Silent Night, Deadly Night

by Vicki Delany

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Did you know that Wayne Fitzroy is threatening to tell everyone Jim Morrow is having an affair with a town councilor from Muddle Harbor if Sue-Anne doesn’t back his attempt to become town Santa?”

  Dad threw up his hands. “That’s all I need. Where on earth did you hear that? Wait, let me guess. Mable D’Angelo. Not the most reliable of sources.”

  “No, but even a stopped clock is right twice a day. Mrs. D’Angelo thinks Sue-Anne has state ambitions, so she doesn’t need the scandal.”

  “The only scandal is why Sue-Anne stayed with Jim all these years, and he with her, but that’s not my business or anyone else’s. Thanks for telling me, honeybunch. I’m planning to go into the town offices this morning, let everyone know I’m back, and try to get a sense of what’s going on.” That, I thought, explained his clothes. My dad liked to dress in what he considered seasonally appropriate attire. Today he wore brown pants and a brown and orange checked shirt, the collar of which peeked above his knitted sweater. The orange and brown sweater featuring a turkey with a tail spread out behind it like a fan. “Let’s hope this is nothing but a misplaced rumor. Speaking of Santa Claus, how’s your float coming on?”

  “It’s not. Not only have I not started on it, I don’t have much of an idea for this year.”

  “Do the one you had last year. The stores aren’t supposed to repeat, but seeing as how yours was disqualified, you can make the case that it didn’t get the attention it deserved.”

  “I consider that idea to be cursed.”

  He gave me a warm Santa smile that went a long way toward reducing the tension on his face. “You’ll think of something. Your mother’s classes are rehearsing hard for the big day. She told her friends they have to be out of the house by four today and stay away for two hours while her students are here.”

  I had my shower and got ready for work. When I went into the kitchen for Mattie, the only woman still there was Ruth. Her book was closed and she was on the phone.

  “I love you, too,” she said. “Tell the kids not to worry. I’ll think of this as an extension to my holiday.”

  I got Mattie and we left through the back without seeing anyone else.

  Chapter 14

  We arrived at the shop fifteen minutes before opening, giving me enough time to run one quick errand. I unlocked the door off the alley behind Mrs. Claus’s Treasures and took Mattie into the office. “Now you be a good boy,” I said, as I did every day. “And stay here.”

  He was used to the routine and immediately settled onto his bed with the usual performance involved in finding the exact right spot. I filled his water bowl, once again reminded him to be good, and left the office. Today was Jackie’s day off, and Crystal wasn’t back in town yet, so I’d be working on my own.

  I hurried down Jingle Bell Lane. The sign on the door of Candy Cane Sweets said “Closed,” but I could see Rachel McIntosh moving around inside, getting ready for the day. Rachel looked like a human candy cane: with her pale skin and hair dyed a brilliant scarlet. She wore a long white apron, decorated with a bold pattern of traditional red and white striped candy canes, over a red T-shirt and black slacks, plus a necklace of real candy balls, strung together with red string, around her neck.

  I knocked on the glass. She turned, recognized me, and unlocked the door.

  “Good morning, Merry. What brings you here?”

  “Something I’ve been thinking about and I’d like to get your impression, if you have a minute.”

  “Sure. I’m about to open, but I have some time. Terrible what happened at your parents’ place. Do the police have a suspect yet?”

  “Not that I know of. This is about something else. Have you met a man named Wayne Fitzroy?”

  “Oh yes. Such a lovely man, isn’t he?”

  “He seems to be making an impression wherever he goes.”

  “He’s new to town and he’s trying to get to know everyone. I find him so refreshing, don’t you? He has some great ideas.”

  “What sort of ideas?”

  Rachel shrugged. “Nothing specific—he’s still learning, he says. He thinks Rudolph can do better with more forward-thinking leadership.” Her eyes narrowed. “Oh dear. Noel’s not planning to run for mayor again, is he?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I wouldn’t want to see Noel running against Wayne. Noel’s done marvelous things for this town, and we’re all so grateful, but Wayne represents new and modern. He ran a very important multinational corporation, you know. He retired to take up the simple life.”

  “Dad doesn’t want to be mayor.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Rudolph has a mayor,” I said. “Sue-Anne hasn’t even been in the job a year yet.” She’d taken over from the previous mayor in midterm. “What about her?”

  “Sue-Anne will work well with Wayne. The old and the new. Then, when she’s ready to go on to bigger things, he’ll be in a position to step into the job. It’s a win-win for everyone, Merry.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. Rachel was a sharp businesswoman, not the sort, I’d have thought, to be influenced by a bit of false charm. Margie Thatcher had also seemed to be impressed by Wayne Fitzroy. Why, if people liked him, did he think it necessary to blackmail Sue-Anne? (If he was, and if Mrs. D’Angelo and her network hadn’t made up something out of thin air.)

  The only answer to that question would be that he was intending to cause trouble for the sake of it.

  “Thanks, Rachel,” I said. I wanted to ask her what she’d think if Wayne took over as Santa, but the first customer of the day came in, and Rachel turned to him with a welcoming smile.

  * * *

  * * *

  The scents drifting from Cranberry Coffee Bar, two doors down from my shop, reminded me I hadn’t had breakfast. Not even Mrs. D’Angelo’s toast and jam. Before going back to open the store, I went for a coffee and a muffin. Cranberries was busy, as the shops on Jingle Bell Lane were about to open and store clerks filled up. People nodded at me and exchanged greetings. No one asked what had happened at Mom’s, for which I was grateful.

  I ordered an extra-large latte and a cranberry muffin and went to stand at the end of the counter while waiting for my drink to be prepared. Conversation buzzed all around me.

  “I reported it to the police,” the owner of Diva Accessories was telling Jayne from Jayne’s Ladies Wear. “They said they’d look into it, but didn’t seem terribly keen. I mean, what can they do now? I’m telling everyone to be on extra lookout this season.”

  “Lookout for what?” I asked.

  “Morning, Merry. We’re talking about shoplifters. I had one of my ribbon scarfs stolen on the weekend. I might not have noticed except there were only two left, and I made a point that morning of reordering more stock for the holidays.”

  “I had something snatched, too,” I said. “On Friday before lunchtime. What time was yours?”

  “Saturday, but I can’t say what time of day for sure. Shortly before closing a customer asked if I had it in another color, and when I went to look—gone.”

  “We try so hard,” Jayne said, “to keep our prices reasonable, and then things like this happen.”

  “Let’s hope they were weekend visitors and have left,” I said.

  The barista called my name as she put my drink on the counter. I took it with thanks, said good-bye to the others, went back to my shop, and flipped the sign to “Open.”

  A rush of eager customers did not knock me over in their hurry to get in.

  I should spend this quiet time planning what to do about my float. Vicky and the bakery would be eager to win the trophy again, and I imagined her and her legion of bakery staff, most of whom were her relatives, working hard on it. Whereas I hadn’t even asked old George Mann if he and his equally old tractor would pull my float again this yea
r.

  Instead of looking up ideas for a showstopping Santa Claus parade theme—maybe something around the story of the dogs of the Great Saint Bernard Pass rescuing snow-trapped travelers in the Swiss Alps—I pulled a stool up to the sales counter and opened my iPad.

  Ruth had said something this morning about one of the friends being previously connected to a suspicious death. Judging by the way Constance reacted, Ruth had been talking about her. Now I remembered something else: at the fateful dinner party, Karla had said that the death of Constance’s husband had been “suspicious.” I’d been so uninterested in their petty squabbles and this morning anxious to talk to Dad, the comments had gone straight over my head, but I was thinking about it now. If it was true, Diane Simmonds should know all about it. She hadn’t exactly wanted me to help with the investigation, but it wouldn’t hurt to check into the story and, if she hadn’t heard about it, give her the tip.

  I found it easily. The case had gotten a lot of press, particularly on the West Coast.

  Five years ago, Frank Westerton, head of Stewart Industries and son-in-law of company founder Phillip Stewart, had died in an apparent home invasion. He’d been at home alone while his wife, Constance, was at the theater with friends. Constance had left the theater during the first intermission, telling her friends she had a headache, and arrived home to find the back door broken and her husband lying on the floor, stabbed in the back. Constance called 911, but Mr. Westerton was dead by the time help arrived.

  What made the story interesting, from my point of view, was that no one was ever arrested. The respectable newspapers reported that Mrs. Westerton was found kneeling by her husband’s body when the police and ambulance arrived. The less respectable online gossip sites said she was covered in his blood. Which, I thought, was natural enough if he’d been stabbed and she had tried to help him.

  The couple were, the gossip sites reported, “going through a difficult patch in their marriage,” according to friends.

  Some friends, blabbing to the press.

  Reading between the lines, it was implied that the police suspected Constance of the murder. Constance’s father, Phillip Stewart, described as “ailing” and having earlier “handed the reins of his company to his son-in-law,” whisked his daughter away to his vacation home in Bermuda for “rest,” and referred all press inquiries to his lawyers. That didn’t quell interest in the case, but over time, attention began to drop off. The police made no arrests and appeared to have no suspects. Occasionally someone suggested the cops had been bought off, and the implication was that Constance would have been charged had her father not been wealthy and influential.

  It seemed to me that the press had been trying to make something out of nothing. Some crimes were never solved, and robberies-gone-wrong did happen. Then again, wives did kill their husbands, and vice versa.

  Frank and Constance had one son, Edward, aged thirty-two at the time of his father’s death. That day, Edward had been in Washington, D.C., conducting business for Stewart Industries. He flew back to California immediately to be with his mother and grandfather, but he did not accompany his mother to Bermuda. Edward, so the gossip sites told me, had political ambitions, but on the premature death of his father, he took over running Stewart Industries.

  The chimes over the door tinkled, announcing the first customer of the day. I put my professional smile on and my iPad away and went to work.

  * * *

  * * *

  Shortly after four o’clock my dad’s car pulled up outside Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. Barbara, Ruth, Constance, and Genevieve got out, all looking various degrees of grumpy. Dad drove away at a speed that wasn’t entirely appropriate for midtown in the afternoon, and the quarrelsome quartet came into my shop.

  “We have been told,” Genevieve announced, “we are persona non grata at Aline’s house for the remainder of the afternoon.”

  “That’s because she has singing classes,” I said. “She can’t have people making noise in the house while her students are trying to concentrate.”

  “I know how to be quiet,” Constance snapped.

  I didn’t reply. If Mom could have locked them in their rooms, maybe that would have worked, but other than that, nothing seemed to be able to stop their constant bickering. I hid a grin at a mental image of them tying their sheets together and climbing down the drainpipes, shouting insults at one another as they descended.

  “What else is there to do in this town but shop?” Constance flicked through the rack of cocktail napkins.

  “This is the end of the shoulder season,” I said, “so it’s quiet, but there’s plenty to do when the snow falls: skating, cross-country skiing, enjoying a mug of hot chocolate or a glass of mulled wine by the fireplace. In the summer, we have a wonderful beach with good swimming and a harbor and hiking trails through the woods.”

  “So dreadfully exciting,” drawled Genevieve.

  “I think it sounds delightful,” Barbara said.

  “You would,” Genevieve replied.

  Barbara ignored her. “Nothing better than an invigorating ski through the winter woods.”

  “Perish the thought,” Constance said. “Is there a half-decent women’s clothing store in town? If I’m going to be stuck here any longer, I need to get some new things.”

  “You could try washing what you brought,” Ruth suggested.

  Constance didn’t bother to reply. Ruth went to the toy display and picked up the engine of Alan’s train set.

  “You have a grandson about the right age for that train, don’t you?” Constance said to her. “Would you like to get it for him? I bet it’s expensive. Let me treat you.”

  Color rose into Ruth’s cheeks. “No. Thank you.”

  Constance gave me an exaggerated roll of her eyes, which I pretended not to notice. “Only trying to be helpful.”

  The four women spread through the store. I tried to watch them all, but more customers came in. Someone wanted a closer look at the jewelry display; another needed suggestions for napkins to match her new table runners (which were red and green, or were they red and gold?). One woman knocked the bracelet display over and jumped out of the way, crashing into the table containing the tree ornaments. I managed to catch the vase of glass balls an instant before it spilled its contents, and then I had to crawl across the floor on my hands and knees for the bracelets before someone stepped on them. All the while the panicked woman tried to help me but ended up unbalancing more delicate items.

  Finally, I had everything back in place. I let out a sigh of relief as the clumsy customer went on to examine the selection of plush reindeer and elf dolls.

  Genevieve bought a set of paper cocktail napkins for $4.99. Constance got earrings, and Barbara chose one of Alan’s necklaces of interlocking rings. “Now, you’re sure,” she said, “this is locally made from non-imported wood?”

  “I’ve been to the woodworker’s house myself,” I said, “and toured his workshop.”

  As they left with their purchases, Barbara said, “I’m thinking a nice brisk walk beside the lake would be nice. Noel said the path goes a long way. The rest of you don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

  “Thank heavens for that,” Constance said. “I’m thinking that bar across the street looks inviting.”

  “I’m in,” Genevieve said.

  “My treat,” Constance said. “That way you can come, too, Ruth.”

  Ruth—who’d bought nothing—pulled the door closed behind her with more force than was necessary.

  I stock a lot of goods in my shop and many of them are small. I ran my eyes over the tables and shelves, piled high with items in preparation for the approaching holiday season. I couldn’t see anything missing at a glance, but if one of the women had stolen something, I might not know about it until I ran an inventory.

  On Saturday, Vicky and I had both thought one of Mom’s f
riends had stolen from us. The death of Karla had pushed that to the back of my mind, but my conversation with the other shop owners in Cranberries, followed by the visit of the quarrelsome quartet, brought it back.

  In the scheme of things, one necklace and one jar of red-pepper jelly, plus a ribbon scarf, wasn’t much when a killer was out there. But . . . might the same person be responsible for both acts?

  I debated calling Detective Simmonds, but not only did I have absolutely no proof, it was entirely possible the necklace had been stolen by someone not part of Mom’s group, and I didn’t want to make unfounded accusations. There was nothing Simmonds could do.

  The police might not be able to do anything, but I could.

  Simmonds had ordered me not to get involved in the murder investigation. She hadn’t said anything about investigating other crimes.

  The minute no one needed my attention, I pulled out my phone and called Dad. “Take Mom and her friends out to dinner tonight.”

  “Why on earth would I want to do that? I’m planning on spending the evening cowering in the study, eating dry bread and water if I have to.”

  “Because I asked you to. You don’t need an excuse; they must all be dying of boredom. Has Mr. Vaughan arrived yet?”

  “I told him not to come to the house before six because of Aline’s classes. I’m at the town offices now.”

  “Invite him, too. Leave for dinner at seven.”

  “Are you going to tell me why?”

  “I’ll fill you in later.”

  “Merry . . .”

  I hung up before he could ask any more questions and called Vicky. “Are you free tonight?”

  “As it happens, I have a space in my busy social schedule, yes.”

  “Good. I’ll pick you up at quarter after seven. We’re walking. Don’t bother to dress up.”

  “Where are we walking to?”

  “No place exciting.” I hung up and turned to the customer standing at the counter. “Would you like a gift box for that?”