the long serving counter and to begin filling our plates. The massive custom-built table in the big dining room could seat sixteen adults comfortably, or twenty people in a pinch, so Doc had also included five additional people, strangers who came in through the inside door from the guest apartment upstairs just as we were starting to serve ourselves.

Elvira, Doc’s almost-black tabby cat, had been sunning and grooming herself in the corner of the dining room, watching the goings-on while we gathered and chatted. A ray of sunlight from the clerestory window made a cozy patch for her by the patio doors. When the five new people came in the room, however, she hissed and bared her fangs. That surprised us all. Elvira was normally a contented cat. I had never seen her so defensive. I went over and scooped her up, taking her out to the solarium. Now, Elvira, that’s not nice. You’ll be happier out here where you can watch the birds at their feeder. Elvira and I had always been friends. I cuddled her for a few moments, smoothing her fur, before leaving her on a chair by the window, closing the doors, and returning to the party.

Sunday Dinner at Doc’s was the noon meal, like I was used to in my home state of Virginia, not the evening meal as it might be in some other regions. Doc’s weekly event was typically potluck-style, with most guests supplying a hotdish or dessert. Mary prepared a few dishes as well, just to make sure all the food groups were represented. Originally a hot casserole of meat and vegetables mixed with a can of soup, hotdish in Minnesota now means anything from a green-bean casserole to a cold seven-layer taco salad. Battle lines have actually been drawn over what was a proper hotdish, what kind of soup should be used, and whether or not it should contain tater tots. Dessert usually consisted of bars or cookies, but it could also be a fruit and Jello concoction. Asking people to bring their choice of a hotdish or dessert often brought some unusual food combinations. If you were lucky, someone would bring a pie, which might generate a whole different debate.

At this dinner, we got lucky. Miriam and Jason had brought a chocolate peanut butter pie and a caramel apple crumble pie from the bakery at Bird Lake Inn. Other offerings included a tuna and tater tot hotdish, some whole-wheat rolls and a bucket of fried chicken, along with my own signature dish, rosemary balsamic-roasted brussels sprouts. I had picked the sprouts up at the farmers’ market the day before and they were especially fresh and tender. Mary had supplemented the meal with a ground beef and rice hotdish, an heirloom tomato salad and a few ears of the last of the late summer sweet corn, and it appeared that the five strangers had added some cookies, still in their grocery-store package. Iced tea, pop and some local craft beers rounded out the meal. It looked like it would be good eating today.

We all served ourselves from the large buffet counter and settled at the huge table, two people on each end and six on each long side. Doc and Mary took their usual places at opposite ends of the table. Elizabeth would normally sit at one end next to Doc, but now the Honorable Delores took that position. I was in the middle of one side, next to Pastor Dave, and the five strangers all sat opposite me. The others were scattered in the remaining seats.

As was the tradition at Food for Thought, after Dave offered a moment of non-denominational thanks for the food and company, Doc reached into a large fishbowl for the first discussion topic. Ever since this event had started as a way to draw out shy students, Doc never required guests to bring food, but they were expected to participate in the discussion. Anyone was free to add a topic for future dinners, and the variety of subjects for discussion was sometimes surprising.

’Talk about how an agricultural community can be both sustainable and profitable,’ Doc read from the index card he had drawn. Sounds like a nice, meaty discussion. Are we up for this one?

Don, the overly conservative extension agent, nodded enthusiastically as he bit into a chicken drumstick. Liberal-minded environmentalist Miriam agreed. It’s a great topic. We have a very successful CSA farm at the center and I’d love to share some of the things our farmers do to maintain the soil’s health and keep the lake clean.

Excuse me, what’s a CSA farm? A petite brunette I didn’t know spoke quietly.

Forgive me, everyone. I’ve forgotten my manners without my wife here to keep me in check. Let me make introductions. Doc put down the card he had been reading from and looked around the table. Most of you are regulars, but you probably haven’t met my houseguests. These folks are Elizabeth’s cousins from the Cities. They came to be with her when her health started to deteriorate in, aah, what’s it been now? Back in January. He coughed lightly to cover the catch in his voice.

Doc proceeded to introduce the five cousins. Reggie and Carmella Dahlgren are brother and sister, grandchildren of one of Elizabeth’s grandfather’s brothers. He indicated the two people to his right, a man and woman in their early 60’s. I supposed they could be retired, and that would explain not having to return to a job, but they gave me an impression of people who were allergic to work and avoided it at all costs, rather than those who took pride in their former careers. In fact, from the sour looks on their faces, I got the impression that they were allergic to everything.

These gentlemen are Tom Vogel and Raymond Scott, grandchildren of Elizabeth’s grandfather’s other brother. Their mothers, I believe, were sisters. Doc raised his eyebrows, looking for confirmation, but neither man responded, so he continued, And this is Ray’s wife Barbara. Ray and Barb managed a hardware store until they sold it and retired last year. He waved his hand toward the other two men and the woman sitting next to them. The woman, shy and a bit younger than the others, was the one who had asked about the CSA, and reminded me somewhat of a little mouse.

Okay, now I remembered. Some of Elizabeth’s distant cousins had come to visit last winter, but I didn’t realize they were still here – September was half over already. I had been introduced to them after Elizabeth’s memorial gathering. At the time I didn’t take much note of the five distant relatives, who all looked like they would rather be anywhere else. They’ve been here for at least eight months now. This was curious. Doc was all about hospitality, but really? Didn’t they have jobs to go to? Now, as I studied their faces a bit more, I felt a coldness come over me. These people don’t belong here. They don’t like Doc, and they never cared for Elizabeth, either. Elvira knew this, and I could feel it, too.

I shook off the feeling and marveled at the notion that any of these folks could be related to the sunny-dispositioned Elizabeth Dahlgren. I missed her so much – she had become part grandmother and part sister to me when I met her years ago as a prospective freshman, even after she had retired from teaching art at Humbert College. When I married Ben and we started a family, she adopted all of us as her own. We even lived here in the guest apartment for a few months when the twins were babies, and I had stayed with the couple one summer before I graduated.

Doc introduced Dave, me, and the rest of the guests, and Dave, in turn, introduced the three international first-year students – two men and a woman, from Colombia, Italy and Japan, respectively. Miriam turned to Barb. You were asking about the CSA. It stands for Community Supported Agriculture. The farm next door to this house is supported by members, who come in each week to collect their shares of produce. They and other volunteers share the workload as well, and any extra food we produce is either sold at the farmers’ market or donated to the local food shelf. It’s really a win-win situation.

Miriam is one of my good friends, but she can drone on about her pet projects. She went on about the farm’s organic, pollinator-friendly practices, cover crops, the small solar farm on the property, and the buffer zone the property had established to protect the adjacent lake. I love Miriam and I agree whole-heartedly with her philosophy, but I learned long ago just to be patient and wait for her to take a breath before interrupting her verbal trainwreck.

Don Abrams, the extension agent, was having none of it. He jumped in right over Miriam’s words. Miriam, that’s all well and good, but we’ve had this conversation before. Your farm is part of a registered charity and its funding comes from donors and members. The average farmer doesn’t have philanthropists with deep pockets begging to fund a new piece of equipment or cover the cost of a dry growing season. In spite of his good intentions, Don could be a pompous blowhard sometimes. He had been after Elizabeth and Miriam to run the CSA farm at a profit, using what he called traditional farming practices, with additional pest and weed control to boost output, and he wanted Doc to sell the west quarter-section outright, so it can be farmed properly, or so he said. He looked squarely at Doc, and nearly snarled, "And if you would stop getting in the way of progress with your newfangled poppycock, we’d all be better off."

Her Honor the mayor, Delores Malmberg, agreed with Don, Hear, hear! We need someone like you on the city council, Don. Too bad you don’t live inside town limits.

At these times, Elizabeth would have just patted them both on the arm and said with a smile, "Now, Don and Delores, we do use traditional practices. Our farm uses companion planting practices and irrigation methods of the ancient indigenous people, and we’re getting great success from it. We’re looking into adding even more of these methods now." I think we could all hear her soft, melodic voice even though she wasn’t with us anymore. Elizabeth had been instrumental in starting up the CSA at the Farmstead.

Doc chuckled, possibly at the thought of his beloved speaking