by Liz Mugavero
Stan let Jake lead her out into the night, thinking that death had become way too common an event in her life since moving here.
Chapter Ten
Stan and Jake drove the short distance home in silence. Jake pulled into their driveway and opened his door, but Stan paused with her hand on the door handle and turned to him.
“Do you think someone hated Harold enough to kill him? Or do you think Jessie’s way off base here?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Jake said. “Jessie said he had a black eye?”
Stan nodded. “Is it weird that you haven’t seen Harold since he got back to town?”
“Not terribly,” Jake said. “He wasn’t super dependable. Depends on how much money he needed, or where he was at with his drinking. He’s usually back early December, and I think he was a bit late this year. I remember Lester saying he’d had to hire some extra hands because his usual help wasn’t around.”
Scruffy squirmed in Stan’s grasp, anxious to get inside. “Come on,” he said, gazing at the brightly lit house. “We better go in. Maybe somebody’s heard from my uncle by now.”
“I hope so,” Stan said. “I don’t want to think they’re in trouble.”
“Me either,” Jake said.
Stan got out of the car with Scruffy while Jake gathered the food. “But what I don’t get is, Seamus had to be in touch with Harold to ask him to take over Santa duties. So why didn’t Ray call Char, or why didn’t Seamus tell anyone else what he was doing?”
Jake shook his head. “I don’t have a good answer for you. Maybe my cousins have some thoughts.”
Stan followed him to the door while Scruffy strained at her leash, looking forward to seeing her new relatives. Jake balanced the trays of food on his knee so he could use a hand to unlock the door, but it swung open before he could insert the key. Liam stood there, with the rest of the dogs gathered around him. Duncan, Jake’s Weimaraner, launched himself at both of them, barking excitedly. Liam easily intercepted him so he didn’t knock the food to the floor.
“Thanks, man,” Jake said gratefully.
“Anytime.” Liam stepped aside to let him pass, still holding Dunc’s collar, then reached over to ruffle Scruffy’s ears. “Hey, Stan.” Liam—in Stan’s opinion—was the more handsome of Jake’s two cousins, with dark hair, blue eyes, and that brooding Irish personality. He was the creative brother too, living in New York and working as a writer. Declan, the younger brother, was the Serious Banker. He had red hair, brown eyes, and looked more Irish than anyone in the family. He lived in the Boston suburbs with his wife and two children and worked in the financial district. He had little patience for his father’s shenanigans, according to Jake. Actually, neither of them did, but they demonstrated it differently. Declan constantly tried to get his father to see the error of his ways and do things differently, while Liam mostly ignored him.
“Hi, Liam.” Stan unhooked Scruffy’s leash. The little dog stood up on Liam’s leg, batting her eyelashes, until he petted her. Then she sauntered over to see Henry the pit bull and Gaston the Australian shepherd, both of whom were behaving a lot better than Duncan. “How are you doing?”
He shrugged. “I’m fine.” He peered out into the night beyond her, then closed and locked the door.
“Have you heard from your dad?”
Liam shook his head. “Want me to heat these up?” He indicated the trays of food. “Declan’s making tea.” He headed for the kitchen. She guessed that meant he didn’t want to talk about it.
She’d let Jake bring it up.
“I’ll be right there,” she called after him, then hurried upstairs. She desperately wanted to put her jammies on and get warm—even though she’d been inside for the latter part of the evening, she felt like the cold had seeped into her bones. Some tea would be nice.
She changed and pulled on a pair of fuzzy slippers, then broke into a smile as Benedict, her orange tabby cat, sauntered into the room. He looked like he’d just woken up. “Hey, Benny,” she said, reaching down to stroke his back. “What are you up to? Where’s Nutty?”
He meowed plaintively at her, suggesting that he had no idea where his adoptive brother was and quite possibly didn’t care.
“Okay, I’ll look for him myself. I’m guessing he’s down in the kitchen scrounging for treats. Come on.” She scooped up the round ball of fluff and carried him downstairs to join the rest of the gang.
Liam and Jake were at the table, heads together, talking in low voices. Declan was pouring hot water over tea bags. He offered a mug to Stan when she walked into the room. “I’m sure you need this,” he said in a low voice. “What a crazy night, yeah?”
“It really was,” she said, releasing Benny and accepting the tea. “Thanks, Declan.”
He nodded, then carried two mugs to the table and handed them to Jake and Liam, pulling Stan’s chair out for her after he’d set them down. Then he carefully wiped down the counter and brought his own drink over.
Jake and Liam let their conversation trail off, then Jake turned to Declan. “Do you think your dad would’ve gone to your house for some reason? Have you talked to Grace?”
Declan looked horrified. “My house? No. He wouldn’t …” Abruptly he rose, patting his pockets for his phone, and left the room.
“Why would that be bad?” Stan asked, looking from Jake to Liam.
Liam shook his head, an amused look on his face as he scooped some salad onto a plate. “Declan thinks Dad would corrupt his kids and lure his wife into a life of debauchery. Which he might try, but I doubt he’d succeed.”
“Really?” Stan thought back to the one time she’d met Uncle Seamus during last year’s holiday season. He’d been at the pub, and a wee bit drunk. The impression she’d gotten was one of a happy man, maybe a tad too carefree, but charming and lovable. Then again, people’s public faces often differed from their private ones, and his immediate family knew him best.
“Everyone’s stressing out over nothing,” Liam was saying around a mouthful of chocolate fudge. “I bet he found a lady friend. Don’t tell Viv.”
“No.” Jake shook his head. “Ray wouldn’t go along with that. Why wouldn’t he just come back, then? Plus, I know Uncle Seamus really looks forward to this time with Ray. I don’t think he’d do that.”
“Then you, my favorite cousin, have a lot to learn about my dad,” Liam said. “Because he’s got a way of getting people to agree to things they wouldn’t normally agree to.”
Jake looked like he wanted to argue, but Declan came back in the room waving his phone triumphantly.
“He’s not there,” he said, returning to his seat. “Grace thought it was silly I’d even ask. Dad never comes to my house,” he explained to Jake and Stan. “Says we’re too uptight. I tell him we’re just responsible adults with a family.”
“Ah, you’re hard on the guy,” Jake said.
“I knew he wouldn’t be there,” Liam said. “Doesn’t exactly solve the problem though, does it?”
Declan pressed his lips together. “You know it’s all a joke. Dad’s out somewhere being Dad. I don’t know why we’re even bothering to discuss it. He’ll turn up when he turns up. And he’ll laugh about it and say we were all overreacting. His usual line, eh, Liam?”
Liam nodded. “Or, we may just not see him until next Christmas.”
“Or else,” Declan went on, “maybe he ticked someone off good enough this time and they got sick and tired of letting him off the hook.”
Liam raised his mug in a salute. “Could’ve happened.”
Stan’s antennae went up. She wanted to ask Declan what he meant by that, but Declan was already moving on.
He yawned. “I’m going to bed.”
Liam nodded, swallowing the last of his tea. “Me too. Night.”
The two brothers got up and left the room. Henry, always looking for someone to go to bed with, lumbered out after them. After they’d gone, Stan looked at Jake. “Wow. They really aren’t forgiving of their dad, huh
?”
“No,” Jake said. “I’ll admit Seamus isn’t perfect, but he’s not that bad. He deserves at least a little concern from his sons. I’m kind of disappointed in them. Come on, dogs, let’s go outside.” He led the remaining three dogs out into the backyard.
Stan watched him from the window for a few minutes as he leaned against the fence, lost in thought, before she went upstairs to bed.
Chapter Eleven
Stan tossed and turned all night. Jake was awake too—she could feel it, but he didn’t seem to want to talk, so she let him be. She had her own thoughts churning through her brain. Like, why would Declan think his dad had made someone angry enough that they wouldn’t let him off the hook this time? What did that mean, exactly? She wondered again if anyone had even known Harold was in that Santa suit. Jessie was trying to figure out the same thing, but in her mind it was because, if there had been a murder, she would work it under the assumption that Harold was the target. At least at the beginning.
But what if it had been Seamus all along? If he could encourage such strong negative emotions from his own sons, who knew how many other people felt that way about him?
Then she spent some time chiding herself for getting way ahead. This could end up that Harold had been sick and hadn’t known it, and all this speculation would be for nothing.
After a couple hours of broken sleep and crazy dreams, she gave up around six and went downstairs. Despite having houseguests and six animals, the house was silent. None of the dogs had even stirred when she’d gotten up. She took advantage of the quiet and went to the kitchen to start coffee. It might take more than one pot, given the number of coffee drinkers staying here. Once the beans were grinding, she sat at the table and thought about last night. Specifically, about Char and Miss Viv. The two of them had to be so anxious. At least Miss Viv had her sister to help her. Char only had the guests at the B and B, and she was supposed to be taking care of them, not the other way around.
Stan took out her phone and dialed Char’s number. Her friend was always up early cooking. But today, the phone rang and rang, unanswered.
That wasn’t a good sign.
She needed to do something, though. So she went to the porch to see if the Holler had arrived.
It had, of course. Cyril had been up all night, most likely. But Stan had to admit that the paper had taken on a whole new level of quality in recent months. It was even more than four pages long these days.
After he’d broken the story of a sixty-year-old murder case being solved last winter, the recognition he’d received both in town and around the state had generated interest in his tiny paper. Coupled with the “renaissance of Frog Ledge,” as dubbed by Connecticut Magazine because of the redevelopment efforts and new boutique stores opening, the synergy had resulted in advertising dollars for the Holler—something previously unheard of. And frankly, something to which Cyril had never given a second thought. He published the paper because it was in his blood, a tradition handed down through his family. Stan often thought that he approached this task with a fervor born not only of his passion for journalism, but also out of a sense of guilt that he might not extend the family to keep the tradition going. A bit of an odd duck, Cyril had never dated anyone, as far as Stan knew. He certainly didn’t leave himself enough time to look for a date. And while he seemed happy enough, Stan guessed it must weigh on him. He’d looked up to his father and grandfather and wouldn’t have wanted to disappoint.
She bent to pick the paper up off the porch, shaking a dusting of snow off the wrapper. As she turned to go back inside, her gaze automatically went next door to Amara’s quiet house. She should stop by on her way out and make sure her friend was doing okay. It had to have been an unbelievably rough night for her.
Pulling the paper out of the plastic, Stan scanned the headlines as she walked back to the kitchen and sat at the table. Above the fold, of course, blared news of the botched holiday celebration, as well as an article about Harold Dewey. As much as she didn’t want to look at Tyler’s photo, her eyes were drawn to it. Cyril must be proud. Tyler had captured the scene, and its unease, well. His photo wasn’t super close-up, but you could just make out the red of Santa’s suit puddled in the sleigh. She shivered a little and turned her attention to the articles.
DOA Santa Dims Holiday Activities by Cyril Pierce
The article didn’t mention any hint of murder. Jessie had probably threatened him with a lawsuit if it had. Instead, he’d relayed the details of Santa’s dramatic, fatal entrance to the holiday celebration while still managing to capture the magic of the night before all the bad. He really was a good writer.
Next she skimmed the piece about Harold, which was accompanied by a photo. It looked to have been taken for some kind of ID card, because he wasn’t smiling and the photo looked sparse and bleached. His graying hair was cut short but unevenly. Despite a despondence that glinted in his eyes, Stan could see a handsome man lurking underneath the hard living he’d done. She felt sad all over again.
The article said Harold had “died unexpectedly” while playing the role of town Santa Claus. It then went into some basic facts about the dead man. Most of which she already knew from the conversations last night—no official address, spent part of his year living and working at Lester’s tree farm, a fixture around town. She did note with interest a quote from Helen Hayes, the lady friend Jessie had referred to last night.
“Harold was a kind man. Misunderstood, sadly,” Helen said in the article. “He’ll be dearly missed.”
How had Cyril found her darn near in the middle of the night? Silly question, she reminded herself. Cyril might not look it, but he was resourceful. And he’d do anything for the scoop.
The next headline was Cyril’s international story, and apparent personal crusade:
Theft of Ireland’s National Treasure Baffles Authorities, No Strong Leads
And the subhead:
Trinity College heist planned for years, Interpol says.
He’d borrowed the AP news update, but also added his own take on the events. The article opened with a note about his father’s connection to the Book of Kells, the series he’d written, and the interview with the unsuccessful thief. He went on to say the series would be reprinted over the coming week, and updates on the search for the prized religious artifact would be printed as they were made available.
It was shocking, Stan had to admit after reading both stories. For someone to pull off such a grand theft screamed professional. But then what did one do with such a thing, even if you did pull off the job? Surely you couldn’t sell it without getting busted. Not her problem, certainly, but it provided a moment of distraction from everything else.
She flipped to the inside pages. There was a notice for a zoning board meeting Wednesday night to discuss a proposal for a restaurant. Had to be Kyle’s place. She tore the notice out of the paper and stuck it on the fridge as a reminder to go, for moral support if nothing else.
The coffeepot beeped. Stan rose to pour a cup. The coffee was delicious—it was from Izzy’s shop. Which reminded her, she needed to check in on her too. She fished her cell phone out of her coat pocket and sent her friend a text.
How are you holding up?
While she waited for a response, she surveyed the contents of her refrigerator. Aside from the remains of the grand opening food she’d brought home—most of which she intended to bring next door—it wasn’t promising. She’d better go buy some food soon or Liam and Declan would have to go eat at McSwigg’s for every meal.
She settled on boiling herself an egg. By the time she’d cooked it, peeled it, and eaten it, she still hadn’t heard from Izzy. Maybe she’d stop by the café on her way to the shop. She had a feeling people would be out in full force today. Nothing like gossip and death to drive people to a sense of community.
Chapter Twelve
Jake got up a few minutes later. Stan had a cup of coffee with him, then rose to go.
“Hey, do you have M
iss Viv’s number?” she asked, pulling her coat on. “I wanted to check in with her. She was so distraught last night and I didn’t get to see her again.”
“Sure. That’s nice of you.” Jake scrolled through his contacts and recited it. “I’m going to go shower.” He kissed her and headed upstairs.
Stan dialed the number, then packed up some of the leftover food to bring to Amara’s while waiting for someone to answer. Liam had eaten a few bites of pasta last night, but other than that it had gone untouched. She and Vincent could both use some prepared food on a day like this, she suspected.
On the other end of the line, the phone rang and rang. She was about to hang up when a woman’s voice picked up.
“Hi, Miss Viv? It’s Stan Connor.”
“No, this is Victoria. I’m sorry, Vivian isn’t home.”
“I’m sorry if I woke you,” Stan said. “I was just wondering how she’s doing. I don’t suppose Seamus returned?”
“I’m afraid he didn’t. But I think my sister understands that’s par for the course with him. She’ll be fine.”
“What do you mean?” Stan asked.
Stan could almost see Victoria pushing those glasses up on her nose before she answered.
“My poor sister. She’s been cutting that man slack the majority of his life, and he’s disappointed her over and over. Still, she makes excuses for him. So if he doesn’t show up to do what he promised today, he’ll be back next week and he’ll somehow make it up to her.”
Stan didn’t know what to say to that. “Oh,” she managed finally. “Well. I’m sorry, Victoria. Miss Viv is lucky she has you.”
“To pick up the pieces? Why, yes, I suppose she is.” Victoria sounded amused. “I’ve been doing it as long as she has, so I guess at some point you just get used to it. But you’re a dear to call. I’ll let her know.”
“Thanks.” Stan hung up, feeling sorry for Miss Viv. Why had she never moved on? As soon as she asked herself the question, she scoffed at it. Love did crazy things to people.
