by Vicki Delany
I’d had to give in, phone Mrs. D’Angelo, and beg her to take care of him.
Not that she needed much begging. Her excitement at the idea of popping into my apartment and having a good snoop around, with my permission, came over the phone loud and clear.
I tried to remember if I’d picked my underwear up off the bedroom floor. Probably not.
All the lights were off at the front of my house. Even Mrs. D’Angelo couldn’t keep watch the entire time. I heard a rustle in the bushes as I rounded the building, heading for the back and the door to my apartment. A cat, maybe? I glanced up. A faint glow came from a single window in Steve and Wendy’s apartment, shining on gently falling snow. A night light in case they had to get up to see to the baby. All was quiet.
I flicked on the flashlight app on my smartphone, and found the lock. As the key turned, Mattie began to bark. I always felt dreadful when he barked in the night, thinking of the sleeping baby next door. But Wendy said he didn’t seem to bother Tina in the least. Nevertheless, I hurried in and whispered at the dog to hush.
As usual, my orders had absolutely no effect. I opened the crate and Mattie leapt out. I allowed a minute of kisses before putting him outside. He headed immediately for the back corner and began sniffing around. He must have caught the scent of that prowling cat.
I gave him a few minutes before calling him inside, and together we trudged up the stairs. Or, rather, I trudged. He bounded. I filled his food and water bowls, and while he was inhaling his late dinner, I got myself ready to go to sleep.
That took all of about ten seconds. I collapsed onto the bed, barely able to exert the energy required to pull the duvet up around me.
The bed springs protested as Mattie leapt up.
“Only two more weeks,” I told him. “And then we can have a normal life again.”
If he answered, I didn’t know because I was already fast asleep.
* * *
Two more weeks. Two more weeks. I repeated the mantra as my alarm sounded. Mattie’s happy, smiling face loomed over me. He woofed in delight as my eyes creaked open. I wiped drool off my cheeks and thought that at least one of us was excited to see the arrival of a new day.
I staggered out of bed and downstairs to let the dog into the backyard. I left the door open and staggered back up. Coffee on and into the shower.
When I came out, feeling at least human if not entirely bright and sparkly, I almost tripped over the dog’s bulk, lying in wait, stretched across the threshold of the door.
I bent over and gave him a hearty pat. “I think we both deserve,” I said, “a good long walk this morning. And I know just the destination.” I pulled out my iPhone and checked Google Maps. Strange things were happening in Rudolph, and the police didn’t seem to be getting much done about finding out who was responsible. It wouldn’t hurt, I figured, for me to do a bit of poking around on my own. Maybe I could shake something up.
I quickly pulled on warm clothes, poured my coffee into a portable mug, and Mattie and I headed out. It was almost eight, and a gray light was spreading across the sky to the east. The temperature had dropped overnight and it was a nippy five degrees according to the thermometer by the back deck. I snuggled into my lovely new coat and took deep breaths of the cold, clear air. I’d slept well and didn’t remember my dreams, but when I woke it was to thoughts of exploding hot dogs, disabled tractors, and dead journalists. Less than an inch of snow had fallen in the night, but some people were out shoveling their driveways and paths.
We turned right at the road, heading away from town.
Jackie had told me that Sue-Anne lived on Willow Trail, and Google Maps had told me that Willow Trail was only a few short blocks from my house. I didn’t know what I hoped to find there—unlikely Sue-Anne would even be up and about—but I wanted to check out her house anyway.
We turned onto Willow Trail, a pleasant street of gentrified old homes on large lots. Bingo! I slowed as I spotted a black Suburban with a vanity license plate that said SUEANNE1. A man was dusting snow off the Suburban’s windows while a cocker spaniel ran about the yard, following his nose. The dog caught a whiff of Mattie and ran toward us, tongue hanging out and bushy tail wagging.
“Eddie, get back here.” The man threw down his long-handled brush and chased after the dog. Mattie’s own tail wagged and the two animals greeted each other in acceptable doggy fashion, nose to butt.
“She’s okay,” the man said to me. “She likes other dogs.”
“Mattie’s just a puppy,” I said. “Not quite sure how to make friends yet.”
“They seem to be doing fine,” he said, giving me a grin. He was in his fifties, lean and trim, and completely bald. His dark brown eyes wandered down. Too bad for him: I was wearing a heavy winter coat and a pair of old baggy sweatpants covered in pills. His eyes returned to my face. He thrust out his hand. “I’m Jim.”
I touched my mittens to his leather gloves. “Merry Wilkinson.”
“Noel’s girl?”
“Yes.”
“How did ugly old Noel produce such a beautiful daughter?”
I felt my smile stiffening. I glanced at the Suburban. “I recognize that car. Sue-Anne Morrow?”
“My wife.” He winked. “I hope you won’t hold that against me.”
Ugh.
“I hear Sue-Anne’s going to run for mayor,” I said.
He shrugged. “I won’t stand in her way.”
Hardly a ringing endorsement.
“Do you think she’ll do a good job?” I asked.
“I think Sue-Anne can do anything she puts her mind to. She’s one determined lady. I mean that in a good way, of course.”
“You’re not from around here,” I said. Mattie’s new friend had wandered off in search of fresh scents. I had to hold firmly on to the leash to keep him from following. “Small towns can be wary of outsiders.”
He laughed, showing a mouthful of strong white teeth and an attractive dimple. He was a good-looking guy. If you could ignore the creep factor. I suspected some women would. “Yup. You’re not really a local unless your great-grandparents are buried in the cemetery.”
My great-grandparents on my father’s side were.
“Sue-Anne and I don’t think that will be a problem. We spent a lot of years in the city, but at heart we’re country folk. I was lucky enough to be able to sell my business for a good sum and retire. Not that I’m really retired.” He laughed. “I’m not that old. Just wanting to do what I love to do.
“I figure my business smarts will come in handy in a place like this. Sue-Anne couldn’t get back upstate fast enough. She’s always wanted to get back to her roots. Good thing she didn’t make me move to some hardscrabble farm like the one she grew up on.”
I let out more length on the leash. Mattie headed off down the sidewalk, sniffing at the ground. He began circling. “Looks like I’m being told to continue with the walk,” I said.
“Sure. Nice talking to you. Look, I’ve an idea. How about you and me meet for a drink one night after work? I’d be glad to brainstorm some ideas for your shop. I made a lot of money in business in the city, you know.”
“So you said.”
“Nowadays, I charge the big bucks for consulting fees, but I’ll do it for you gratis. I’ll even throw in dinner.” He pulled back the sleeve of his jacket, ensuring I got a good look at the heavy Rolex on his wrist. “Always happy to help out a pretty girl.”
Mattie found the perfect spot and settled into a squat.
I pretended not to notice.
“Gotta run,” I said. I glanced behind Mr. Morrow, toward the house. Sue-Anne had come out and was standing on the porch, watching us. I gave her a wave. She did not smile in return.
Chapter 17
Horrorville.
Our worst nightmare came to pass and that word began to spread. I first heard a
bout it when I came out of Victoria’s Bake Shoppe, carrying a latte and croissant prior to opening the store. I almost bumped into my dad. No one would mistake him for Santa Claus today, not by the look of pure rage on his face.
Russ Durham was with him. He didn’t look a whole lot happier.
“What’s happened?” I said.
“Someone, probably that woman who wouldn’t let her daughter talk to me last night, checked out of the Carolers Motel. Said she wasn’t spending another night in Horrorville. Not with a child to worry about. Unfortunately, a family of four was checking in, and they asked her what was going on. She told them a bomb had gone off on the main street. They promptly turned tail and left.”
I groaned.
“Forfeiting, I might add,” Dad said, “what they’d paid for a night in the hotel. And, to add insult to injury, right there in the lobby the father searched for nearby hotels on his phone, and called the Muddle Harbor Inn.”
“Which just happened to have a free room,” I said.
“When the advertising desk clerk checked the voice mailbox this morning, it was full,” Russ said.
I groaned again.
“You guessed it. The Muddle Harbor Inn, the café, some of the shops, all wanting to place ads in the Gazette. Something along the lines of ‘a peaceful, family-safe Christmas destination.’”
“Maybe it’s a good thing,” I said, ever the optimist, “that those people checked out of the hotel and left town rather than spread their fears.”
“That’s not all,” Dad said.
“I got a call,” Russ said, “from our anonymous friend. Telling me that the police handed Dan’s barbeque to the fire inspector and asked him to give it a quick once-over. It was sabotaged.”
“Sabotaged how?”
“The caller didn’t say. I called Simmonds. She wouldn’t confirm or deny it. She keeps herself pretty much under control, but I could tell she was furious. She said that absolutely no one had been given details of the fire department’s investigation of the barbeque.”
“So your caller knew it was sabotaged, either because they have an inside track to the police or fire department . . .”
“Or they did it themselves,” Dad said.
“Who would do something like that?” I asked.
“Deliberately cause a barbeque to explode in a public place? Or make an anonymous call to the papers?” Russ said.
“It has to be the same person,” Dad said. “We might have been able to convince ourselves that the death of Nigel Pearce had nothing to do with Rudolph, but now this?”
“Not so fast,” I said. “Dan Evans was cooking and serving the hot dogs. Kyle came out and Dan asked him to take over. The explosion couldn’t have been more than a minute or two after that. Maybe someone wanted to get revenge or something on Dan, and mistakenly got Kyle. Maybe they took advantage of the fuss over Nigel Pearce to get back at Dan?”
“That would make sense, Merry,” Dad said, “except for the anonymous call to the newspaper. “
“You didn’t recognize the voice?” I asked Russ.
He shook his head. “Might have been the same person who called me on Sunday about Pearce, but again the voice was disguised.”
“Someone wants to cause trouble in Rudolph,” I said.
“And they’re not keeping quiet about it,” Russ added.
I wondered if that was the point.
Vicky came down the steps. “I could see you guys from inside. What’s the huddle about?” She wiped floury hands on her apron. A cable-knit sweater was thrown over her shoulders. Dad filled her in.
“I called Fergus and the rest of the town council to an emergency meeting,” Dad said. “We have to consider cancelling tonight’s events.”
“No!” Vicky and I chorused.
“Can we take the chance on this escalating?” Dad said. “We were lucky no one was injured last night.”
Russ’s phone beeped. He checked the display. “I have to take this.” He stepped away.
“If we cancel Saturday Midnight Madness,” Vicky said, “people will panic. And not just visitors. We can’t give in to terrorists.”
“Don’t glorify this by calling it terrorism,” Dad said grimly. “This is some small-minded person with a grudge against Rudolph itself.”
Russ joined us again, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “That was Renee. She wanted me to know that she got an e-mail telling her what happened last night. And to let me know that Horrorville is now a hashtag on Twitter.”
“That woman last night,” I said to Dad. “The one who first said . . . that word. Could she have been a plant? Maybe she’s the one who sabotaged the barbeque?”
“I can’t see it,” Dad said. “She looked genuinely frightened.”
“All it takes is one catchy word for an idea to spread,” Russ said. “Particularly if someone is eager to fan the flames, so to speak.”
“And the good folks of Muddle Harbor are very eager indeed,” I said. “Randy Baumgartner was in town last night. I saw him. I think it was him. And eating a hot dog, at that.”
“What time’s this council meeting?” Vicky asked.
“We’re on our way now,” Dad said. “If we’re going to cancel tonight, we have to get it done.”
She pulled a face. “I’m just too busy, sorry. Merry, you go. Tell them I want to keep the town open.”
“I guess it won’t hurt if I’m late opening the store this morning,” I said. “I’d like to know what’s going on.”
Dad and Russ set off, and I followed, gripping my breakfast. The town hall is tucked in behind the library, only a few doors from Victoria’s Bake Shoppe. That, plus the fact that the police station is in the same building, went a long way to providing Vicky with customers in off-season months.
Town councilors were arriving in a steady stream. Dad immediately began shaking hands and exchanging greetings. Russ and I climbed the short flight of stairs to the public gallery. Situated at the back of the library, the council chambers overlook the public park and Lake Ontario. It’s a wonderful view, winter or summer. In the distance sunlight sparkled on the dark blue waters of the lake, but closer to shore waves had been captured in ice, giving the shoreline the look of a mad sculptor’s workshop. A handful of snowmen, constructed with varying degrees of expertise, were scattered about the park.
Inside, a man was hunched over the railing at the front of the public gallery staring at the activity below as the councilors exchanged greetings and took their seats. Russ gave me a nudge and jerked his head toward the man. “Muddle Harbor Chronicle,” he whispered.
A few people I recognized as local businesspeople took seats near us. Not many had come. Most of them would be getting ready for the day.
The meeting didn’t last long. Dad spoke first, emphasizing that the report of the tampering with the barbeque was still nothing but a rumor, and that the murder of Nigel Pearce remained unsolved, so it might well have nothing to do with Rudolph.
Sue-Anne Morrow leapt to her feet the moment Dad drew breath. She talked about our responsibility to ensure the complete safety of residents and visitors to our town. She didn’t come down on one side or the other of the issue of cancelling tonight’s Midnight Madness. Some of the councilors nodded as she spoke.
I flashed on the image of Sue-Anne as I’d seen her this morning, standing on her porch steps, watching her husband try to charm me. He’d been almost rudely dismissive of her political ambitions. That sort of mild scorn could often inspire the person to try harder, to care more. I’ll show you! I was about to whisper something to Russ about it, but then he leaned forward as Fergus got slowly to his feet.
He puffed out his chest and, I thought, looked very mayoral in a three-piece suit with wide lapels and wide-legged trousers. Waistcoats hadn’t been popular in men’s fashion for at least twenty years, and designer s
uits today were cut tight for a lean silhouette. Just as well Fergus kept his old clothes: tight and lean wouldn’t have suited our rotund mayor. He peered over the top of his glasses at Sue-Anne, who looked very up-to-date in a power suit with three-quarter-length sleeves and a straight, knee-length skirt. “That might be,” he said, “how things are done in the city, where everyone’s afraid of lawsuits and lawyers tell them what to do. But here in Rudolph, we can figure out for ourselves what’s best for our town.”
“I didn’t . . .” Sue-Anne protested, but Fergus hammered on the table with his gavel, cutting her off. I wondered if the suit had been deliberately chosen to look old-fashioned. When it came to political instincts, he was no fool, our mayor.
“Time for a vote,” Fergus said. He then launched into a ten-minute speech about love of community, respect for traditions, the importance of small-town America, and above all the spirit of Christmas that was personified by the town of Rudolph. Sue-Anne glowered throughout it all. A couple of times she looked as though she were going to interrupt, but then thought better of it. As Fergus spoke, heads began to nod.
At last he stopped. He nodded to the town clerk.
“All in favor of continuing with tonight’s Midnight Madness,” she said, “as originally planned, say aye.”
It was unanimous. Sue-Anne glanced around the chamber and then put up her hand.
Down below, my dad caught my eye. He gave me a nod. He was not smiling, and his face looked grim. He’d spoken first, arguing that if we cancelled one of the town’s major events at the last minute, Rudolph might never recover from the bad publicity.
It was decided, over the objections of Ralph Dickerson, who had to do the budget, that the mayor would speak to the chief of police and ask for additional uniformed officers on the streets. The meeting then broke up.
The Chronicle reporter made a dash for the exit. He tripped at the top of the stairs and would have tumbled all the way to the bottom, with no doubt tragic results, had not Betty Thatcher grabbed his arm.
