Dying in a Winter Wonderland

by Vicki Delany

  “That remains to be seen,” the man in the suit said.

  “That I own some of the land has nothing to do with it,” Randy said. “I keep telling you. It’s the best place for the development; we’ll be able to get adjoining plots for a good price, and that means we can get the project started sooner rather than later.”

  “Adjoining plots?” I said. “So you’re already buying up the land you need. Excellent. I might know someone who owns one of those pieces of property. Harvey Ireland.”

  “Yeah,” Wayne said. “Harvey’s trying to negotiate a fair price.” He laughed. “He’d have better luck if he could pretend not to be so desperate.”

  “There isn’t going to be a project now that Jeff’s out of the picture,” Jim said. “Get that through your heads. Randy, you might as well sell the land to old Paul Montagne, as he’s been asking. He needs the extra space for his cows.”

  Randy stood up. “It’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

  Jim shook his head. “Louis Vanderhaven can’t save you, Randy. Can’t save any of you. He can’t even save himself. Without his son, it’s over. I’m out of it.” He looked at the man in the suit, to whom I’d still not been introduced. “You haven’t invested a cent yet, and if you take my advice you’ll leave it that way.” He walked out of the café.

  Randy dropped back into his chair. Silence stretched throughout the room. Even the young mothers had stopped chatting.

  I started as a plate landed on the counter in front of me. “Eat up and then be on your way, the both of you,” the waitress said. “Jeff Vanderhaven was the last best hope of this town. We shoulda known he’d be murdered over in Rudolph.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Vicky snatched a piece of bacon out of my hand and popped it into her mouth. “She practically accused you of killing Jeff yourself.”

  “Me? She said nothing about me. And that bacon’s for Mattie.”

  “I’m saving him from himself.”

  “Vicky, you weren’t able to tear your eyes away from my plate. The bacon, the runny eggs, the hash browns, so nice and crispy, the way I like them. Yum, yum. How was the jam?”

  “Awful. Once you’ve had Aunt Marjorie’s preserves, made with raspberries plucked directly off her own bushes, that mass-produced sugary stuff doesn’t cut it.”

  I reached over my shoulder and passed Mattie a piece of bacon. It disappeared almost as fast as Vicky’s had.

  “You have to admit that as well as enjoying a great breakfast”—I patted my tummy and sighed happily—“we learned something important.”

  “Okay, I will admit that.”

  We drove out of Muddle Harbor.

  Chapter 15

  Vicky dropped Mattie and me at my parents’ house and took herself back to the bakery to get on with her day. It wasn’t much after eight, but I was sure my dad would be up, and I wanted to tell him what we’d learned.

  I’ve been given my own key—well, more like I never returned it when I moved out—but I prefer to ring the bell if people are home.

  Chris answered the door. He wore a baggy pair of board shorts and a stained and ripped T-shirt. His eyes were red, his hair stood on end, and dark stubble dotted his face. The cut on his lip was healing well, but if anything the bruising around his eye looked worse.

  Mattie ran inside while I wrapped my brother in a hug. “You look dreadful,” I said when we’d separated.

  “Thanks.”

  “Aren’t you sleeping?”

  He shrugged. “Not very well. Dave, that’s my boss, isn’t happy that I’m needing more time off work. He says he understands the circumstances, but . . .”

  “But you want to get back.”

  “Yeah. What brings you here so early?”

  “Is Dad up?”

  “I am.” Dad came into the foyer. He, on the other hand, was dressed for the day in slacks and a plain white button-down shirt. He’d trimmed his beard and washed his hair, making the white curls soft and fluffy. He greeted Mattie with a pat and said, “Coffee, honeybunch?”

  “Sure.”

  I followed my father and brother into the kitchen while Mattie ran on ahead. “I’ve already had a big breakfast and coffee,” I told them. “Want to know where?”

  “The Muddle Harbor Café?” Dad said.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “If you’d had breakfast at Vicky’s or your own kitchen table, you wouldn’t be so excited to tell us about it.”

  “The Muddle Harbor Café? Why on earth would you go there?” Chris asked. “Why would anyone go there?”

  I sat at the kitchen table, and Dad poured me a coffee from the big machine on the counter. He filled up his and Chris’s cups and sat down.

  “Thanks.” I cradled the mug in my hands, feeling the warmth. Mattie made a great to-do of finding the perfect spot to make himself comfortable, and then nestled at my feet.

  “First,” I said, “you need to know Wayne Fitzroy was there, meeting with Randy and some people who seem to be potential investors. Wayne’s still keen on the project.”

  “That’s his business,” Dad said. “He’s looking for something to do with his time and needing something to make him feel important.”

  We knew Wayne had been forcibly retired recently: allowed to leave quietly rather than charges being laid for embezzlement.

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Maybe. I don’t trust him one little bit. Jim Morrow was there, too. He walked out, saying Jeff’s death would be the end of the project. He advised someone I wasn’t introduced to, probably the big money investor, not to keep wasting his time. Clearly the death of Jeff Vanderhaven isn’t doing the residents of Muddle Harbor any good. They’re still arguing about going ahead, but I got the feeling they know the amusement park project is pretty much over without his involvement.”

  “You learned a lot, Merry,” Chris said. “And all you did was have breakfast?”

  “Sheer amateur investigator luck. They were in the middle of their breakfast meeting when Vicky and I walked in. I suspect our arrival caused things to be brought out into the open they might otherwise have tried to skirt around.”

  “That’s interesting enough, I suppose,” Chris said. “But do you think Jeff’s death has something to do with his business interests?”

  “I think it needs to be considered.”

  “It does,” Dad said. “Most importantly, the more we learn, the better. What Merry says might well be the case. I’ve been hearing things about Vanderhaven Development Corporation. I hardly have to even ask. Everyone seems to think I’ll want to know all the details.”

  “Which you do,” I said.

  Dad grinned at me. “Which I do. Anyway, Louis’s father, Louis senior, started the company as a small, family-run construction business. He did the work, hired part-time help when needed; his wife did the books on their kitchen table. I know this from Mable D’Angelo, who was eager to tell me that her husband, the late, unlamented Howard, was at one time involved in construction in Rochester and had dealings with Louis senior and later junior. The company grew and prospered and expanded, through a combination of Louis senior and Mrs. Vanderhaven’s hard work, good luck, and a favorable economic environment. Louis senior lived a good long life and died in his eighties, still involved in much of the day-to-day running of the company, which by then had become a major force in real estate development and construction, all through this part of the state. His son, Louis junior—”

  “Jeff’s father,” Chris said.

  Dad nodded. “Louis junior was in his fifties when his father died, and he took over the running of the company. At first, it continued on the successful course it was on. But Louis isn’t his father, and he’s fonder of the drink—so they say—than he should be.”

  “That coincides with what Luanne told me,” I said. “That Louis is a heavy drink
er. The men at the café mentioned it, too.”

  “The company soon started to falter. Bad decisions were made, gambles taken which shouldn’t have been. Investors and partners started having second thoughts. Jeff stepped up to the plate and wrested day-to-day control from his father. Over the last five years, Jeff’s pretty much been running the show, with his dad as the figurehead. The company’s on its way back, slowly but surely. These things do take time.”

  “That’s what I heard in Muddle Harbor,” I said. “They say the project’s dead now that Jeff is. They have no confidence in Louis.”

  “As interesting as this is,” Chris said, “all you’ve done is give us reasons people had for not killing Jeff. No one’s better off without him. Except, as the police seem to think, me.”

  “There are always two sides to every story,” I said. “Every cloud has a silver lining and all that. Vanderhaven Development’s business competition is better off. Is it possible, do you think, someone’s hoping they’ll get a better deal negotiating with the incompetent Louis rather than his son?” Wayne Fitzroy’s face flashed through my mind. Dad and I knew Wayne didn’t have much money, although he wanted people to think he did. The married Wayne had also, at least as recently as Thanksgiving, been having an affair with a Muddle Harbor town councilor. Maybe more than money was on the table for him.

  Dad sipped his coffee. “Closer to home, anyone opposed to the Muddle Harbor project’s better off.”

  “You mean people here in Rudolph?” Chris said. “I can’t accept that. The project was nothing but a proposal anyway. It might never have come off.”

  “And now it’s almost guaranteed not to,” Dad said. “Don’t dismiss the idea outright. There are people in Rudolph who might consider themselves threatened by any success on the part of Muddle Harbor in the same way the Muddites interpret any success of Rudolph as a slight against them.”

  “That makes no sense,” Chris said.

  “Murder makes no sense.” Our mother sailed into the room, her diaphanous peach satin robe flowing around her, her fluffy slippers tapping the floor. She bent over and brushed my cheek with her lips. She smelled of the vanilla skin cream she always slathers on before going to bed and traces of yesterday’s Chanel No. 5. “Never discount the power of jealousy. I recall a run of Aida in London. We were appearing at the Royal Opera House and one of the young men in the chorus was insanely jealous of the star tenor. You’ll know the gentleman if I say his name, dear. He laid a trap for the tenor that, if successful, would have caused serious injury if not death. The tenor was the entire reason for the run of the performance.” Mom touched her hair. “Other than my appearing as Amneris, of course. If he’d been forced to withdraw, the show would have closed early, meaning the chorus would have been out of work. That didn’t seem to have occurred to the young man at the time. Or so he exclaimed as the police dragged him off the stage and off to jail minutes before the curtain lifted.”

  “I don’t see that that has anything to do with what we’re talking about, Mom,” Chris said.

  “Doesn’t it?” She poured herself a coffee. “All I’m saying is, never discount the power of jealousy. The negative emotions have a way of turning on the owner. What are you planning to wear on Thursday, dear?”

  “What?” I realized she was talking to me.

  “What are you wearing to the Yuletide for New Year’s Eve?”

  “I didn’t know I was going to the Yuletide for New Year’s Eve. Alan and I planned to have dinner at his place and watch the ball drop on TV.”

  “Surely you remember? I told you months ago. Grace has invited us, as well as you and Alan, to join her at her table. She’s extended the invitation to Chris, if he’s free.”

  “I won’t be free,” Chris said. “I hope I’ll be in New York.”

  “I—” I said.

  “You don’t have much time,” Mom said, “if you want to go shopping for something new. It’s going to be a formal evening. Your father’s wearing his tux.”

  “I am?” Dad said.

  She kissed the top of his head. “You are, dear. You are.”

  Mom left with her coffee, trailing peach satin and the scent of vanilla.

  “Looks like you and Alan are going to the Yuletide for New Year’s Eve,” Chris said.

  “Looks like. I don’t think Alan owns a tux. Come to think of it, I don’t know if Alan owns a suit. Other than the head toymaker getup, and I don’t think that’s what Mom has in mind.”

  “Back to the topic at hand . . .” Chris said.

  “Right. Diane has been looking into the situation at Vanderhaven Development,” Dad said.

  “She thinks his death had something to do with business interests?” Chris asked. “That’s good news for me.”

  “I don’t know what she thinks, but she’d be foolish to discount it. And she’s not a fool. She won’t discount anything. I’ll give her a call later and tell her what Merry learned. Wayne Fitzroy’s involvement might be news to her.”

  “The autopsy’s scheduled for this morning,” I said. “Maybe they’ll learn something that will clear you, Chris. Simmonds said it’s unlikely it was an accident, but that’s possible.”

  Chris finished his coffee and took the mug to the sink. “I hate sitting around, waiting for the ax to fall.”

  My father and I exchanged glances behind Chris’s back.

  I stood up. “I have to get to the store.” Mattie scrambled to his feet. At that moment the doorbell rang. Chris whirled around and threw an anxious look at Dad.

  “Let’s see who it is, shall we?” Dad said calmly.

  Mattie ran ahead, and I followed Dad and Chris out of the kitchen and down the hall. Mom stood on the steps, her hand wrapped so tightly around the handle of her coffee mug the tips of her fingers were turning white. She wasn’t as calm and unconcerned as she’d tried to appear in the kitchen.

  Dad opened the door. Not Detective Simmonds, as we’d all feared, but Scott Abramsky. He blinked when he saw the circle of concerned Wilkinson faces staring at him. “Uh . . . hi.”

  “Happy New Year,” Dad said.

  “Same to you, sir.”

  Chris stepped forward. “What’s up?”

  “I was driving by, and I wondered if you’d heard about the pub night.”

  “Give my regards to your parents, Scott.” Dad went back to the kitchen. Mom slipped upstairs.

  “Pub night?” Chris said.

  “Some of us from school, who still live in town, thought it would be fun to organize a get-together with those who’re back for the holidays. It was Tiffany Ambrose’s idea. She used to be Tiffany Ravenswood. She married Ronnie Ambrose right out of school. You remember them?”

  “Sure. As I recall, Tiffany was always running around, trying to organize everyone.”

  “Yup, that was her. Tiff was the second-prettiest girl in school. After Luanne Ireland, of course. Tiff wanted to go to Hollywood and become a star. Obviously that never happened. She has three kids, maybe four, hard to keep track, and works at her parents’ hardware store. Anyway, she’s putting together a reunion at McGinley’s Irish Pub. Tonight at seven. I thought you’d like to know.”

  Chris twisted his face. “I don’t—”

  “I heard about it,” I said. “Jackie O’Reilly’s planning to go.”

  “You’re invited, too, Merry,” Scott said. “You’re not that much older than us.”

  “Ha ha,” I said.

  “Anyway, I thought I’d mention it. As long as you’re in town anyway, Chris, you might as well get out, have some fun. Hope to see you there.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Chris said.

  Mattie sniffed at Scott’s legs, and Scott gave him a pat on the head. “Nice dog. Maybe see you guys later.” He turned and trotted away.

  “I love being reminded of how old I’m getting,” I said.
/>   “I remember that about Scott,” Chris said. “He never did realize what he was saying sometimes, but as long as I’m not under arrest I might as well go to the pub.”

  “It might help take your mind off things. You said you hate sitting around the house doing nothing. If you’d like to go, and you want me to come, I will.”

  His grin lit up his face. “For an older sister, you’re not so bad.” He punched me lightly on the arm.

  I returned the punch. “Back atcha.”

  Mattie barked.

  “Let’s see if there are any developments today. It might be nice to get out. See the old crowd.” Chris’s grin widened. “And some of the even older crowd.”

  “Don’t press your luck.”

  * * *

  * * *

  My parents’ house is close to town, and Mattie and I walked to Mrs. Claus’s. The sky was dark with the promise of snow on the way, and I wrapped my scarf tightly around my neck against the chilly wind. On the way, I called Alan to tell him about the change in New Year’s plans.

  One word no one ever used for Alan Anderson is “extrovert.” He’s quiet and he likes his own company. And mine, I hoped. He’d never been much of a joiner. In school he’d been a good athlete, and the coaches of the baseball or football teams had been after him to join them, but he’d stuck with cross-country running. He’d won quite a few races, as I recalled, but running didn’t lead to high school glory. The fact that he could have been more popular as the star of the football team didn’t worry him in the least.

  When the rest of us at school were making plans to move to the big cities for fashion or corporate jobs, careers at the Washington Post or the New York Times, in front of the camera, or with giant law firms, all Alan wanted out of life was a place nested in his beloved woods of Upstate New York where he could make beautiful, practical things with his own strong hands. He could be friendly, and he wasn’t a recluse, but Alan always had been happiest surrounded by the peace and quiet of his own life.

  Alan and I had dated on and off through most of high school, and we reconnected last year, when I came back and found that the old spark between us hadn’t quite died. We’d had fun over the past several months turning the spark into a blaze. Our relationship worked now, because I’d gotten the high-powered corporate life, the Manhattan parties, the “in” clubs and restaurants, the see-and-be-seen crowd, out of my system. And now I, also, was happy to spend my life in Rudolph, New York, where the highlight of our Christmas Eve had been a walk in the snowy woods with the dogs.