The Dangers of Candy Canes

by Laura Levine

Genres: Animal Cozy Mysteries; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

In this holiday-themed cozy mystery from the acclaimed TV comedy writer and novelist, freelance writer and long‑time Ben & Jerry’s addict Jaine Austen discovers neighbors can be killer as she tracks down a murderer, with a little help from her snarky cat, Prozac, A treat for cat cozy fans and readers of Joanne Fluke, Miranda James, and Laura Childs.

When a wealthy suburbanite takes a lethal tumble off his roof while installing a giant candy cane, the roofing contractor being held responsible for murder asks freelance writer Jaine Austen to investigate. But solving this untimely holiday death means delving into the cutthroat Christmas decorating wars among scheming neighbors with dirty secrets in their stockings. It takes a fruitcake hiding a weapon and a stunning confrontation to expose the mastermind of this holiday murder.

Release date: October 1, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 112

Sample

Ah, Christmas in Los Angeles. There’s nothing quite like it. Chestnuts roasting on an open hibachi. Jack Frost nipping at your frappucino. Santa in cutoffs and flip-flops. It’s hard to get in the holiday spirit when the closest you get to snow is the ice in your margarita, but I was trying.

On the day my story begins, I was attempting to take a picture of my cat Prozac for my holiday photo card. I thought it would be cute to get her to pose in a Santa hat. Prozac, however, was not so keen on the idea. And I still have the scars to prove it.

The only holiday Prozac gets excited about is Let’s Claw A Pair of Pantyhose to Shreds Day. Not a national holiday, I know, but one celebrated quite often in my apartment.

I kept putting the Santa hat on her head, only to find it on the floor by the time I picked up my camera.

“Oh, Prozac!” I wailed after about the thirtieth try. “What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you wear a simple Santa hat?”

She glared at me as if to say, I refuse to look like a fool for the amusement of your friends and relatives. I’ve got my dignity, you know.

This from a cat who’s been known to swan dive into the garbage for a chicken McNugget.

I was beginning to think E. Scrooge may have had the right idea about Christmas when the phone rang. I recognized the voice of Seymour Fiedler of Fiedler on the Roof Roofers, one of the not-so-long list of clients who use my services as a freelance writer.

“Jaine, you’ve got to come over to the shop right away.”

I wondered if he wanted me to punch up the Yellow Pages ad I’d just written for him. Although for the life of me I couldn’t see how I could possibly top Size Doesn’t Matter. We Do Big Jobs and Small.

But he wasn’t calling about the Yellow Pages ad.

“I’m in big trouble,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m being accused of murder!”

Mild-mannered Seymour Fiedler, a man I’d never once heard utter an angry word, accused of murder? Impossible!

“Hang on, Seymour. I’ll be right over.”

I grabbed my car keys and headed for the door, just in time to see Prozac celebrating a whole new holiday—Let’s Poop on A Santa Hat Day.

Seymour’s shop was in the industrial section of Santa Monica, a no-frills box of a building whose only concession to whimsy was a huge plaster fiddle on the roof.

His wife, Maxine, who doubled as his bookkeeper, sat at her desk out front, weeping into a Kleenex.

“Oh, Judy!” she cried, looking up at me with red-rimmed eyes. “It’s all too awful!”

Maxine was a fifty something woman with fried blond hair and a fondness for turquoise eye shadow, most of which had now rubbed off on her Kleenex. For as long as I’d been working for Seymour, she’d been calling me Judy. Every paycheck she’d ever written had been made out to Judy Austen, often in the wrong amount. Not exactly the sharpest blade in the Veg-O-Matic.

“Seymour’s waiting for you,” she said, gesturing to his office.

I found Seymour behind his desk, guzzling Maalox straight from the bottle. Normally a jovial butterball of a guy, Seymour showed no hint of joviality that day. His pudgy face was ashen, and sweat beaded on his balding scalp.

“Seymour,” I said, “what on earth happened?”

He took a swig of Maalox and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“One of my customers was putting up Christmas decorations on his roof last week and fell. He landed on the driveway. Cracked his skull and died instantly.

“And now,” he groaned, “they’re blaming me.”

“But why?”

“I’d just finished re-roofing his house. And apparently some of the shingles were loose. They say that’s why he fell. His wife is hitting me with a wrongful death lawsuit. I might even be arrested on criminal charges.”

I shook my head in disbelief.

“The police are conducting an investigation,” he said, “but they’re just going through the motions. They’re pretty much convinced it was my fault.”

“Any chance one of your workmen screwed up?” I asked, wondering if maybe the cops were right.

“No way. I personally inspected the job when they were through.

“Oh, Jaine!” he said, mopping his scalp with an already-damp hankie, “I’m going to be ruined.”

“Don’t you have insurance for things like this?”

He let out a big sigh.

“That’s just it. Maxine’s been distracted lately. Our daughter’s getting married, and she’s been so busy planning the wedding, she forgot to mail in the last two premiums.”

Holy Tarpaper. Poor Seymour was in deep doo doo.

“I swear, Jaine, when I left that roof, every shingle was nailed down tight as a drum. Something fishy’s going on here and I want you to investigate.”

“You think somebody was trying to kill your client?”

“That’s exactly what I think. The only way those shingles could’ve gotten loose was if somebody went up there and loosened them.”

Now those of you who picked up this book for Hannah Swensen’s latest recipes are probably wondering: Why was Seymour Fiedler asking a freelance writer to investigate a murder? Shouldn’t he be talking to a private eye?

Well, it just so happens I’ve solved a few murders in my time. It’s a life-threatening hobby, I know, but it adds zest to my days and breaks up the monotony of writing about No-Leak Roof Warrantees.

“Of course, Seymour,” I said. “I’ll be happy to investigate.”

“How can I ever thank you, Jaine?” His eyes shone with gratitude.

Money might be nice, I couldn’t help thinking.

“Of course, I’ll pay you your going rate,” he said, as if reading my thoughts.

Now my eyes were the ones shining with gratitude. My job docket was a tad on the empty side, and I desperately needed the money for Christmas gifts.

“In fact,” Seymour said, “let me pay you something right now.”

He whipped out his checkbook and wrote out a check with a heartwarming number of zeroes.

I was sitting there thinking of the lavish gifts I could buy my parents and, not incidentally, a new cashmere sweater I’d been lusting after at Nordstrom, when Seymour broke into my reverie.

“I, um, wouldn’t try to cash that check right away.” He looked at me sheepishly. “I don’t exactly have enough in my account to cover it. Between our daughter’s wedding and my lawyer’s retainer, I’m sort of strapped.”

Bye-bye, cashmere. Hello, polyester.

“But I’m sure the check will clear some time in February,” he added hopefully. “Or March. Maybe April.”

I told him not to worry and scooted out of his office before he had me cashing the check in July.

***

I stopped at Maxine’s desk on my way out to say good-bye.

“So long, Judy,” she sniffled, her Kleenex by now pulverized in her palm.

“Try not to worry.” I gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m sure everything will be okay.”

I was sure of no such thing, but she looked so damn pathetic sitting there with mascara tracks down her cheeks, I had to say something.

“I hope so. I don’t know what I’d do if they ever arrested Seymour.”

My attention was momentarily diverted from Maxine’s grief by the sight of an untouched cheeseburger at her side.

Gosh, it smelled good.

“Would you like my cheeseburger?” she asked, following my gaze.

“Oh, no, thanks,” I said, eyeing the cheese oozing out from the sides.

“You sure? I’m so upset about what happened with those insurance premiums, I’ve totally lost my appetite.”

One thing I’ve never lost is my appetite, and that burger smelled like heaven on a bun. But I couldn’t possibly say yes, not if I expected to squeeze into a bathing suit by Christmas.

And squeezing into a bathing suit was definitely on my Holiday To Do List. That’s because every year I spend Christmas with my parents in their retirement condo in Tampa Vistas, Florida—much of that time on display at the Tampa Vistas pool. True, I’m not rich or wildly successful like some of the other kids on display, but I’m all they’ve got, and my parents are determined to show me off.

It’s a trip I dread every year. And not because I don’t love my parents. I do. If it were just the three off us, I’d be fine. But it’s not just the three of us. Every year my parents invite my Aunt Clara and Uncle Ed and my cousin Joanie to join us, along with Joanie’s husband Bradley and son Dexter. All of us bunking in a two-bedroom condo.

My mom calls it “cozy.” I call it hell.

Joanie and her family get to sleep in the guest bedroom. Uncle Ed and Aunt Clara camp out in the den. And lucky me—I get to sleep on the living room sofa right next to the Christmas tree. You haven’t lived till you wake up Christmas morning with pine needles up your nose.

And if all that weren’t bad enough, I have to spend an entire week feeling like a blimp next to my cousin Joanie, a perfect size two—and that’s after giving birth to Dexter.

Suffice it to say, the last time I wore a size two, I was in preschool.

All of which explains why I turned down that cheeseburger. I simply had to shed a few pounds before Florida.

True, I was feeling a bit hungry, but I made up my mind to stop off at the market and . . .