The Case of the Missing Elf: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 2) by Anna Drake

He’s in his teens now. There might be a few rumbles about the kid, but nothing’s stuck so far.”
    That’s what I mean about Larkin. He knew the people of Weaver County. Even Ginger, with her wide assortment of friends, couldn’t match this man for knowing details about local residents.
    “Do you think Agnes can keep Sam Farmer in line?”
    “That’s the guy who plays Santa, right?”
    “It is.”
    “What’s wrong with him?”
    “When I was there Friday, he stank of gin.”
    “Farmer?”
    “Yes.”
    Larkin’s mouth turned down in a look of disbelief. “That’s odd.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’ve never heard the man was a heavy drinker.”
    Yes! Score one for me. I knew more about someone than he did. “What about Lester Porter?”
    “What’s he got to do with Ginger?”
    “Nothing really. I was just curious about the man, that’s all.”
    “Porter,” Larkin muttered. “Now, if you want an alcoholic, there’s one. He was a good drinking buddy with Scroggins.” Larkin scowled at me. “Melanie, don’t tell me you’re sticking your nose into another murder.”
    Honestly, Larkin could be so small minded when it came to my sleuthing. He was nearly as bad as Dad. But I had no desire to tick him off, so I batted my eyes, and asked. “Who, me? When I know how you feel about that?.”
    Larkin grimaced. “Would that I could only believe you.”
    “You calling me a liar?”
    He sighed. “It’s been known to happen.”
    “Geesh. One innocent question, and you’re all over my case.”
    “Just make sure your research on this story remains innocent.”
    “Meaning?”
    Larkin sighed. “Meaning leave the murder investigation to the professionals.”
    I smiled at him sweetly. “But that’s exactly what I am doing.”
    Larkin toned down his scowl a notch, apparently trusting me to do what he considered the right thing.
    In response, my conscience reached out and gave me a sharp blow to the tummy. I really hated lying to such a good friend.
     
    ~~~
     
    After my session with Larkin, rather than heading home, I stopped by the newspaper office to track down Lester Porter’s address. The telephone directory showed Porter living on what could be called the wrong side of the tracks. I scribbled his address on a scrap of paper and stuffed it into my coat pocket.
    Being a Sunday, I knew Porter’s local watering hole would be closed. Our entire county was dry on Sundays. People wanting drinks had to drive at least thirty miles into the neighboring county to get one, or they kept a bottle at home. I figured Porter for a bottle-at-home kind of guy, so I headed straight for his house.
    His place turned out to be a one story affair badly in need of repairs. A fresh coat of paint wouldn’t have gone amiss, either. Heaping mounds of snow covered the front lawn and sidewalk, but I couldn’t help wondering if other things weren’t buried there too, like old tires or piles of rubbish. It looked to be that kind of a setting.
    I trudged through a deep snowdrift to reach the front porch and  was astounded when I pushed  the doorbell, and it  worked. I listened quietly to footsteps pounding their way toward me from inside the house. Then, the door swung open.
    An unwelcoming sort of man stood before me. He was tall and slender, almost scrawny. His eyes were red rimmed. His matted hair looked as though a comb hadn’t found its way through it for days.
    “Yeah?” He said, gruffly. Like Santa, the scent of gin pouring off the guy was unmistakable.
    “Lester Porter?” I asked.
    “That’s me. Who are you?” he demanded.
    I plastered a large smile on my face. “I’m Melanie Hart from the Cloverton Gazette. I’m writing a human interest piece about Barnaby Scroggins. I’ve heard you were friends. I hope you’ll grant me a bit of your time.”
    Porter grunted, looked me over, and shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” He swung the door wide.
    Looking at the debris in the room ahead of me, I had to stifle a