Death of a Christmas Card Crafter by Peggy Ehrhart

Author:Peggy Ehrhart [Ehrhart, Peggy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Books
Published: 2020-07-22T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

Chocolate.

Pamela’s sleeping mind had completed the conversation she’d had the previous night with Bettina about what form her Christmas dessert would take. An image had arisen of something chocolate, like a cake but not like a cake. Something denser . . . and richer . . . with contrasting textures and flavors. Sweet, yes, but with a little bitterness to add complexity.

So even before she fed the cats, she’d taken a cherished cookbook from her cookbook shelf and leafed through the dessert section until she came to the recipe for Chocolate Mousse Cake.

Now she was on her way to the Co-Op, well bundled against the cold and carrying a few of the canvas totes she used for her shopping. Just as she reached the stately brick apartment building at the corner, the door in the back of the building opened and Mr. Gilly stepped out onto the asphalt of the parking lot. He’d added a quilted utility jacket, a muffler, and a knit cap to his usual work clothes, and he was carrying a large cardboard box.

Mr. Gilly was a conscientious super, she had heard, but he liked to talk. When she was pressed for time and he was working outside, Pamela sometimes pretended not to see him and hurried by. But sometimes she was willing to chat—and there was another reason to linger too. A length of wooden fencing hid the building’s trash cans, as well as discarded objects like tables, chairs, bookshelves—all kinds of household goods that people no longer thought they had use for. Pamela had once even adopted a very nice jade plant in a unique clay pot.

Mr. Gilly was heading for the opening at the end of the wooden fence, but when he caught sight of Pamela, he stopped and called out, “Hi there!”

Taking her “How are you?” as a sign that she was in the mood for a chat, he veered toward the sidewalk and lowered the box onto the winter-ravaged grass.

“Sad doings here,” he said, tipping his head toward the building and fishing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his jacket pocket. “Karma Karling was a nice lady. Who’d have thought Sorrel Wollcott could do such a thing?” He nodded toward the box. “This stuff here was Karma’s. Last Friday morning she asked me to carry it down for the trash and I just now got around to doing it.” He extracted a cigarette from the pack and lit it. “There’s still no tree in the lobby,” he added. “The decorations committee disbanded and nobody else wants to take over.”

Pamela was starting to get cold, but a box of Karma’s discards seemed a tantalizing prospect. Mr. Gilly noticed her staring at it. “Nothing you’d be interested in,” he said. “Not like an antique somebody threw away. It’s really just trash—papers and such.”

But she lingered, chatting with him about his plans for the holidays and his daughter, whose big house in Timberley was a great source of pride for him. When

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