Hark the Herald Angels Slay

by Vicki Delany

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You handled that really well, Merry,” Vicky said when we were once again standing on the sidewalk in the heat. “You might as well have accused Jackie outright.”

  “She gets me to say things that I don’t even know I’m thinking until out they pop.”

  “Where to now?”

  “You heard the detective,” I replied. “Home.”

  She snorted. “Hardly.”

  I glanced down the street. All the police cars were gone from the front of Mrs. Claus’s Treasures, and the yellow tape had been taken down. I assumed Max had been taken away.

  I crossed the street. Vicky followed. There’s a nice patch of grass with a bench and a flower bed overflowing with red and white impatiens in front of the library. I dropped into the seat, and Vicky joined me.

  “Simmonds must be desperate, if she thinks Jackie killed Max,” Vicky said.

  I didn’t reply, and she said, “Merry? What are you thinking?”

  “You know Jackie. She’s totally convinced that all she needs is a lucky break and then she’ll be the next big thing in Hollywood or the fashion world.”

  “That’s just talk. If she really wanted fame and fortune she’d have left Rudolph years ago.”

  “She’s lazy. I don’t mean lazy in her work, although she can be that, but generally she’s a good employee. She’s a lazy thinker. She’d rather wait for things to come to her than go out and chase them.”

  “So?”

  “Max Folger wasn’t a nice man. I don’t know how I could have been so blind all the time we were together.”

  “His looks might have had something to do with that.”

  “Whatever, but he had a mean streak. He was rude and insulting to Jackie in my presence. He laughed at her small-town pretensions, but she’s too naïve to notice. Maybe too innocent to take offense. As I said, Simmonds gets me to say things I don’t even know I’m thinking. But now I am thinking them. Suppose he’d been more than just rude when I wasn’t there? Suppose he mocked her outright; told her he was way out of her league. Would she have lashed out? Maybe she was decorating the rosemary bush and happened to have a cranberry string in hand.”

  “What’s a cranberry string got to do with it?”

  “Forget I said that.” I’d been told not to discuss what I’d found in the shop. First chance I got and I blurted it out.

  “That’s put my imagination into overdrive,” Vicky said. “It’s going to give me nightmares.”

  “I’m not supposed to say, but Max was strangled with one of Alan’s wooden cranberry strings.”

  “All the more reason Jackie didn’t do it. Can you imagine her having not only the strength to hold it in place, but the determination to keep holding it while he struggled?”

  “Vicky, I can’t imagine anyone killing anyone. But people do. I don’t know what to believe. Simmonds is putting a lot of stock into Jackie’s purse missing, but it’s entirely possible she had it with her when whatever happened, happened. She’s not allowed to use her phone at work, which only means she uses it when I’m not around.”

  “Maybe she saw the killer and thinks he’s after her next. She had her purse with her, grabbed it, and ran. She’s afraid to come out of hiding.”

  “You might have something there. Perhaps she’s afraid the police won’t be able to protect her.”

  Vicky’s eyes opened wide. “That could only be because the killer’s rich and powerful.”

  I got to my feet. “It’s time to pay a call on Erica Johnstone. You said she’s taken one of the outbuildings at the Yuletide. I can’t just walk into reception and ask for her room number. Call Mark. I bet he knows. She’ll be ordering room service. She’s got to be the number one topic among the staff.”

  “Will do.” Vicky sent a quick text. “We can take the van.” We leapt off the bench, but before we could take a step we were stopped by a shout. Russ Durham was jogging toward us. “I’ve been calling you all afternoon, Merry.”

  “So has half the town. I’m not answering.”

  “Max Folger was found dead in your shop. Do you want to make a statement for the paper?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “How about talking to a friend, then? You dated Folger for a while, didn’t you? I hear you found him. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Russ.” I smiled at Vicky. “I have the support of my friends.” Vicky put her arm around me.

  “You have me, too,” Russ said. “I’m on your side and don’t you forget that.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What are you hearing?” Vicky asked.

  “Not much. Diane Simmonds is giving a press conference at seven thirty. I’m sure Sue-Anne will have a few words to contribute also. It’s going to be a crowded affair. Erica Johnstone’s fiancé? I hear the major papers and national networks are sending people.”

  At that very moment a satellite van bearing the logo of the Rochester ABC station lumbered past.

  “This won’t reflect badly on Rudolph, will it?” Vicky said.

  “Not this time, thank heavens,” Russ said. “So far it’s being presented as more a case of big-city vice and lack of morals among the rich and famous corrupting our innocent small town. If anything, we’re getting more visitors because of it. Anyway, I’ve got to run. I’m hoping Simmonds will give me, as the local press, a bit of a heads-up. If I can find her.”

  “She’s . . .” Vicky began.

  I gave her a poke in the ribs. “Really busy,” I said. Although Russ was a newcomer he was rapidly turning into a loyal Rudolphite, but he was also a newspaper reporter. If he found Simmonds searching Jackie’s apartment, and she told him why, he’d put in his paper that Jackie was the prime suspect.

  Vicky and I were facing the street; Russ, the tiny park and the library. At that moment the door next to Candy Cane Sweets opened and none other than Detective Simmonds herself walked out. She hopped into a waiting car and drove away as Vicky and I watched.

  “What are y’all looking at?” Russ asked, half turning.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “We’re going to talk to Erica Johnstone,” Vicky said. “She might know something about who would want Max dead.”

  Russ’s head snapped back around. “Erica? Good luck with that. Gotta run.” He dashed off.

  “That’s odd,” Vicky said. “I guessed that you didn’t want him talking to Simmonds about what she was doing in Jackie’s apartment, so I thought I’d distract him with mention of Erica. I would have expected him to want to come with us. Try to wrangle an exclusive.”

  “It is odd,” I said. “But right now that’s the least of my worries. Let’s go. You can be my bodyguard. Erica will be less inclined to try to kill me if you’re there. I hope.”

  Vicky’s bakery van, the one she uses to make her deliveries, smells like I imagine heaven might. Even this late in the day, the scent of bread, fresh and warm from the oven, sweet rolls, and sugary pastry filled the air. I took a deep sniff as I put on my seat belt. Vicky drove to the Yuletide, while I pulled up Google. I typed “Erica Johnstone” into the search engine and the little screen immediately filled with far more hits than I could go through. I added “Russ Durham” to the search string, and bingo, the screen refreshed with different results. “Russ was in the shop on Friday when Erica and her entourage came in,” I said. “Rather than taking her picture, as a good reporter should, he bolted. I thought nothing at all of it, until just now when, as you said, he bolted again at the mere mention of her name. That made me curious. Listen to this. According to our reliable friend Mr. Google, Russ Durham and Erica Johnstone were a hot item for a while.”

  “Wow! Our Russ?”

  “Plenty of pictures of the happy couple. Of course, they’re mostly of her, but it’s him in the background, all right. I know he’d spent time in New Yor
k City working for a paper there. Looks like he was doing other things, too.”

  “When was that?”

  I checked the dates of the articles. “Around twelve to eighteen months ago.” I read quickly. “Here it is. According to Perez Hilton . . .”

  “You mean Paris Hilton?”

  “No. Perez Hilton is a gossip columnist. Anyway, Russ and Erica had a giant fight in a restaurant. She seems to do a lot of that. It says they were with a small, intimate party celebrating Erica’s birthday, and Russ upped and walked out. I don’t see any later mention of his name linked with hers. That happened about one month before Jennifer announced that Erica was taking over the magazine.” Whereupon she took over my boyfriend as well, but that wasn’t what we were talking about here. “Whispers in the office were that Jennifer had finally put her foot down and told Erica to smarten up and settle down. She offered Erica control of the magazine as an incentive. I wonder if this scene with Russ was the deciding factor.”

  “Check it out!” Vicky yelled.

  I looked up from my phone. The road outside the Yuletide Inn was lined with cars and satellite vans. Well-groomed people smiled as less-well-groomed people aimed giant cameras at them. A makeshift barrier had been lowered across the driveway leading to the inn, and two security guards stood firmly against the onslaught of the press.

  Cameras flashed as Vicky turned into the driveway and stopped at the barrier. “Good thing we brought the van. Never hurts to get my logo on TV.” She rolled down her window. “What’s going on?” she said, all sweet innocence.

  “Some celebrity’s staying here,” the guard grunted. “And they’re all clamoring for a look. Boss’s orders to keep them off the property.”

  “I’m Vicky Casey from Victoria’s Bake Shoppe in Rudolph. I deliver here daily.”

  He flicked through the papers attached to a clipboard. “Yup. You’re on the list. Go ahead.” He signaled to his partner, and the barrier arm rose slowly. Vicky drove through.

  “Sweet,” I said.

  Vicky’s phone buzzed as we drove down the long driveway. She tossed it to me. “Might be Mark. See what he says.”

  “He says, Why do you want to know.”

  She pulled into the parking lot. “Give me that.”

  The spacious, perfectly maintained formal gardens of the Yuletide Inn are one of the chief tourist attractions of Rudolph. Even in late July, when other gardens are gasping in the heat, these grounds boasted immaculate green grass, lush flower beds, and neatly trimmed bushes. Sections were marked off by tall, stately hedges of American holly or neat rows of boxwood. A large kitchen garden provided fresh vegetables and herbs for Mark Grosse’s kitchens. Fountains and statues were tucked away in secret gardens, and all the paths led to a large pond at the center of the property. In winter, the gardens were lovely in their stark, sculptural beauty, the trees draped with fairy lights, and the pond turned into a skating rink. I admired the flowers and foliage while Vicky talked to Mark. Or rather, listened to Mark. Eventually, she put her phone away with a smile. “Cabin C. Mark also says that so far Her Highness, his words not mine, has returned a steak, which was ordered well-done, as not being pink inside; complained about the bottle of 1984 Château Margaux that was delivered to her, because she had asked for the 1985. Although, according to Mark, the restaurant does not stock the 1985 vintage, because it’s one of the best years so it’s hard to get, and thus it is not on the wine list. It seems that she likes her boiled eggs done for three and a half minutes, not three. Apparently, she can tell the difference. Mark says if that mousy-faced woman . . . Who might that be?”

  “Probably Muriel, the PA.”

  “Well, if this Muriel puts a foot in his kitchen once more, he’ll have it off with his meat cleaver. Oh, and Erica wants her strawberries from California, not the local ones, because they’re too small.”

  I laughed heartily for the first time since I’d seen Max Folger in my store. “And she thinks she can run a magazine that believes in the importance of locally sourced produce and American-made goods. Heaven help them all.” I undid my seat belt. “Let’s beard the lioness in her den.”

  “How are we going to play this?”

  “Condolence call. Two of Max’s close friends comforting each other. It’s not out of line. I know Erica and I knew Max well. She might want to throw me out, and if she does, we’ll go calmly.” Earlier, she’d accused me of killing Max, but I was hoping she’d have calmed down by now. Her moods were mercurial, to say the least. I was prepared to duck if ornaments started flying, but figured it was worth a try.

  Cabin C was tucked into a copse of tall oaks and stately maple trees at the end of a neat brick walkway. Because of the gorgeous gardens, the inn’s a popular site for weddings, winter and summer. The cabins were mainly rented to honeymooners or newly married couples for their wedding night, and offered complete privacy. Giant terra-cotta pots overflowing with yellow and purple petunias guarded either side of the door, and matching flowers had been planted in boxes lining every window. The cabin resembled a fairy-tale cottage with its fresh white paint, black roof, cheerful yellow door and shutters, and tall brick chimney. A private parking area is tucked in at the side of the building, and a freshly washed silver Lexus SUV with New York plates was parked there.

  I knocked while Vicky stood beside me. Muriel opened the door. She was dressed in her usual shades of gray, dark gray slacks and a lighter gray shirt, but today she’d ventured to add a touch of color with a few red threads in the gray scarf. She didn’t appear to be overjoyed to see me. “Oh, it’s you. We were expecting room service.”

  “Is Erica in?” I asked.

  “Tell them to go away,” the diva herself called.

  Muriel flapped her hands, but I pushed my way past her. Vicky followed. The small main room was beautifully decorated in shades of pale yellow and cream. A genuine wood-burning fireplace, thankfully not in use at the moment, lined one wall, and wide windows overlooked a small deck and a patch of secluded woodland. Erica was lying on the couch, a white cloth draped over her eyes, a glass of red wine on the coffee table next to her. A half-smoked cigarette lay in an ashtray. The inn was nonsmoking, but I assumed Erica considered that didn’t apply to her.

  A desk was against one wall. A man sat there, talking on the phone while he typed on the laptop in front of him. He eyed us as we came in but made no move to end his conversation. He was in late middle age, with expensively cut silver hair, a chiseled jaw, and dark penetrating eyes. He wore a blue suit that I guessed might be Armani, white shirt, and a pink silk tie. I hadn’t seen clothes like that since I left Manhattan.

  He ignored me, so I ignored him.

  “Hi, Erica,” I said.

  She peeled the cloth away and blinked at me. “Come to gloat?”

  “I’d never do that,” I said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “My condolences, Ms. Johnstone,” Vicky said.

  Erica looked at Vicky. “Who are you?”

  “Vicky Casey from Victoria’s Bake Shoppe. Where you had lunch on Friday?”

  Erica swung her legs off the couch and sat up. She’d washed all the makeup off, and her eyes and nose were red and puffy. Her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail. She had changed into black yoga pants and a comfortable blue golf shirt. Her feet were bare, giving her a girlish, innocent look. She looked, I thought as my heart went out to her, truly grieving.

  “I am so sorry,” I said. “You must be devastated.”

  She reached for a tissue and blew her nose. “I am. Totally. My wedding is ruined!”

  My sympathy dissolved into dust.

  “My grandmother gave me one chance to get the magazine profitable again. She’ll never forgive me.”

  “If there’s anything I can do . . .” I said, my voice trailing away.

  “What could you do for me?” She tossed the tissue onto the floor
, stood up, and walked toward me. I braced myself, wondering if she was going to attack. To my considerable shock, she enveloped me in a fierce hug. “There’s nothing anyone can do for me now. Max!” she wailed. “Oh, Max!”

  I patted her back and made cooing noises. She smelled of the usual tobacco scent, but overlaid with vanilla bath products and good soap. Neither Vicky nor Muriel nor the watching man said a word. I held Erica Johnstone as she wept.

  At last she pulled back. “You loved him, too, didn’t you, Merry?”

  “Once,” I said.

  Wet, red eyes studied my face. “He left you for me. I’m sorry.”

  “It all turned out for the better.” I felt tears behind my own eyes. It obviously hadn’t turned out okay for Max.

  “If you want your job back, you’re welcome. I mean it. Max said you were really good.”

  “He did?”

  “I think introductions are in order.” The man put his phone away, closed the lid of his computer, and got to his feet. He walked across the room, hand outstretched. I took it, and we shook. His grip was firm, firmer than it needed to be, and I wondered if he was making a statement.

  “This is Merry, James,” Erica said. “She owns a charming little store in town. She used to work for me, didn’t you, Merry? What happy times.” I remembered no such happy times, but I wasn’t about to correct her. “Merry and Max dated briefly before he met me.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Merry,” he said.

  “Don’t mind me,” Vicky said. “I’m just a baker. Although I do make the best molasses spice cookies in New York State, if I do say so myself. Possibly in all the United States.”

  He grinned at her. The smile made him look almost human. Mention of Vicky’s baking did tend to have that effect on people. “I’ll have to try one someday soon. I’m James Claymore.”

  “James is Grandma’s lawyer,” Erica said. I’m sure that came as no surprise to anyone. “He’s here to look out for me while the police ask their questions.”

  “And to that end, I thank you both for coming, but Erica isn’t in the mood for company. Muriel, can you show these ladies out?”