by Vicki Delany
I said nothing. I thought about what Russ had said. His story sounded genuine enough. I could easily imagine what life with Erica must be like. “Tempestuous” would be the word. But I had to wonder if he really regretted breaking up with her. Or did he want her back, whether for love or for money? Had seeing her and Max together brought back those feelings? Russ was working as the editor in chief and general dogsbody at a small-town paper on its dying legs. Living in a town where the highlight of the year was the Santa Claus parade. A far cry from the glamour of Manhattan and the Hamptons and the celebrity party circuit.
“Have you spoken to her?” Vicky asked. “Since what happened, I mean. She’s still here. The police won’t let her leave town. She’s staying at the Yuletide.”
Russ shook his head. “I should drop by, I know. Express my sympathies. Regardless of what happened between us, her fiancé died, and that’s hard. But I honestly don’t think I can bear the drama.”
I caught him looking at me, a rueful smile on his face, beer mug in hand.
I felt absolutely dreadful.
Here I was, asking Russ about his relationship with Erica, because I wondered if he’d killed Max so he could get back together with her. As Vicky had said, money makes men do terrible things. Murder makes people do terrible things, too, I realized. And not just the killer. I was questioning one of my friends, thinking he might be a murderer. I gave myself a mental slap. “Gotta run.” I hopped off the stool and gave Russ a quick, heartfelt hug.
“Take care, Merry,” he whispered in my ear.
Alan finished his beer and said, “I’ll walk you home.”
“Russ didn’t kill Max,” Alan said a few minutes later as we strolled past the park.
“I never said he did.”
“No, but you were wondering, weren’t you?”
It was a perfect summer’s evening. Warm, but not as stiflingly hot and humid as it had been. Sailboats dotted the blue waters of the lake, a few hearty swimmers were still in the water, children built sand castles onshore, and families enjoyed picnic suppers on blankets spread out on the grass. The sun cast long shadows through the thick branches of the old trees, turning the light a soft gentle green.
“Yes, I was wondering,” I said. “And I feel bad about it. I don’t know how Simmonds can do that job. Everyone she meets, she has to look at them and try to come up with reasons they might be a killer.”
Alan’s rough, scarred, calloused woodworker’s hand felt comfortable in mine. As if it belonged there. Did it? Yes, I now knew, it did.
“The difference is, Merry, Simmonds is doing her job. It’s nothing personal. Russ is your friend.”
“I don’t want to be involved in this, Alan, really I don’t. I can’t forget that Max was once very important in my life, and that he died in my shop. Vicky said earlier Jackie might have had a lucky escape. What about me? Suppose I’d been at work when he came in?”
“But you weren’t,” he said. “There’s no point in worrying about what might have happened.” We were walking east, and shadows followed us. I loved Alan’s Upstate New York sensibility. Practical and down-to-earth as befitted a man who made his living with his hands, with an artistic touch that turned a piece of wood into art. Capable of whimsy on occasion, as befitted Santa’s head toymaker.
“That’s true,” I admitted. “Care to stay for dinner?”
“Best offer I’ve had all day.”
First things first; we collected Mattie and took him for a long walk. When we got back to my place, I called the Chinese restaurant on the outskirts of town and placed an order. Then I opened a bottle of wine, and we sat at the kitchen counter, drinking wine and eating General Tso’s chicken, vegetables with black bean sauce, and fried rice. By unspoken agreement, we didn’t talk about the death of Max or who might have wanted him dead.
Eventually, Alan pushed himself off his stool. “I’d better be off. I promised the toy store their delivery tomorrow, and I have some finishing touches to put on.”
“Santa’s village is going to be a huge hit.”
He pulled me close for a long kiss. Eventually, Mattie got bored of the kissing stuff and announced that it was time to play. He barked and swatted at Alan’s legs. We separated, laughing.
“I have my marching orders,” Alan said.
Mattie and I walked him downstairs. Alan and I kissed again at the garden gate, and only then did I remember that my car was still at the police station. If I didn’t move it, I might find it in the impound lot tomorrow. I groaned.
“What?” Alan said.
“I have to go back to town for my car. I’ll walk with you. Wait while I get my bag and the leash.”
We retraced our steps back to town. It was fully dark now. The boaters, swimmers, and picnickers had packed up and gone home. Streetlamps cast warm yellow light through the leafy trees to form pools on the sidewalk, and most of the houses had lamps shining behind curtains.
Alan’s truck was parked outside Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. We kissed good night, and he drove off. Mattie and I walked the half a block to the police station. A happy glow spread throughout my body. Cheap wine and take-out Chinese had made for a perfect evening. I spent the short walk dreamily checking out store windows. The Christmas in July theme was prominent, the accent heavily on family fun at the beach.
My car, I was glad to see, was where I’d left it, and a flapping piece of white paper wasn’t stuck under the windshield wiper. I flicked the key fob and the headlights flashed in greeting. At that moment the doors of the police station opened, light spilled out, and Detective Diane Simmonds trotted down the stairs. She spotted me watching and headed over. Mattie leapt toward her, and she had him sitting down with a single flick of her index finger. She’d once told me her parents trained dogs for movies and TV. It was almost uncanny, the way Mattie reacted to her.
“He’s coming on very well,” she said. “I’m pleased to see it. The first time we met, I was worried you wouldn’t have the patience to train him properly. A dog that size, untrained, soon becomes nothing but a nuisance.” She gave him a scratch behind the ears. His whole body wiggled in delight, but he made no move to stand up as she hadn’t yet indicated that he could.
“You’re working late,” I said.
“A murder investigation doesn’t stop for time off,” she replied.
I didn’t want to be involved; all my friends were telling me not to get involved. “How’s it going?” I said.
“I won’t say an arrest is imminent, but we are working on it.”
“I’ve been wondering if it’s possible Max’s death didn’t have anything to do with Rudolph. With him being here, I mean. Maybe someone followed him from New York, something to do with his past? Have you considered that?”
“Yes, Merry, I have considered that.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re from his past, aren’t you?”
“Me?” I squeaked.
“Relax. I’m not accusing you of anything. We’ve been in contact with our colleagues in the city, and they’ve been very helpful. Everyone at Mr. Folger’s place of employment can’t say enough good things about him. I’m considering anointing him for sainthood. Do you have a comment on that?”
“I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead . . .”
“See, Merry, that’s the problem. I think Mr. Folger would prefer I find his killer than preserve his memory, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Max wasn’t well liked,” I admitted. “Not after he took up with Erica and got promoted way over his capabilities. But it was all just business. Feelings run bitter at any company facing big layoffs and staff changes.”
“Is there anyone in particular whose feelings might have run especially bitter?”
“Not that I can think of, but remember I haven’t been around for a year. If a cabal had formed with the intention of getting rid of Max, I wouldn’t have known about it.”
>
“Anything else you think I should know? Closer to home, maybe.” She fixed her green eyes on me. I almost felt her digging around in my mind, wondering what secrets were hidden there. Is that what she did to Mattie? He was sitting so quietly between us, I might have to check that he was still breathing.
“There is one thing,” I said. “Erica and her personal assistant, Muriel Fraser. I wouldn’t count on any alibi they give each other.”
“Why is that?”
“Erica’s a tyrant, to say the least. I’ve heard that Muriel has a mother in an expensive nursing home. Muriel needs that job, and if Erica thinks she’s talking to the police behind her back, her job will definitely be in danger. As for Erica herself, she’s a publicity hound, but in this one instance I’d expect her not to want publicity. Not the sort that involves being brought into the police station for questioning. They have reason to lie for each other. I’m not saying,” I hastened to add, “that I suspect they did. I’m pointing it out, that’s all.”
“Thank you, Merry. That’s helpful. Anything else?”
“In the two times they were in my shop, I detected a simmering conflict between Willow and Amber and Max. Willow in particular. But,” I hastened to add, “probably nothing worth killing over.”
I didn’t mention Russ, because I believed him when he said he was happy to be rid of Erica.
“When are you going to let them go home? I’m sure I’m not breaking any confidentiality if I tell you they’re not happy being stuck in Rudolph.”
Simmonds sighed. “Tomorrow morning, I’m going to talk to them all one more time, and then I’m going to have to let them leave. That lawyer of Erica’s is making a lot of noise and pulling a lot of strings. Regarding Erica anyway. He doesn’t seem to care one whit if her employees are left swinging in the wind. Not that I much care about him or his strings, but I can’t keep them here forever.”
When I’d been training Mattie to stay, I’d always laughed at the way he headed for the treat on the floor the second I released him. In the same fashion, I expected the whole gang to stampede for the city the moment they were told they could go. Unlikely they’d hang around long enough to do the photo shoot tomorrow night at Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. No matter. I’d prefer to see the last of them rather than have my picture in their magazine.
Simmonds’s cell phone rang. She glanced at the number and her eyebrows rose as she answered it. At that moment, a cruiser tore out of the parking lot, under full lights and sirens. From farther down the street, I heard another.
“On my way.” Simmonds shoved her phone into her pocket and dashed for her silver BMW without so much as a good-bye to me. Taking that as the signal he’d been released, Mattie jumped to his feet.
“What’s happened?” Mattie and I trotted along behind her.
“There’s been a death at the Yuletide. I have to go.”
“Who? How?”
Simmonds paused with her hand on the door and turned toward me. “You were telling me about Erica and her PA.”
I nodded. Mattie woofed.
“You know these people. You can come with me.”
Chapter 13
At a gesture from Simmonds, Mattie leapt into the backseat of her car. I climbed into the passenger seat and we took off at considerable speed. Simmonds said nothing more, and I didn’t ask. She switched the police radio on. All I could make out were people shouting numbers amid bursts of static.
The celebrity journalists who’d been lying in wait for Erica outside the Yuletide had very short attention spans. They’d left when nothing more seemed to be happening. Tonight, only a state police cruiser was parked at the entrance. Simmonds slowed, gave him a wave, and drove up the long driveway. More police cars were clustered at the path leading to the gardens, and Candy Campbell was stringing yellow crime scene tape between the trees. Simmonds pulled up and jumped out of the BMW. I followed, telling Mattie to guard the car. When we got to the tape, Simmonds turned to me. “Wait here. I’ll want to talk to you.” Candy let her pass, not able to hide her surprise at seeing me in the company of the detective. Simmonds soon turned a corner and disappeared behind a tall, lush, meticulously trimmed hedge of American holly.
I looked around me. People were outlined standing in the windows of the inn, and more were gathered on the steps. I spotted Jack Olsen, the owner of the Yuletide, talking to a man in plain clothes. I went to join them. Jack had suffered a heart attack last December. He’d lost a lot of weight since, and the cheerful ruddy color was gone from his face, but he looked well. My parents were good friends with the Olsens, and I knew Jack’s wife, Grace, was not only keeping him on a strict diet, but had taken over most of the day-to-day running of the inn.
“What brings you here, Merry?” he said.
“Detective Simmonds. She thinks I might be able to help.”
“Can you?”
“Probably not. Do you, uh, know what’s happened?”
“Woman found dead, is all I heard.”
Simmonds came out from behind the hedge, stripping blue gloves off her hands. “Mr. Olsen,” she said.
“Detective.”
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir, but we’re going to have to keep this section of the gardens restricted, probably through tomorrow.”
“Is it a hotel guest?” he asked.
She nodded. “It would appear so.”
Erica, I thought. Simmonds brought me because, as she said, I know these people. It had to be Erica. Poor little rich girl.
“I need to speak to Ms. Johnstone,” Simmonds said. “Merry, you can be there when I break the news.”
“What! I mean, who? If not Erica, who’s dead?”
Simmonds said nothing more, but spun on her heel and marched across the neatly mowed grass toward Cabin C. I hurried along behind, like Mattie keeping to heel. “Who is it?” I repeated.
“Muriel Fraser.”
“It can’t be. I saw Muriel this morning.”
Lights were on inside Cabin C, but the drapes were closed. Simmonds rapped on the door. Loudly.
“Did she have an accident?” I asked, “A heart attack or something?”
“Murder. No doubt about it.” She knocked again. “Police!”
The door opened. James Claymore filled the entrance. He peered down his long nose at Diane Simmonds. “Good evening, Detective. It’s late for a social call.”
“Not a social call, as you’re well aware, I’m sure,” she said. “May we come in?”
He stepped back. He kept his eyes fixed on the detective. Me, he ignored. “There seems to be a great deal of police activity outside.”
“Is Erica Johnstone here?” Simmonds asked.
“I am.” Erica stood in the doorway to one of the bedrooms. Her face was scrubbed clean, her hair tied into a loose ponytail, and she was dressed in a simple pair of yellow cotton summer pajamas. Her feet were bare. She had, I was surprised to notice, particularly unattractive feet, all misshapen lumps and jutting angles. This, I thought, was the real Erica, all her expensive armor removed. “What’s happened?” Her voice was low and soft. “I saw the police cars outside, but James said it had nothing to do with us.”
“Is Ms. Fraser in?” Simmonds asked.
Erica shook her head. “She went out a while ago, didn’t she, James?”
“I wasn’t here, Erica. Remember, I only came when the police activity began to ensure you were okay.”
“Oh yes, that’s right. Muriel went up to the hotel bar for a drink. I didn’t notice the time.”
“She didn’t order room service?”
“No,” Erica said. “Sometimes, she drinks more than I think wise. She didn’t want me counting her drinks.”
“Why are you asking this, Detective?” the lawyer asked.
Simmonds gave me an almost imperceptible nod. I slipped across the room and we
nt to stand by Erica. She blinked at me and I tried to give her a supportive smile. I doubt I succeeded.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” Simmonds said, her penetrating green eyes fixed on Erica. “Ms. Fraser was found dead a short while ago. Hotel guests walking in the gardens came across her body.”
Erica slumped. I grabbed her and guided her to a wingback chair upholstered in cream and pink chintz next to the window.
Claymore sucked in a breath.
“You’re lying,” Erica said. “Why are you telling me this? James, make her go away.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Johnstone,” Simmonds said. “But it is the truth. What time did Ms. Fraser leave?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t paying any attention. She’s always flitting about. I’m her employer, not her mother. She’s entitled to have time away from me sometimes.”
I patted Erica’s hand. She gave me a weak smile.
“What did you do this evening, Ms. Johnstone?” Simmonds asked.
Claymore turned to her. “Now, see here . . .”
“Just asking,” Simmonds said calmly.
“I stayed in,” Erica said. “I ordered room service. You can ask, they’ll tell you. I answered the door myself, so the waiter saw me. I don’t know what time that was. Then I got ready for bed, and I was watching TV when James came over.”
“What about the photo shoot in the garden earlier?” I said.
“I don’t think you should be asking the questions here,” Claymore said.
“Photo shoot?” Simmonds asked.
“We took some pictures around the hotel,” Erica said. “For the magazine.”
“Was Ms. Fraser involved in this shoot?”
“Not directly, but she was there, of course, in case I needed anything.”
“Who else was there?”
“The people from my magazine. Willow and the girl with the blond hair who’s always underfoot. What’s her name, Merry?”
“Amber.”
