by Vicki Delany
Erica’s face was streaked with black rivers of makeup, her nose and her eyes red and wet. She lifted a tissue to her face and blew. Muriel carried an open box of tissues. Jason crossed the room, fists clenched. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”
“I would if you tell me,” Simmonds replied calmly.
“Erica Johnstone.”
“Your name is Erica?” Simmonds asked.
Jason’s face turned as red as Erica’s. “You watch your step, lady, or we’ll sue this two-bit town for everything it has. And you, too.”
“Be that as it may, you have to leave. Officer Reynolds!”
Erica stepped forward. She placed a quivering hand on the photographer’s sleeve. “It’s all right, Jason. The detective is simply doing her job.” She lifted her round, tear-filled eyes to Simmonds’s face. “I want to see Max. Please. They tell me he’s dead, but I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it. You have to let me see him.”
Simmonds’s face relaxed into an almost sympathetic expression. “Where did you hear about this, ma’am? What’s your relationship to this Max?” Reynolds, the officer who’d been first to answer my call for help, came through from the back of the shop. Simmonds gave him a hold on gesture.
We don’t have any curtains on the windows of the shop. I could see faces pressed up against the glass, Candy Campbell trying to get people to move away. As if. Other officers were arriving to give her a hand. The buzz of excitement spilled into the shop even with the door closed.
The news had traveled mighty fast. I knew Max was dead, but I hadn’t told anyone other than Detective Simmonds. Three other people had overheard Simmonds asking me if I knew who the dead man was, and me giving his name. Candy Campbell and the two men in jackets who I’d guessed were investigators from the state police. Unlikely even Candy would squeal to the press so soon, but I’d lay odds she’d let the name slip over the radio. And with Erica Johnstone in town, who knows who’s listening to the police radio.
“Max. Maxwell Edgar Folger,” Erica said. She looked very small and frail standing between Jason and Muriel, both of whom had their arms around her now. “He’s my fiancé. We’re getting married in . . .” She burst into tears.
“The wedding is scheduled for next month,” Muriel added.
“Please,” Erica said, “I have to see him. I have to know!”
“One moment,” Simmonds said. “Officer Reynolds, will you stay with these people, please. I’ll be right back.”
Jason patted Erica’s back, and Muriel said, “There, there. I’m sure there’s been a dreadful mistake. You’ll see.”
Simmonds soon returned. “You can come with me, Ms. Johnstone. I’m afraid there isn’t room for your friends to accompany you.”
Erica lifted her head. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. Then she walked behind the curtain.
Jason and Muriel exchanged looks. “So brave,” Muriel said.
All fell silent.
But not for long. A moan of Shakespearean proportions burst through the shop. “Noooooo,” Erica cried.
Jason ran for the back rooms. He returned almost immediately, half carrying a weeping Erica. A grim-faced Simmonds followed.
“She has to sit down,” Jason said.
“Let’s get her back to the hotel,” Muriel said. “She needs to rest.”
Erica pushed Jason away. I thought she hadn’t noticed me, cowering behind the pretty dolls. I was wrong.
She pointed one sharp red nail at me. “You! It was you!”
“Me?” I squeaked, venturing out of hiding.
“He told me you wouldn’t leave him alone. He told me you were after him, always after him to make up with you. He tried to be kind, didn’t he? To let you down gently. He told you it was over. That he loved me! Me, not you. You pathetic little creature. Look at you. I can’t imagine what you think you’re wearing.”
Everyone was watching us. I didn’t care for the look of interest on Detective Simmonds’s face. “I never . . .”
“Only this morning, he told me he was going to offer to pay you off. A million dollars not to bother him again.”
“Bother him?” I said. “He came to my town. My shop. Not the other way around.”
“My poor, naïve, innocent Max. Finally, finally, he made you understand that he didn’t love you. And you killed him.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
The tears had dried on her face. Erica swung her finger toward Simmonds. “Officer, I demand you arrest that woman.”
Chapter 6
I was not arrested. Although Simmonds was mighty angry that I hadn’t told her I’d once had a romantic relationship with the deceased, not to mention he left me for another woman.
“Sorry,” I said, once Erica, Jason, and Muriel had been escorted out of the building in the company of an officer who was told to take them to their hotel. And see that they didn’t leave. They went out the back to avoid the crowds.
“It’s not true, what she said. Yes, I was hurt, dreadfully, when he dumped me for her, but I soon came to realize I’m better off without him. I didn’t want Max back, and I don’t want to return to New York City. I’m happy here in Rudolph in my little shop. You can search my phone and computer records if you want. You won’t find any evidence that I’ve been calling him or writing him letters. Because I haven’t. He came here to Rudolph, to my place of business. He wouldn’t have done that if I’d been such a nuisance, would he? We went out to dinner Thursday night, to A Touch of Holly. It didn’t go well. I walked out before our food arrived. You can ask anyone.”
“I believe you, Merry,” Simmonds said.
“You do?”
“I do. For the reasons you’ve stated. He was here, where you live. You were not there, where he lives, being a nuisance. Plus, I saw you myself not more than a quarter of an hour before the 911 call, in the presence of Santa Claus and a substantial part of the population of Upstate New York. An autopsy will determine the time of death, but as an educated guess, I’d say it was more than fifteen minutes ago. Ms. Johnstone is in shock. She lashed out at the first available person, which is quite normal. That person happened to be you. If I can play amateur psychologist, I’d say she might carry some guilt at stealing your boyfriend.”
“I doubt it. Erica doesn’t do guilt.”
“I need to talk to the folks in the back and then interview Ms. Johnstone and the other people with the magazine. I shouldn’t have to tell you that you can’t open the shop today, and maybe not tomorrow, either. You can leave now. I’ll call you later to let you know about tomorrow, and any further questions I might have.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Are you going back to the beach?”
“Might as well. Things should be almost over by now, but I can help Santa for a while yet.” And, I realized, I wanted to be with Alan. “But first, there is one thing you need to know. Far from me begging him to take me back, yesterday Max asked me to start our relationship again.”
She raised one eyebrow. “Is that so?”
I told her everything. About the deal Max said he’d made with Erica and the deal he wanted to make with me. It sounded so dirty, so sordid, I didn’t know if Simmonds would even believe it.
“Thanks for telling me, Merry,” she said. “I’ll be in touch soon.”
• • •
I walked back to the park deep in thought. My main concern right now was Jackie. What had happened to Jackie? Was she even now being held captive by a crazed killer? Or, I couldn’t bear to think, was she already dead, so she couldn’t be a witness to the killing of Max? She annoyed the heck out of me sometimes—okay, she annoyed the heck out of me most of the time—but there was no malice in her. She was impulsive, and spoke and acted before thinking. I’d always thought she was a bit spoiled, indulged by her family the way small-town girls ca
n be if they’re pretty, but on the scale of spoiled, Jackie was nothing compared to Erica Johnstone.
I was pleased to see a good-sized crowd still at the beach; not everyone had rushed off to see the excitement in town. A red and green umbrella had been set up close to the water, with a chair beneath it for Dad. Not a flimsy beach chair, but a solid armchair, lugged down from the abandoned factory where the town stored Santa’s sleigh, the stuffed reindeer, and all the other seasonal necessities. Couldn’t have Santa collapsing into the sand if a hefty kid jumped on his lap. Alan stood beside him, pretending to jot children’s wishes on a long scroll of paper, using a pen topped with a feather. The line was kept organized by high school kids dressed in bathing suits, green elf hats, and sandals with papier-mâché curly toes attached. All that was missing was Mrs. Claus and her candy canes. When I reached for the basket before leaving the store, a watching cop had snarled at me not to remove anything.
I’d checked my phone on leaving the shop and been inundated with calls and texts. News that police cars filled the street in front of Mrs. Claus’s Treasures, and that vast numbers of officers had been seen coming and going, had spread rapidly. I’d replied to Mom and to Vicky, saying simply that I was fine, and ignored the rest.
Mom’s concert had finished, and on the bandstand a magician was performing to a sparse crowd. At the lake, toddlers splashed in the shallows, watched over by attentive parents, while older kids and a handful of adults swam farther out. Onshore, families built sand castles, men kicked beach balls to each other, and women spread picnics out on blankets. Flags and banners fluttered in the breeze.
It was all so absolutely perfect, I started to cry.
Max. Despite how things had ended between us, I had loved him once, and we’d had many happy moments together.
Alan was the first to see me picking my way across the sand. He bent over and whispered something to my dad and then slipped away from Santa.
“Merry.” He laid a hand lightly on my arm. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve been crying. What’s going on? They say the police are crawling all over your shop.” Despite my mood and the shock of what had happened, I had to smile. Alan’s strong young voice was a startling contrast to his ancient master-toymaker getup.
“Max Folger. Dead in my office. Jackie’s missing.”
“Dead? What happened? Was he ill? He looked well enough on Thursday night. And what do you mean, Jackie’s missing?”
“He was killed, Alan. Murdered. No one can find Jackie.”
He put his arms around me and held me close while I wept. He kissed the top of my head. The sight of a crying Mrs. Claus wrapped in the embrace of the head toymaker would scar some kids for life. Right now I didn’t care. I just let him hold me. Eventually I pulled away. I found a tissue in my skirt pocket and blew my nose. “How’s it been down here? How’s Dad?”
“Great. Noel has loved every minute, as he always does.” Alan wiped sweat off his forehead. “Although, I have to say, I cannot wait to get out of this getup. We’re just about finished here.”
“Ho, ho, ho,” Dad bellowed. “Thanks for coming, everyone. Now, who’s for a swim?” He got up from his chair and dashed for the water. Elves kicked off their shoes and ran after him, pursued by screaming children of all ages. Dad loved to swim, but he wouldn’t go any deeper than his ankles with a pack of eager children after him.
“Give me a minute, Alan. I want to check something and then I’ll join you.”
“Sure,” he said. “Next year I’m wearing a bathing suit under all this.”
The ice cream parlor was busy, Kyle still serving up cones and cups of frosty goodness. I studied him. He didn’t look like he was particularly enjoying his job, but he didn’t look anxious or worried, either. I headed for the booth. A little girl clutching a cone dripping chocolate ice cream down her fingers said, “Are you Mrs. Claus?” I realized I was still in my wig and glasses.
I gave her a smile. “Sure am. Did you speak to Santa?”
She nodded, wide-eyed. “I told him I don’t want a new baby brother, but he said he can’t do anything about that.” Her voice was firm, her mind made up. “Can you?”
Her mother, enormous round belly protruding from under her tentlike maternity bathing suit, sighed. “For heaven’s sake, Sylvie. I told you, you’re going to love your little brother.”
“Am not,” Sylvie said.
At the ice cream booth, I skirted the lineup and leaned over the counter. “Sorry,” I said to the father next to be served. “Won’t be a minute. Kyle, can I talk to you for a sec?”
He looked up from the tubs of ice cream. The most popular flavors were reaching the bottom. “I’m kinda busy here, Merry.”
“I need to know if you’ve heard from Jackie recently. Say, in the past two, three hours?”
He shrugged. “She’s at the store. You told her she can’t use her phone when she’s working.” He made it sound as though that were some great hardship. Perhaps to Jackie it was. “I’m working, too, in case you didn’t notice. Whatcha havin’, buddy?”
“One small cookies and cream and a large triple chocolate delight,” the customer said.
I walked down to the shoreline. Dad was standing ankle deep in the water, surrounded by kids while a circle of adults snapped pictures. For a brief moment his big smile collapsed as he studied my face.
I gave him a nod and a thumbs-up, and he turned his attention back to the children. He splashed about for a few more minutes and then said, “Ho ho ho! There’s Mrs. Claus come to take me home. Bye, kids!”
“Bye, Santa,” they chorused while delighted parents beamed. Despite all that had happened, I realized I was also smiling.
That Christmas magic. July or December—there’s nothing like it.
The entourage—Alan, me, and the elves—walked with Santa to the dock. Our boat was waiting; we climbed in and it pulled away to cheering crowds.
“Merry,” Dad said, every trace of Jolly Old Saint Nick gone in a flash, “what is going on?”
I explained.
He groaned. “That’s dreadful. Are you okay, honeybunch?”
“It was a shock, but I’m fine. Max and I were long finished, Dad, if that’s what you’re worried about. Right now, I’m more concerned about what’s happened to Jackie than who might have wanted Max dead.”
Once my dad was sure I wasn’t about to collapse into a weepy, muddled heap, he switched his concern to the town. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance we can keep this hushed up?”
“Not with Erica Johnstone involved. It’s going to be a media frenzy.”
“I’m going to call an emergency meeting of the town council tonight. We’ll need to issue a statement. The usual: unfortunate incident, Rudolph is a safe place to bring your family, etc. etc.”
“Were any of the Jennifer’s Lifestyle people at the beach today?” I asked.
Alan pulled off his wig with a grateful sigh and peeled the sideburns and excess nose away. “I talked to Amber for a few minutes. She introduced me to one of her coworkers, but I don’t remember the woman’s name.”
“Willow?”
“Yes, that was it. A photographer guy was with them, snapping away. He took lots of pictures of your mom’s kids in concert and the lineup to talk to Santa.”
“I don’t suppose you can say what time they arrived. Or left?”
Alan shook his head. “Amber came over when Noel was settled into his chair, but I don’t know how long she’d been there. I don’t know if they came together, and I didn’t see them leave.”
“Dad?” I asked.
“Nope. Aline might know. She’s observant about that sort of thing. Journalists, I mean. Photographers in particular.”
My mother had been an opera star of some repute. She’d sung major roles at the Met and in some of the best opera houses in Europe. She had a sharp eye
for publicity and an instinct as to when to look her best for the camera. She might have retired to Rudolph, New York, where she taught vocal lessons, but she remained every inch the diva.
“You think Max was killed by someone from the magazine?” Alan asked.
“I don’t know what I think,” I said. “But it’s a possibility. I can’t imagine a stranger wandered in off the street, found him alone in my shop, and killed him.” I shuddered.
“What was he doing in the store anyway, do you suppose?” Dad asked.
I didn’t answer. I could think only that Max had returned to Mrs. Claus’s Treasures to try to, once again, convince me to come back to New York with him. I didn’t want to talk about that to my dad or Alan.
We pulled up to the boat ramp. Alan, Dad, and I had stood in the back, talking quietly, while the elves laughed and chattered in the bow.
“Thanks, Dave,” Dad said to the boat captain, as one of the girls nimbly leapt onto the small wooden dock to secure the boat.
“See you in a few months, Santa,” Dave said with a laugh.
“Are you going back to the shop, Merry?” Dad asked when we were safely onshore.
“I can’t. It’s been ordered closed for the rest of the day. Maybe even tomorrow.”
“I’ll see Merry home,” Alan said.
“Good.” Dad gave me a hug and told me to phone if I needed to talk.
“I came in my own car,” I said to Alan after Dad had left. “I assume you did, too?”
He nodded. As we talked he’d taken off his woolen shirt, to reveal a sweat-drenched tee underneath.
“Then we have an excess of vehicles here. Plus, both of us need to change before we do anything else. You look as though you’ve had a dip in the lake fully clad, and I need to get out of this escapee-from-the-old-folks-home getup.”
“If you’re sure you’re okay?”
