Hark the Herald Angels Slay

by Vicki Delany

  I watched, still fascinated by the process. At the magazine, I’d loved this part of my job, when we worked to make everything look absolutely perfect. I’d tried to bring some of that eye for detail with me when setting up my shop.

  At six thirty, when I’d decided I couldn’t wait for Alan any longer and I’d have to put the vases containing the glass balls onto the table by the tree, my phone rang. I’d put it on the counter, not wanting a bump in my skirt pocket showing in the pictures. I crossed the room and scooped it up.

  Willow. “Sorry to be late. Is Jason there?”

  “Yes. We’re ready and waiting. Where are you?”

  “Amber had a bad fall and I’m going to have to take her to the hospital.”

  “Oh no,” I said. I mouthed, “Willow,” to Jason. “What happened?”

  “As far as I could tell she tripped over a crack in the sidewalk outside her room. She fell badly and seems to have twisted her ankle. I tried propping it up and got some ice out of the machine in the hallway, but I’m worried it might be more than sprained. It’s swelling up like a balloon. She has to go to the hospital. Jason knows what I’m looking for. You and he can arrange things, and he can get set up. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll have to manage without Amber.”

  She hung up, and I told Jason what had happened.

  “I’m almost ready. Why don’t you take a pose over there by the tree, and I can check the lighting?”

  I put the phone back on the counter and did as instructed. I then posed in the alcoves, by the jewelry display, next to the dishes and linens. I considered suggesting bringing Mattie out for a couple of pictures, but I still wasn’t too sure of letting him wander about my shop. Having him on the leash would be worse. I didn’t dare think of it bringing down the tree, decorations and all, or getting tangled around the legs of the table displaying wineglasses and crystal candlesticks.

  “How’s everything been going?” I asked. “Shooting at the other places in town, I mean.”

  “Pretty good. This town of yours is perfect for a photo spread.”

  “Can I see?”

  “Sure.” He pushed a couple of buttons and handed me his camera.

  The first pictures I saw were of me, taken a few minutes ago. They were just practice shots, to check lighting and placement, so I hadn’t bothered to pose or even to smile. I went through them quickly. The next bunch had probably been taken last night. Most were of Erica in the gardens at the Yuletide. The light of a summer evening was soft, and she looked, I thought, genuinely lovely. Pictures of Erica admiring the fountains, leaning over to smell the flowers, sitting on the grass, her legs tucked demurely behind her. I continued clicking, moving backward in time. Erica around town, peeking into storefronts and studying the displays. In one shot, she’d been captured looking back over her shoulder, her hair loose, her eyes shining, laughing. Then Erica at Victoria’s Bake Shoppe, nibbling on a croissant and sipping tea out of a china teacup with a pattern of red roses. Erica admiring the two (two!) best-in-show Santa Claus parade trophies in a display case above the rows of bread. She grinned at the camera, her relaxed smile making her look fresh and pretty. Some pictures had been taken in my shop, but in every one of them the object of the photo wasn’t me or the customers or even the goods for sale, but Erica. More shots of Erica at the inn, around town, curled up in a big chair, relaxing in her hotel room.

  A bad feeling started climbing up my spine. Every one of these pictures was of Erica. They were all carefully, dare I say lovingly, shot. The feature was supposed to be about Rudolph, the year-round Christmas destination. I clicked rapidly back and forth through the pictures. None of Dad as Santa, of the boat parade, of kids lining up to sit on Santa’s knee, or my mom’s children’s concert.

  Erica. All of Erica. Many were close-ups of her face.

  The gardens at the Yuletide again. These photos had been taken at night. Erica was walking through the grounds, but she wasn’t alone. A man walked with her. He had his arm around her waist, and their heads were close, as though they were talking. These pictures looked as though the photographer was taking shots while he remained unseen, even hidden. Many had branches in the foreground. The couple were not looking at the camera, and they didn’t seem to be aware it was there. The man was obviously Max.

  I clicked backward. I’d skipped over one group of pictures, because they were dark and blurry, as if the photographer had been disturbed and the camera had moved. I had to see them again.

  Max. Still in the gardens, still night. No sign of Erica. Max was walking toward the person with the camera. His face was twisted in rage, his hand was lifted, his mouth open in an angry shout.

  And I knew.

  I felt as much as heard Jason walk toward me. He lifted the camera out of my hands. “Wrong memory card. I was looking at this one earlier and forgot to put the working one back in. Did you like the photos?”

  “Very nice.” I stood up. I tried to control the trembling in my legs. “I’m going for a coffee. Want one?”

  “No.”

  I’d been told Jason was a freelancer, hired only for this job. The machinations at the magazine would have been of no interest to him, nor the future of the business. Thus, I’d concluded that he’d have no reason to kill Max.

  I’d been wrong.

  Jason stood between me and the front door. The back of my legs pressed against the center table, the one with the fresh rosemary bush. I might be able to get through the curtain, into the back, and out the door to the alley. Mattie. If I could get to Mattie, his size alone might stop Jason.

  I slid along the table, edging toward the curtain.

  “Won’t be a sec,” I said. “Coffee shop’s right next door. I’ll go out the back.”

  “I don’t want a coffee.”

  “I do.” I tried to smile. I failed.

  He took a step toward me. His eyes were dark, empty pools.

  “There you are,” I shouted. “I was wondering what was taking you so long.”

  Jason half turned toward the front door. I darted past him, but he was too quick. I tried to shove him aside, but as soon as he realized no one was coming in, he grabbed my arm and twisted. “Sorry, Merry. But you don’t need any coffee, either.”

  He held my arm and pulled me toward the back. I stumbled, lost my balance, and fell against him. There are no curtains on the windows, and the lights were on inside the shop. It was early in the evening. People had to be walking past, tourists heading for restaurants and shop owners going home after a long day. Surely someone would look in. Someone would see what was happening.

  I screamed. With one swift movement Jason jerked me around, so my back was pressed against his chest. He put one hand over my mouth, holding me against him. His other hand found my necklace, and his fingers wound themselves around it. He jerked it tight. I felt the silver and turquoise beads dig into the tender flesh of my throat. I kicked out but connected with nothing. He began pushing me toward the back while twisting the necklace harder, so it dug in deeper. I gasped, trying to find air. My fingers fumbled for the necklace, but I couldn’t get a grip on it to break it or loosen it. My vision swam. I couldn’t breathe.

  Mattie began to bark, the sound rising as his panic increased.

  Bells rang in my ears. Was I dead already? Mom. Dad. Vicky. I’d miss them all so much. Alan. I’d miss what we never had.

  “What on earth is going on here?” a woman’s voice demanded.

  Help. Help had arrived. I almost collapsed in gratitude, but I quickly realized something was wrong. Jason’s grip lessened slightly, but he didn’t let go, of me or of my necklace. I clawed at my throat.

  “Get out of here, Erica,” Jason said. “This is none of your business.”

  With enormous effort I was able to turn my head slightly. Erica Johnstone stood in the doorway. I tried to signal with my eyes. Don’t leave me.
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  “Let go of her, Jason,” she said.

  “I can’t do that, Erica. She knows too much. Go back to the hotel. I’ll clean everything up when I’m done here and then we can talk.”

  “Clean up?” Her voice was surprisingly steady. “You mean you won’t let her be found? Like the other times? Muriel? Max?”

  “I’m glad you understand. He wasn’t the right man for you. He wouldn’t have made you happy. He couldn’t give you what you deserve.”

  “That’s all right then,” she said.

  I continued to struggle. While he talked to Erica, Jason had relaxed his grip on the necklace fractionally, and I was able to suck in a few desperate breaths. He pulled it tight again and shoved me toward the curtain.

  Erica turned around. I couldn’t believe it. She was leaving me to die. I let out a sob and gave her one last imploring look.

  As she passed the table by the door, her hand shot out. She grabbed one of the glass balls piled in a crystal vase. The ball was about the size of a baseball. She pivoted on her four-inch heels, turning back to face into the room, and she threw the ball with a powerful overhand, straight at Jason’s head. It connected, getting him smack in the center of his forehead. The glass shattered. “What the . . .” Shocked, he relaxed his grip on the necklace and lifted his hands to protect his face. She threw another, and then another. Balls pelted Jason in a barrage of red, green, and clear glass. Some broke on impact and some bounced off him to hit the floor and shatter into a hundred pieces.

  My throat was on fire, my legs felt like rubber, and I was desperate for breath but I couldn’t pass out. I had to help Erica.

  When the vase was empty, Erica leapt onto Jason with enough force to knock him off-balance. He crashed into the table. The rosemary bush and the decorations fell to the floor. More glass ornaments shattered in a shower of color. She fell on him like a woman possessed. She pummeled him with her fists, scraped his face with her long nails. She screamed, “You killed him. You killed Max. I’ll kill you.” She kept on screaming. Shut in the office, Mattie howled. My adorable pet sounded like the Hound of the Baskervilles loose on the moors. I scrambled across the room to get to the counter and my phone. I grabbed it in shaking hands. I swiped the screen. Nothing happened. I swiped again and the emergency button appeared. I fumbled to press 911. “Help. Help,” I shouted. “He killed Max. He tried to kill me.”

  I shoved the phone into my pocket. Only later did I realize I hadn’t told the operator where I was. Jason was fighting back now. He hit Erica on the side of the head. She recoiled and he hit her again. She fell to the floor. I looked frantically around the room. The row of singing angels filled the shelf near the counter. They’d been made by Alan, carved out of hardwood and carefully painted, arranged in a row according to size, from about three inches tall to two and a half feet. I grabbed the tallest and ran to help Erica. Jason was standing over her now. He lifted his foot to kick her. I held the singing, white-robed, and winged angel in both hands. Between the glass balls and the angel bat, Erica and I made a formidable ball team. Jason heard me coming and swiveled to face me. I shifted the bat. Erica crawled across the floor, the broken glass tearing at her hands and knees.

  “Game’s over,” I said. “The police are on their way.” From outside came the sound of . . . nothing. No sirens. No flashing blue and red lights washing the front of the shop.

  I had my back to the front door. Jason saw it move first, and his eyes widened. The cheerful bells tinkled and Alan said, “I hope I’m in time. What the . . .” A crash as whatever he was carrying fell to the floor.

  Jason ran. He leapt over the broken rosemary bush and shattered ornaments. Alan filled the main entrance, so Jason headed for the back. He pushed aside the curtain and was gone.

  “Merry,” Alan yelled. “Stay here. Call the police.” He took off after Jason.

  “Erica,” I yelled. “Stay here. Call the police.” I ran after them, still gripping the singing figure, now turned into an avenging angel.

  The curtain opens into a small, windowless hallway. A couple of doors lead off it. To the outside, the staff restroom, the storage room, and my office. The light was off and the hall was almost completely dark. In his panic and confusion Jason threw open the office door.

  I arrived in time to see a hundred and twenty pounds of furious canine hit him full on. Jason went down with a terrified scream. Mattie planted his front paws on the man’s chest and peered into his face. His teeth were bared and he growled, low in his throat. I had never heard him do that before.

  Finally, I heard the oh-so-welcome sound of police cars screeching to a halt outside Mrs. Claus’s Treasures.

  Chapter 15

  Diane Simmonds was the first through the curtain, gun drawn, a uniformed officer hot on her heels. She took one look at the sight in front of her and let out a bark of laughter. Mattie stepped off Jason and gave Simmonds a woof of greeting. “Nice to see you, too, Matterhorn,” she said.

  She slipped her gun into the holster at her hip and said to the officer with her, “Cuff him.”

  The officer also put his gun away, grabbed Jason’s arm, and pulled him to his feet.

  “That dog attacked me. I was trying to do my job, and she”—Jason jerked his head toward me, spittle flying—“set it on me. If you hadn’t arrived in time, Officer, it would have killed me.”

  “Save it for your lawyer,” Simmonds said. “Get him out of here.”

  Mattie woofed in agreement. I dropped to my knees and gathered the dog into my arms. I buried my head in the soft warm fur. I felt Alan crouch beside me. He put his arms around me, and I gave into my tears.

  “Erica!” I heard Jason yell as he was led through the shop. “I did it for you. Tell them. It was all for you. He didn’t love you. I’m the only one who can love you. Erica!”

  I let go of Mattie and struggled to my feet. “I want,” I croaked. My throat burned. “Erica,” I managed to say.

  Alan nodded. He kept an arm around me and we went into the shop. Shards of colorful glass covered the floor. The box Alan had been carrying lay on its side, and I had the presence of mind to be glad he worked with wood, not glass. Erica stood in the center of the room, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. Her lip was cut where Jason had tried to force her off him, and a thin line of blood dribbled down her chin. The knees of her pants were torn and her hands bloody. The trickle of blood dripping down her face gave her the appearance of a frightened vampire. I held out my arms and she fell into them with a sob.

  We cried together, while Alan patted my back and Mattie sniffed in the forbidden corners of the shop.

  Simmonds waited patiently until we pulled apart. I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my turquoise jacket.

  “I’m sorry, ladies,” Simmonds said, “but I’m going to need a couple of pictures of your injuries before you clean up.” We kept our faces impassive while she used her phone. “I promise you, Erica, these will never be released to the public.”

  While that was happening, Alan went into the back, and returned with a pile of wet paper towels. He handed them to Erica, who wiped at her face and hands, and he then brought out the box of tissues I keep under the counter.

  “You’re both going to the hospital,” Simmonds said. “I’ll question you there.”

  “No,” Erica said. “I’m fine.”

  I nodded. I couldn’t speak.

  “You don’t look fine to me,” Simmonds said.

  Alan picked up the little mirror on the jewelry table. He handed it to me. An angry red line streaked across my throat. The skin was raw and puffy. “Close one,” I croaked.

  He offered the mirror to Erica. She waved it away. “I can’t possibly look worse than I feel.”

  Simmonds directed Erica to the chair, and Alan went behind the counter to get the stool for me. I dropped onto it gratefully. He stood behind it, so I could rest my ba
ck against him. I felt his warmth creep into my very bones.

  “Matterhorn,” Simmonds said without turning around. “You shouldn’t be in that. Sit with Merry.” He trotted across the room, a stuffed Santa doll in his mouth. He put the doll on my lap and sat proudly beside me.

  “I’m assuming he’s the hero of the hour,” she said.

  I nodded. “A big soup bone from the butcher tonight.”

  “Don’t talk, Merry,” Simmonds said. “It’s only going to get worse. Mr. Anderson, want to tell me what went down here?”

  “I don’t really know. I walked in on total chaos.” He indicated the entirety of the room. “Table overturned, ornaments broken, women cut and bleeding. I could hear the dog from the street. When I came in he, that photographer, ran for the back, so I followed. Mattie did the rest.”

  “Ms. Johnstone?”

  Erica’s eyes were wet, but she’d stopped crying. “Jason killed Max. My darling Max. He was going to kill Merry. Willow told me they were going to do the photo shoot here tonight. James said he had calls to make. Muriel was”—she paused and swallowed—“dead. I was alone up there at the hotel. I didn’t want to be alone, so I came to see if I could help. No one believes me, but I do want to help sometimes. When I have an idea, everyone says it’s the best idea ever, then they do something else as soon as I leave. They never try to help me to make my ideas work. But”—she gave me a sad smile—“that’s neither here nor there.” Quickly but efficiently, Erica told Simmonds what had happened once she arrived. I nodded in agreement.

  “Do you have something you can write on, Merry?” Simmonds asked.

  I pointed to the counter, and Alan brought me my iPad. He handed it to me.

  “Why did he attack you, Merry?” the detective asked.

  I typed on the iPad, and Alan, looking over my shoulder, read it out. “Check out his camera. All the photos are of Erica. It’s obvious by looking at them that he loves her. Is obsessed with her, I’d say. There’s one of Max, looking furious, probably chasing him away.”