by Vicki Delany
“I was driving past, and I saw your car out front. I figured I might as well give you the news in person.”
“I assume,” Dad said, “it’s not good news.”
“I got the results of the toxicology report on the food served at your house last night.”
“That was quick.”
“Not really. It’s easy when they’re looking for a specific substance. Finely ground peanuts had been mixed into the dressing on the curried egg salad.”
I let out a long breath. I’d expected that, but it still came as a shock to hear it. “I assume no one’s come forward to say they made that salad.”
“No. And that means I’m treating this as a murder. Someone might have thought they were playing a mean joke; they might have thought Karla was pretending to be sensitive to get attention and sympathy, but as no one has confessed to doctoring the curried eggs, as far as I’m concerned, it’s premeditated murder.”
My dad and I looked at each other. We didn’t say anything.
“You can let Matterhorn out of the office,” Simmonds said. “He knows I’m here and he wants to say hello. It’s after six, so you’re closed for the day.”
“How do you know that?”
“The sign on the door says so.”
That wasn’t exactly what I meant, but I went in the back anyway as Dad said, “I suppose that means Aline’s friends can’t go home.”
“Not yet,” Simmonds said. “I still have more tests to do, and a lot of questions have to be answered. You can send them to a hotel if you want them out of the house.”
I had to shove, hard, at the office door to get it open. Mattie was sitting there, his tongue drooling, his tail thumping on the floor, his eyes round with excitement.
“You can come out,” I said, “but behave yourself.”
He trotted politely at my heels into the shop. Yes, having a fully grown Saint Bernard loose in a china shop isn’t usually a good idea. But he was so well behaved around Diane I wasn’t worried. He trotted straight up to her. She touched the top of his head lightly, pointed to the floor, and said, “You will remain there, Matterhorn.”
“I’ve never . . .” My dad shook his head.
Mattie sat.
“What did the fingerprint analysis show?” I asked.
“Nothing conclusive,” Simmonds said. “Your prints were found on the EpiPen, which we expected, as you picked it up before you realized what it was. Beneath those, and evidence of it being in Matterhorn’s mouth, the pen appears to have been wiped completely clean, as had the bottle of mango chutney we found in the kitchen trash. The bowls, including the one used to serve the curried egg salad, were covered in a variety of prints.”
“We passed the plates around the table,” I said. “Everyone tried pretty much everything. It would be more suspicious if someone’s prints weren’t there.” I had a sudden thought. “What about the peanuts? They had to have been carried in something.”
“We found a small plastic bag, of the sort you get for using with the bulk bins at a supermarket, in the garage trash with the EpiPen. It had been washed thoroughly, inside and out, with water and the same brand of detergent as found in the kitchen.”
“Meaning, no prints,” Dad said.
Simmonds nodded. “I have officers going to every supermarket in the area, asking about anyone purchasing those ingredients, but as you can imagine, that’s a big job.”
“Harried and overworked clerks in big stores aren’t likely to remember individuals and what they bought,” I said.
“Exactly. But we have to try. Sometimes we get lucky. Unfortunately, the houseguests were left largely to their own devices yesterday. No one can account for all of anyone else’s time between breakfast and gathering in the living room before dinner, and they all say they didn’t notice anyone making the curried eggs or going out to the garage. We found no prints on the garage door or the trash can that don’t belong to either of you or Aline. Other than Russell Durham’s, but Merry told me he’d shut the door after I’d been called.”
“If someone had gone outside with gloves on, in this weather that wouldn’t be commented on,” I said.
“So you have nothing,” Dad said.
“Give me time, Noel,” Simmonds said.
“When’s Mr. Vaughan arriving?” I asked her.
“That’s turning out to be a problem. I can’t get hold of him. I’ve called the house number repeatedly and left messages, but I get no reply. I have Karla’s cell phone, but it’s a good one and password protected. We haven’t been able to get into it, not yet anyway, to search her contact list, and she doesn’t have any stored numbers in the medical ID part of her emergency option.”
“He owns a construction company,” I said. “Have you tried finding it? Maybe it has his name in the title.”
“I thought of that, but nothing called Vaughan comes up locally.”
“He has to be told,” Dad said. “Maybe with her on holiday he went away, too.”
“I’ve been in touch with their town’s police department,” Simmonds said. “They’re trying to locate him.”
At that moment, the detective’s phone buzzed. She checked the display and said, “Speak of the devil.” She glanced between Dad and me. “Might as well let you two listen in.” She put the call on speakerphone.
“Detective Simmonds?” a man’s deep voice asked.
“This is she. Good evening.”
“Hi. I’m Officer Montgomery from Northfield, Minnesota. Sorry this has taken so long. We had a bunch of drunk teenagers running through town throwing rocks at windows and I’ve been out on that.”
“Not a problem.”
“I’ve found the man you’re looking for.”
“Thank you. Give me his number and I’ll arrange to meet him when he arrives in Rudolph.”
“Yeah, I can do that, Detective. But first, there’s something you should know.”
“What?”
“The reason Eric Vaughan hasn’t been answering the number you’ve been calling is because he doesn’t live there. He hasn’t lived there for a long time.”
“Do you know why?” Simmonds asked.
“Soon as I got the request to look into this, I recognized the name. Eric and Karla Vaughan have been fighting over their divorce for a couple years, and in a town as small as this one, it’s been mighty big news. I called his office, and they told me he was traveling at the moment but gave me his cell number, and I got him on that. Fact is, Detective, Eric sounded darn pleased when I told him his wife had died. I believe his words were, ‘Free at last.’”
Chapter 12
“That is interesting,” Simmonds said. “Can you send me details about what you know about the divorce situation?”
“Happy to, Detective. Vaughan’s construction company is in a bad way. I’d look into his insurance situation if I were you. His wife worked in the business for a long time, and she was claiming she’s entitled to be treated as a full partner, and—”
His voice died as Simmonds cut the speakerphone and held the phone up to her ear.
Drat! I wanted to hear that.
“I’m out right now, Officer,” Simmonds said. “I want to talk to Mr. Vaughan myself. Send me his number, and I’ll call him when I’m back in my office. Thank you for your help.” She hung up.
“That was interesting,” Dad said.
“It sure was,” I said. “Karla never said anything, not when I was around, anyway, about getting divorced. Quite the opposite, she prattled on about how successful her family business was and how happy she and her loving husband were. At one time she said she was lucky that she found the right man when she was young.”
“Ashamed of it, maybe,” Simmonds said.
“Divorce is nothing to be ashamed of these days,” Dad said.
“Not usually,” I said. “But
it might be if your self-image depends on being part of a stable, happy marriage. A couple of Mom’s friends were dismissive of Karla because she spent the rest of her life after college in a small town in Minnesota, working as a bookkeeper. In return, she made digs at them for being divorced or not part of a happy family.”
“I’m going to have a talk with Mr. Vaughan,” Simmonds said.
“You might ask him if he was in Rudolph yesterday evening,” I suggested.
“That I intend to do. ‘Traveling’ can mean a lot of things.”
* * *
* * *
Dad and Detective Simmonds left, and Mattie and I locked up the shop. Deep in thought, I drove to Alan’s. This might all be over soon. If Karla was a threat to Eric’s company, maybe he did sneak into Rudolph and plant the curried egg salad. Her husband, of all people, would know about her allergy.
Alan lives in a nineteenth-century stone farmhouse deep in the woods outside Rudolph. I drove up the long dirt driveway, my headlights illuminating the bare trees on either side of the trail. At this time in late November, it was already fully dark when we arrived. The lights were off in the detached workshop and the garage, but lamps in the house and over the front door shone brightly in welcome. By the time I parked my car and opened the back door and Mattie had leapt out, Alan was waiting on the porch to greet us, dressed in a rough oatmeal hand-knitted sweater and brown cords. I allowed Mattie a few minutes to check out the exciting scents in Alan’s yard, and climbed the steps. I stepped into Alan’s arms and we kissed. He smelled of freshly applied aftershave, clean wool, and woodsmoke.
We were still kissing when Mattie ran past us and into the house. He barked, telling us to hurry up.
We separated, laughing, and went inside, Alan’s arm draped across my shoulders.
Logs in the big stone fireplace in the main room were blazing, and I slipped off my coat. A delicious smell wafted in from the open kitchen.
“Get you a glass of wine?” Alan asked.
“I’m driving, so I’ll save it to have with dinner,” I said. “A hot tea would be nice though. It’s cold out there.”
I followed him into the kitchen. It was a real country kitchen, with a big wood island, plenty of open cabinets displaying a mishmash of assorted dishes in bright colors, copper pots hanging from hooks in the ceiling, a large range tucked into its own nook, a farmhouse sink, and big windows overlooking the dark woods. A small breakfast table was tucked under a bay window. The bones of the old house had been good when Alan bought it, although the house had needed some renovations and modern improvements. He’d made most of the furniture and cabinetry himself.
He put the kettle on the gas stovetop, switched it on, and set about laying out tea things. Two pots bubbled on the stove.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked.
“Beef stew and mashed potatoes with green beans. Hope that’s okay?”
“Yum,” I said. “Sounds absolutely perfect.” Alan was a good cook, and comfort food was exactly what I was in the mood for tonight.
When the kettle whistled, he poured hot water into a brown pot and took a bottle of beer out of the fridge for himself while the tea steeped.
We carried our drinks into the living room. Mattie had already claimed the warmest spot on the rug in front of the fire. I curled up on the sofa while Alan lit a few candles on the mantel and then called an Adele album up on his iPad.
“Any developments in the case?” He joined me on the couch as the music played.
“Oh yeah. A mighty big one.” I told him what Simmonds had learned about the state of Karla’s marriage.
“Why would she lie about something like that?” he asked me.
“She didn’t want to seem like a failure in life, I guess. As she saw it, anyway.”
“Makes me wonder what else she lied about.”
“Makes me wonder what else all of them were lying about. Do you know a newcomer to town named Wayne Fitzroy?”
“I’ve met him a couple of times,” Alan said. “Why are you asking?”
“Ralph told Dad Fitzroy wants the Santa Claus job.”
Alan laughed. “That’s nonsense.”
“Why?”
“I can’t imagine anyone more un-Santa-like than him. He used to be some big shot in a property-development company, I think. Tough business type. He’s new to town, retired, and looking for something to do, so he’s been making friends—contacts, anyway—around town.”
“Ralph thinks he and Sue-Anne are becoming chummy.”
“What does he mean by ‘chummy’?”
“That’s what I asked Dad. He didn’t know, either.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Fitzroy’s planning to run for town council. Sue-Anne doesn’t have many allies, as you know, so a new councilor in her court would be good for her. But Santa? He doesn’t seem the type to me.”
“How do you know him?” I asked.
“He wanted some work done on that house they bought. He asked me to quote him on putting custom-made, built-in bookshelves in the den. I went out to have a look in September.”
“You didn’t get the job?”
“He didn’t like my price. He wanted to haggle and offered half my quote. I don’t bargain. My price is my price, and I don’t cut corners, either, which I would have had to do to get it in for what he was willing to pay. I might have told him for that price he needed to go to a MegaMart. He didn’t like that and threatened to ruin my reputation.”
We were curled up together on the deep, soft couch, my legs tucked into his lap. I leaned back and looked at him. “What did you say to that?”
Alan shrugged. “I didn’t say anything. I left. My reputation around here’s pretty solid. No big deal.”
“Did he follow up on that threat?”
“Not that I ever heard. And I would have.”
“Would you mind, personally, I mean, if he did become Santa?”
“I won’t be toymaker for him, if that’s what you’re asking.” Alan played the role of head toymaker whenever Santa made a public appearance. He put on a cute costume of woolen jacket and britches and stockings, and shoes with a big metal buckle. He stuck a fake mustache and sideburns to his face and stood behind Santa, writing the kids’ wishes down on a long paper scroll with a pen with a white ostrich feather stuck on the end. The children loved it, as did their parents, and occasionally they tried to circumvent Santa to talk to the toymaker directly. Alan was slightly shy and never wanted to be in the spotlight, and the role suited him perfectly. “I like doing it for Noel,” he said, “but it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I gave it up. It’s starting to cut into my work time.” He plucked my legs off him. “Dinner’s ready, and I’m starving.”
Mattie heard the magic word “dinner” and leapt to his feet with a bark.
* * *
* * *
My mom called me as the lights of Rudolph came into view. I answered with Bluetooth and kept my hands on the wheel. While Alan and I had been enjoying his fabulous stew—thick hunks of seared beef, plump mushrooms, caramelized onions in a rich gravy—a light, wet snow had begun to fall, and the road was slick. “Hi, Mom. Is everything okay there?”
“We managed to get through dinner with no more high drama,” she said. “Which was perhaps helped by the fact that Ruth said she wanted to finish the book she’s reading and would have a sandwich in her room, and Constance and Barbara went to a restaurant.”
“So you only had Genevieve.”
“Your father opened one bottle of wine as we sat down, and despite her numerous, increasingly desperate hints, he didn’t bring out another. She went outside for a smoke after dinner and then went straight upstairs and all’s quiet. For once. But I fear it won’t be quiet for much longer.”
“Why’s that?”
“Your father told me what he learned about the state o
f Karla and Eric’s marriage. To our considerable surprise, considering how acrimonious their separation was, Eric is coming to town tomorrow.”
“He is? Why?”
“Diane gave him our number, and he called earlier. He wants, he said, to bring Karla’s body home himself. He said it’s time to let old bitterness die.”
“That sounds nice . . . I suppose.”
“In other news, I am considering divorcing your father.”
That set me back. She didn’t sound like she was kidding. “Are you serious, Mom?”
“The police removed the keep-out tape from what had been Karla’s room, and your father happened to mention to Eric that we now have a free guest room in this house.”
I groaned.
“And he told Eric he was welcome to use it.”
“Eric didn’t actually agree to that, did he? Did you tell him it had been Karla’s room?”
“He agreed, very quickly, and we did not tell him. What could I say after Noel made the offer?”
“Maybe it’ll be okay. He’s probably trying to be nice for the sake of their children.”
“Perhaps,” Mom said. She didn’t sound entirely convinced.
“Talk to you tomorrow, Mom,” I said, and we hung up. I mulled over what I’d just heard. “Free at last,” Eric Vaughan had said when told of Karla’s death. Had he killed his bothersome wife and was now planning to return to the scene of the crime? Supposedly killers did that. Did he know he’d be a suspect in the killing? If he did, you’d think he’d want to stay as far away as possible.
Then again, maybe he was trying a double bluff.
Or he might be innocent.
No point in speculating. I turned into my driveway.
* * *
* * *
I try hard not to ever go into my landlady’s part of the house. I fear that if I get in there, I’ll be trapped forever under an endless barrage of innuendo, gossip, and accusations. Sort of like Rapunzel in the tower, but without long-enough hair to make a rope and climb out the window.
